Warrior Tithe: Faerie Tales

by T. J. Deschamps

  Fagan made his way around the southern side of the cabin to check the traps, avoiding the cairns on the north end near the stables. Nothing stirred as he passed through the woods. He scanned the forest for what would silence the birds and squirrels.

  A bloodcurdling, inhuman scream tore through the silence of the chilly early morning.

  Fagan’s heart raced with anticipation as he ran through the woods. One of his traps had caught something big. Hope rose in his chest that it was a strapping buck with meat to last for a good long time. He could see himself eating well as he traveled to someplace that wasn’t so damned cursed, maybe as far as a city. He could take up soldiering or…

  Fagan stopped dead in his tracks when he came across what his trap had caught. The iron teeth of the trap bit into the hind leg of black horse, a magnificent beast. It stared back at him with glowing, crimson eyes.

  “Kelpie,” he whispered, backing away.

  His ma had told plenty of fairy tales about daring young men, thinking they could mount one, only to be dragged to their deaths from merely touching a kelpie. The beast’s preternaturally intelligent gaze locked onto his.

  Fagan closed his eyes, believing the kelpie might ensorcel him somehow. Water horses were powerful faeries. How could a mortal trap even hold such a thing?

  The beast let out a mournful cry.

  A trap. He knew it. His stupid, treacherous heart had seen so much suffering. He couldn’t take any more.

  Fagan opened his eyes. If the water horse killed him for his efforts, at least he’d see his family again and this damnable ache in his gut would go away. Fagan had hoped he’d go in his sleep as most of his family had, but Cuilén would love the story, and it wouldn’t be suicide if the kelpie drowned him.

  He held up his hands to show he had no weapons as he cautiously approached the water horse. The kelpie shied away. By the pitiful sound it made, the movement caused the poor creature a considerable amount of pain.

  Fagan made the same soothing sounds he’d used to calm his horse. “I shan’t harm ye. I aim to set ye free.”

  The glowing crimson eyes latched onto him distrustfully. Conversely, the kelpie held still, its flanks heaving rapidly with each labored breath.

  Fagan gripped the kelpie’s leg with one hand and triggered the mechanism that released the trap with the other.

  The water horse melted into smoke before his eyes, but he could feel sinew and bone shifting in his grasp. The smoke dissipated. In the kelpie’s stead, a naked woman appeared. Curls no shade of red he’d ever seen occur in humans covered her breasts. A pained expression filled her freckled face. Green eyes, intelligent and wise, latched onto his.

  Fagan didn’t dare look anywhere else. He held her bare, bleeding leg. Those green eyes shifted from his to just below where he held.

  He cleared his throat. “Cannae ye heal yerself, kelpie?”

  She shook her head mournfully, lashes fluttering. “I’m dying,” she whispered in a voice that was birdsong to Fagan’s ears. “Poison in my bl—” Her eyes rolled back in her head. She lost consciousness before she could finish her sentence.

  Fagan remembered iron was lethal to the fae. He’d watched his ma pour a jar of salt and iron shavings across the threshold of their cottage and along the windows.

  “We have a crucifix. Da says that’s all ye need to be saved.”

  “Christ may have died for our sins, but he won’t stop a shade from taking one of my wee bairns and leaving us with a changeling.”

  Fagan examined the wound. The trap was old and rusty. Bits of iron shavings had lodged themselves in the kelpie’s damaged flesh. A niggling voice in the young man’s head said that he would do better to leave the kelpie to die. She’d probably beguiled many to their death with either of her forms long before Fagan took his first breath. Not once, however, did he have the opportunity to save a single member of his family.

  There was no reason this kelpie should die, other than her murderous nature. Fagan had seen enough aftermath of foreigner raids to know the fae weren’t the only treacherous creatures in existence. Who were these men that kelpies drowned? Fools who attempted to mount, to own something unownable. They might be the same sort who plundered villages and performed heinous acts all in the name of riches and conquest. No. He did not fault the kelpie for exacting justice.

  He scooped the fae maiden into his arms, careful not to cause further injury to her leg. She was a sight heavier than she looked and smelled of a fresh ocean breeze.

  Famished, it took Fagan some time to get her to the cottage. There, he cleaned and dressed her wound best he could with what he had.

  He didn’t want to leave the fae alone, but he had no choice. He’d not do her or himself any good by sitting vigil. They needed sustenance.

  He built a fire so she’d be warm when she woke, stealing glances at her sleeping form. Her auburn eyebrows gathered together while she slept, which made him smile. The dying did not scowl.

