Faerie Wars fw-1

by Herbie Brennan

  Tithonus gestured to one of the technicians and at once the rally disappeared from the globes, to be replaced by a less spectacular but far more sinister scene. Only one of the realm's twin moons had risen, so the light level was low – far lower than the torchlit rally – and it took a moment for Apatura's eyes to adjust.

  This time there was no easy aerial view. Rather he felt he was standing on a hilltop, looking out across a grassy plain. This was one of the new Seventh System espionage units, virtually impossible to detect, whatever the expenditure on spells, but with some problems in its colour resolution. As a result, the scene took on a bleached appearance and fine detail was lacking. But all the same, he knew what he was seeing. A vast military camp stretched across the plain. Rows of black tents were laid out with geometric precision, silhouetted against a scattering of camp fires. There were soldiers here too, thousands of them, perhaps tens of thousands, but unlike the black dress uniforms of the rally, these men were in combat fatigues. They moved quietly, with a purposeful air. No drums were beating. No crowds were cheering. Indeed no sounds at all reached Apatura's Seventh System vantage point, as if the whole scene below was covered by a deadly pall.

  Apatura closed his eyes. He knew the area. This was the Plain of Yammeth Cretch. The espionage unit itself was placed somewhere near the head of the Teetion Valley. He was looking into the Night Faerie heartland, that huge sweep of the realm which was virtually a state within a state, almost entirely populated by Faeries of the Night and absolutely under their control, whatever lip-service was paid to their allegiance to the Purple Emperor.

  Apatura allowed his consciousness to withdraw from the globe again and opened his eyes. The Teetion Valley marked the unofficial border between the Night Realm and the rolling farmlands of Lilk tended by the Faeries of the Light. He looked at Tithonus. 'It's almost like a threatened invasion by a foreign country,' he said.

  'In many ways a foreign invasion would be easier to handle,' Tithonus told him. 'Civil wars are notoriously difficult. And bloodthirsty.'

  'You think it will come to that? Civil war?'

  'I pray not, Majesty,' Tithonus said. But his tone of voice suggested he had little confidence his prayers would be answered.

  The crystal globes switched back to the rally and the powerful voice of Hamearis Lucina filled the chamber: ' – would say to the Purple Emperor that the old ways no longer serve us, that no longer will the Faeries of the Night be treated as second-grade citizens within the Realm, that no longer – '

  Tithonus waved the sound down, but something caught Apatura's attention and he waved it up again. ' – shall not wait beyond two weeks,' Hamearis was saying, 'and less than that if our Emperor does not see fit to right the wrongs set forth in – ' His final words were drowned out by thunderous applause and cheering from the crowd.

  'Did that sound to you as it sounded to me?' asked Apatura as he silenced the globes completely.

  'An ultimatum?' Tithonus frowned.

  'Yes,' Apatura murmured. 'Please arrange to have a full draft of Lucina's speech delivered to my chambers as soon as possible This is something I shall want to study.' He walked to the operations table and hummed the note rather than waiting for a specialist to do it for him. At once the landscape flowed into a representation of Yammeth Cretch and the surrounding Light Faerie territories. Apatura turned to his nearest general. 'Put up our forces, if you will, Creerful.'

  'Yes, Majesty,' Creerful nodded. He stretched to touch a button on the side of the table and patches of bronze appeared on the map surrounding Yammeth Cretch. Some fine adjustments changed their texture and tone to represent familiar strengths.

  Apatura stared at the display for a long time. He was trying to remember something, but could not say exactly what. Then, suddenly, it came to him.

  'There's something missing,' he said aloud.

  'I'm sorry, Majesty?'

  Apatura ignored Tithonus and signalled the three generals to move closer. 'Look at those patterns,' he said, gesturing towards the table display. 'What do they tell you?'

  General Vanelke, always the first with an opinion, leaned forward frowning. 'That our defences are well placed,' he said. 'We have them contained.' He glanced at his colleagues as if daring them to contradict him.

  'I see nothing missing, Majesty,' Creerful added. On his right, General Ovard nodded.