  He trudged back out into cold to check the rest of the traps, finding a fat hare in one. Fagan was dizzy with hunger as he took the hare back to the cottage. He believed the kelpie would not be there when he came back. Part of him didn’t want it to be so. The part that didn’t want to be alone. The part that had seen enough death wanted her awake and on her way. The part that noticed she was lovelier and comelier than any lass he’d ever seen wanted her gone too. He had no business with a fae. Nothing good would come of it.

  He decided he wanted her healed and gone.

  When he entered the cottage, he found her sleeping but not worsening. Fagan thanked the old gods.

  3

  Aoife

  Aoife’s eyelids fluttered open. The waking world welcomed her with the stench of unwashed mortals and searing pain in her leg. She found herself on a straw pallet in what appeared to be the dingiest human domicile she’d ever seen—not that the fae had seen any non-fae abode, actually. The pallet and a table with a few chairs were the only furniture. A peat fire boiled something in a cauldron.

  She’d spent most of her life in Emain Ablach, in her father’s boring palace, and the rest luring evil humans to their deaths. She and Niamh had made a game of it. Sailors, fishermen, any who wronged women or the Folk of the Sea’s allies—all fell prey to the daughters of the god of the sea. They’d had a lovely time until her father said the sisters were past an age of childish games.

  Aoife bristled. Her father must have been already negotiating her marriage and betrayal with Roi. Mannan, the god whom she’d loved and respected her entire life, trading her off like some mortal princess. Why? What had Roi offered?

  Aoife sighed. She would puzzle that out after she was safely ensconced in Queen Mab’s court. Besides, it was best she was on her way before she brought Roi’s wrath upon the poor mortal soul who had aided her so kindly.

  From what she remembered, the lad had a bonnie face and kind eyes, but was so half starved Roi would find amusement in torturing him. Best to let the mortal go on with his miserable existence and be on her way before her erstwhile fiancé found her.

  She flipped the tatty brown blanket off her legs. Still naked, except for the bandage stained with her blood. She unwrapped it to find her wound was barely healed. Upon closer inspection, she saw no more iron settled in her skin, but the poisonous metal had done enough damage to keep her from healing quickly.

  Not only that, the further inland she traveled, the weaker she felt for this was Danu’s domain, not the waters belonging to Aoife’s father. It was precisely why she went here, where her father or his soldiers dare not tread lest they start a war. It was far from Cu Roi mac Daire’s rule too.

  She had to align herself with Mab so she could draw power from the land. In the meantime, she needed to get to water.

  Aoife gritted her teeth as she rose to her feet. As she hobbled to one of the chairs, pain altered her senses and the room swirled in her vision. She pulled out the wooden seat and plopped down. There, she panted and despaired. She was too
drained to shift. Too far away from water to heal. There was no way she could run from Roi and spare the one who had helped a stranger.

  As if thinking about the latter summoned him, the door slowly swung open and the lad who’d found her stepped inside. His blue eyes widened upon the sight of her at his table and his chapped lips let out a gasp. One of his large hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the dead rabbit he was holding.

  Mortals, so quick to fear and kill.

  She supposed the lad had a reason for both his fear and the animal. There was nothing else in their sparse surroundings that suggested he had anything else to eat.

  “What am I to call ye, my savior?” she asked, forcing a smile though she felt miserable.

  He stared at her, still as stone. Finally, he said, “Call me Fagan. I am no savior.”

  “It seems, I am in yer debt, Fagan.”

  He glanced down at the rabbit. “Tis’ nay much but should stew nicely. I’ll find my bow and quiver and fetch fer ye better if ye wish.”

  The earnestness of the offer without any ask of something in return touched her. Aoife took in the lad’s measure. Not only were his hands big, but he was all arms and legs and height. If well fed and given a little training, a lad like him might make a mighty warrior…or a good bribe for the Queen of Sidhe. Studying the lines of his face, she saw not only would he make a good warrior, but the fae would lust after his beauty. She would have to see for herself if he was a good lover. Surely a gift of a warrior consort would earn Aoife a high position in Mab’s court. Others would seek her out for liaisons with him.

  “Milady?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Nay, I do not mean the meal ye have there. I meant saving me from that foul trap. I’d have surely perished from iron poisoning if it weren’t for ye.”

  Fagan looked at his feet. “It was the least I could do.”

  “So gallant.” She tried to position herself seductively but winced in pain instead.

  The lad grunted and set to work, skinning the dead rabbit at the table. He wielded the twelve-inch dirk with a simple boxwood root handle like he’d performed the gruesome task a thousand times. The skinning was awful enough, but the boning. Used to food served fully prepared, Aoife wrinkled her nose.