  'Stop thinking of our forces,' Apatura said. 'Put yourself in the place of the – ' he almost said 'enemy' but caught the diplomatic gaffe in time ' – of our Nightside citizens. Assume for a moment that really was an ultimatum we just heard from Hamearis Lucina. An ultimatum is useless – even counterproductive – unless you are prepared to back it up. So far, all the indications have been that House Hairstreak plans to back it up by force of arms. Now ask yourself, gentlemen, if you were commanding Hairstreak's forces and not those of your Emperor… would you be happy with the disposition of your troops in Yammeth Cretch?'

  There was a long moment's silence, then General Ovard said, 'By God, Majesty – no I would not!'

  'You would not, Ovard,' the Emperor echoed. 'Nor would you, Creerful: nor would you, Vanelke. The numbers are wrong. I thought as much when I was using the vision-globe, but I had no immediate comparison then. They have deployed too many men for defence, but not quite enough for attack! Make the calculations for yourself, gentlemen. The posture is not defensive – we are all agreed on that. Their front lines seem to be in place for an attack and they could certainly mount a few successful sorties – hit and run tactics, modified guerrilla warfare, that sort of thing. But they could never back up the sort of ultimatum I believe Hairstreak has just delivered through his monkey Hamearis Lucina.'

  'You think they are bluffing, Majesty?' Tithonus asked quietly.

  'I think there is a missing element,' Apatura said. 'Can they have concealed troops we have not yet discovered?'

  'Impossible!' Vanelke exclaimed.

  Ovard said, 'Our intelligence is excellent, Your Majesty. Besides, as you saw, they are making little effort to hide anything.'

  'Indeed,' said Apatura, 'they appear to be making very little effort at concealment. Which is, of course, part of their political strategy. What I want to know is whether or not it is possible they have actually concealed quantities of troops and munitions of which we are completely unaware.'

  Before the military men could speak, Tithonus put in, 'It is possible, but extremely unlikely. Bear in mind, Majesty, that we have been watching them long before the current crisis.'

  'Can they count on military aid from any source beyond the Nightside?'

  'Difficult to imagine where,' Tithonus said.

  Which was precisely Apatura's problem. Hairstreak's military deployment simply did not match his political strategy. There was a missing component of his attack force. If he had not hidden it – and like his generals and his Gatekeeper the Emperor doubted that – it was difficult to imagine where he might get it from. Yet Hairstreak was no fool and his military advisers were at least the match of the Emperor's own. So what was Hairstreak up to? Where was the missing component?

  The Emperor was still trying to puzzle it out when the message arrived from his Chief Portal Engineer.

  Apatura and Tithonus arrived in the chapel at a less than dignified run. The first thing Apatura noticed was that the portal was in place again. Beside it, the Chief Portal Engineer was making some final adjustments with a flexible spine-wrench. His hands and face were black with oil, but it did nothing to hide his smug expression.

  'You've done it?' Apatura asked, grinning despite himself.

  'Yes, Your Majesty.'

  'You know where this damn thing sent my son?'

  'Yes, Your Majesty. He reached the Analogue World all right, but not the island we targeted.'

  'And the portal's working properly again?'

  'Yes, Your Majesty.'

  Apatura's grin faded to a sober expression. 'Right, Tithonus, let's put a party together to find out what has happened to
Pyrgus.' He turned to look at the portal, already beginning to glow slightly as it entered its initial warm-up cycle. 'We leave in fifteen minutes!'

  Eighteen

  'Where have you been?' Henry's mother asked crossly. She was buttering bread for sandwiches on the kitchen table. Their old picnic basket was open on the worktop behind her, already well packed with fruit, soft drinks and what looked suspiciously like her ghastly vegetarian Scotch eggs.

  'We were getting worried,' said his father, a lot more mildly. He'd abandoned his usual business suit for his weekend uniform of slacks and sports shirt, rounded off with pristine golf shoes. He was also wearing one of his more familiar expressions, the one that told Henry he was feeling miserable, but putting on a cheerful front. Henry suspected his father was looking forward to the family picnic about as much as he was.

  'I went for a walk,' Henry said. It was a lie, but it was equally the truth, which made him feel a bit better. It was also simple, which meant you were far less likely to be found out. At least he'd got Pyrgus and the stuff safely back to Mr Fogarty.

  'You knew we were going for a picnic,' his mother said. 'It's so late now it's hardly worth the trouble.'

  'You aren't even ready yet,' Henry said, perhaps unwisely.

  'That's because we didn't know where you w ere!' his mother told him. 'Honestly, Henry, you've been behaving so strangely lately we hardly know what to think.'

  He'd been behaving strangely? Henry looked at his parents, but decided not to get drawn down that particular road. 'I was just walking,' he said. Then, in the wicked hope of making his mother feel guilty, he added, 'I needed time to think.'

  'He wasn't just walking.' Aisling's voice came from behind him. 'He went to see Mr Fogarty, even though you told him not to. I heard him making the arrangements on the phone last night.'

  Henry spun round. Aisling was smiling smugly all over her stupid face. She'd known since last night, but she'd waited until now to tell their parents so he'd get into maximum trouble.

  'Is this true?' his mother asked. The tone of her voice said she'd take a lot of convincing that it wasn't.

  As he fought down a surge of guilt, a hideous thought slid into Henry's mind. Had he mentioned breaking into his school last night on the phone? He didn't think so, but he couldn't remember for sure. Was Aisling waiting to drop that little bombshell as well? He took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out.

  Henry lowered his eyes. 'Yes,' he said, 'it's true.' He looked up again and added more forcefully, 'There was a job I had to do for him. I couldn't let him down.' His gaze flickered towards Aisling. If she did know what he'd been up to this morning, now was the time she'd tell. He could hear her triumphant voice: And do you know what that job was, Mum? Breaking and entering and stealing!

  If Aisling knew about it, she kept quiet.

  'Let him down?' his mother echoed. 'We told you -your father and I both told you – that you weren't to work for him again. As of now. Not some time next month or next week. Henry, this is for your own good. That man is wholly unsuitable company for a boy your age. But that isn't the point any more, is it? The point is, we can't even trust you-'

  To his surprise, his father murmured, 'He may have had obligations, Martha.'

  'All right,' his mother said. 'All right, we'll find out about his obligations, shall we?' She turned to Henry. 'Did you finish this job you had to do for your friend Mr Fogarty?'

  Henry looked at her for a moment, then nodded. 'Yes.' Henry the Truthsayer.

  'So you have no more obligations to Mr Fogarty?'

  Henry shook his head. 'No.' Which was true as well. He'd told Mr Fogarty he couldn't help him build the portal, but that didn't matter because he'd only have been handing him components anyway. Mr Fogarty, armed robber or not, was still the one who made things. And if he needed help, Pyrgus was there to give it.

  'In that case,' his mother said, 'you can no longer have any objection to the request your father and I made that you shouldn't see Mr Fogarty again. Can you?'

  'No, I can't,' he told his mother.

  'So you agree you will not see Mr Fogarty again?'

  Henry nodded. 'Yes.'

  'I want you to promise. Promise on your word of honour.'

  'I promise on my word of honour,' Henry told her miserably.

  'Good,' his mother said briskly. 'Now the only thing to be decided is your punishment.'

  His punishment turned out to be two weeks' grounding. (His mother wanted to make it a month, but his father intervened.) He couldn't leave the house unless accompanied by one of his parents or -ultimate humiliation and Mum knew it – his sister Aisling.

  But he made no protest, probably because he was feeling so guilty. He consoled himself with the thought that he'd played his part in helping Pyrgus get back to his own world.

  He lasted three days before he tried to ring Mr Fogarty. His mum had forbidden him even that form of contact, but it wasn't what he'd promised. What he'd promised was that he wouldn't see Mr Fogarty again. But that had its own problems since Mr Fogarty didn't answer his home phone (as usual) and, when Henry tried his mobile, it was switched off.

  He tried again the following day. By now, his parents had stopped watching him so closely. His dad was at work, of course, and his mum soon discovered that grounding somebody was one thing, but acting as his jailer was a real pain. Even Aisling stopped her little game of trailing around after him like some smug guard dog. Henry walked into the kitchen, helped himself to a doughnut, and dialled Mr Fogarty's mobile. It was still switched off.

  It was switched off on Friday as well, and on Saturday morning. By now, Henry was taking more and more chances, calling the number just as often as he could. Fogarty's mobile seemed to be permanently switched off. Henry tried to tell himself it was just out of order, but he didn't believe it. Every time he phoned without result, the feeling grew that something was wrong. He didn't know what, but his imagination supplied some weird possibilities.

  By Saturday afternoon he found it all so worrying he'd come to a horrible decision. He was going to break a promise made on his word of honour. He was going to go and see Mr Fogarty.

  Nineteen

  Alan Fogarty woke with a start. His bedroom was filled with a stark blue light and there was a high-pitched humming noise in his ears. They were coming to get him!

  He rolled over and reached underneath his bed for the shotgun, then remembered, dammit, the thing was in pieces on the kitchen table, cleaned, oiled but not reassembled because he was an old man now and he'd got tired and gone to bed thinking he'd put it together in the morning, thinking it wouldn't matter if he went to sleep just one night without an equaliser handy. But he forgot Murphy's Law: if it can go wrong, it will go wrong. The one night he left himself without a firearm was the night they picked to come and get him.

  He pushed himself upright. They weren't in the room yet, so he still had a chance. But he had to hurry, even though hurrying wasn't what he did well these days. Growing old was deadly. Thirty years ago he'd probably have fought them. Twenty years ago, he'd have been legging it down the road by now. But once you pass eighty, everything slows.

  He swung his feet out of the bed and placed them firmly on the wooden floorboards. He had to hurry, but if he did this too fast he was in trouble. Any time he stood up suddenly he passed out. After a moment he risked pushing himself to his feet. Not so much as a hint of dizziness – great! He walked to the bedroom cupboard and took out a cricket bat.

  They could pass through walls. It made no sense, but it was in all the books. Trick was not to let yourself get impressed. And to make your move before they did. He fondled the cricket bat and walked to the window.

  There were figures moving on his lawn!

  He let the curtain fall and scuttled from the bedroom. There was a good chance they weren't inside yet, which was to his advantage. A bit of him was wondering if he could get the gun assembled before they came in. There was a full box of cartridges in the table drawer. />
  He reached the kitchen in short order. There was a humanoid shape at the back door, its outline distorted by the frosted glass. It knocked sharply. Fogarty walked over and unfastened the five bolts that secured it. Then he took the key from its hook, unlocked the deadlock and opened the door.

  As the figure entered, Fogarty hit it with the cricket bat.

  The character in the cloak and purple jerkin wasn't what you'd call tall and Fogarty had seen a lot more imposing men, but the second he walked through the door you knew he was in charge.

  'What's happened here?' he asked.

  Fogarty said nothing, partly because the arm around his throat was cutting off his air supply, partly because he was feeling a bit embarrassed. These clowns certainly weren't aliens. They didn't look like Men in Black or FBI either. Their clothes were all too colourful, too flashy in the cut. Besides, there was something about the man in purple that looked familiar.

  'Doubtless a misunderstanding, Majesty,' said the man Fogarty had hit with the cricket bat. The man's arm was encased in a tight, white rigid sleeve cast that had been sprayed on by one of his colleagues.

  'Why are you trying to strangle that man?' This was aimed at the soldier with his arm around Fogarty's throat. Fogarty knew he was a soldier from the cropped hair and the ramrod up his ass. They all looked the same wherever they came from and God alone knew where this one was from. If that was a uniform he was wearing, Fogarty had never seen the like of it before.

  'Danger to society, sire!' the soldier said, trying to snap to attention. The sudden movement came close to shutting off Fogarty's windpipe completely.

  'You or him?' the man in purple asked. 'I think perhaps you had better release him.'

  'Yes, Majesty!' the soldier said. He let Fogarty go, took a step backwards, stamped his feet and came to attention again, all in a single movement.

  Fogarty massaged his neck. That was the second time they'd called the purple character Majesty. Was he some sort of king? And why did he look so familiar? Fogarty blinked. 'My God,' he said, 'you're Pyrgus's father!'