  The stranger arched a black eyebrow at her. “Dinnae say a kelpie, who has likely drowned a thousand men, is disgusted by a wee bit o’ blood and bone.”

  “Drowning is nice and clean, not a bloody affair such as this.” She gestured to the gore before him. How dare he compare the two? She doled punishment. This was…survival. All right. He did make a fair point.

  A smile played on the mortal’s finely shaped mouth, but he made no remark. She doubted he spoke much. Not a bad quality. Fae of the court droned on and on about nothing. He would make a good spy, saying little yet taking everything in.

  He kept his mind well-guarded too. Normally, she would get pictures in her head of mortal’s thoughts. That’s how she and Niamh knew which men were bad and which were good. This one focused on his task and not her naked form.

  She propped her head on her hand, watching him. Fagan was bonnie as they came and possessed a kind soul. He would do nicely…for the queen, she reminded herself. Aoife would not think of him as a prospect. She had learned her lesson: handsome did not a good man make.

  Roi had hair the color of sunlight, irises the brilliant blue of cornflowers, and a mouth so fine, she would become inflamed with passion at the very thought of those lips blazing a trail on her skin. Nay, she’d stay away from mortals from now on.

  “Let’s settle this debt between us,” she said, angling herself so Fagan had a full view of her breasts. Mortals liked them. Roi had fixated on them as if he were a babe needing to suckle. “What do you wish of me?”

  He took in what she presented. His throat worked, but his face revealed none of his thoughts. “I laid the trap. Ye owe me nothing. Yer free to go.” He nudged his head toward the door.

  She grimaced at her leg. The wounds were ugly and had left her unable to carry her own weight. She closed her eyes, hating to admit weakness to a mortal. “Is there a stream or perhaps a pond within short range?” She could feel nothing she could crawl to, and she needed this lad to come with.

  He continued his work in silence. A few images popped up, all of a pretty creek with shimmering water. A peaceful place Aoife would like very much to see in person. Weans, nowhere to be seen in this cabin at the moment, played and washed in the water. A woman with raven hair and face akin to the lad’s, but older, warned the children to be wary of Aoife’s kind.

  The lad cleared his throat, drawing the kelpie out of his head and into the present. “There’s a stream not but a half-day’s walk from here. Let me eat my boiled rabbit then I’ll carry ye there. We’ll have you set to right before the sun is set.”

  “A half-day’s walk?” She cast a dubious eye over his thin frame. “You’re going to carry me for that long?”

  He shrugged. “Aye. Yer not heavy.”

  “Where are yer kin? I smell many different scents.”

  The lad stiffened. After a few moments, he let out a slow breath. “Dead. Buried the last of them, my brother Cuilén, directly before discovering you.”

  “Today then.” She bent her head out of respect for the dead. “I’m so sorry, truly. My condolences on yer loss. To have buried your brother and then cared for me all in one day…” She thought of her own sisters, feeling the loss acutely. Though they were alive. She’d likely never see them again. Living the rest of her days among strangers and without Niamh hurt most of all. Her eyes stung and her heart ached with the knowledge.

  “I thank ye fer yer kind words.” He rose to his feet and got a bowl from a meager shelf, then placed the meat inside. “But ‘twas not today I buried my kinsman, nor the morn I discovered ye.”

  “How long?” she gasped.

  “Four days have passed with ye in my care and keeping. I have done ye no harm.” He added the last bit with wary glance to the iron cross.

  Aoife’s eyes flared with surprise. Fear clamored inside her. Four days was a considerable amount of time when she had a sorcerer king likely tracking her. She was not fool enough to believe Roi would simply let her go.

  She watched the lad cross the small space to scrape the meat into the boiling cauldron. He had a large frame with nice square shoulders.

  “Ye cared for me for four days?” A strange sensation formed in her gut, bubbling to her chest. Aoife had never felt it before, and she didn’t know what to name it.

  “Aye. It wasn’t much trouble.”

  “I had been severely poisoned. There had to be a bit of trouble,” she argued.

  He spread his hands and shrugged. “I cleaned the wound and wrapped it best I could. Other than that, I let ye sleep and made ye sip some broth every now and then. I dinnae ken the art of healing as well as my dear late mammy.” He frowned and set the bowl aside. “Da didn’t care for us boys practicing witchcraft and the old ways.”

  Leaving her to her stunned silence, the lad busied himself with cleanup.

  Aoife surveyed her surroundings once more. He had nothing, absolutely nothing, but he had shared his home and his precious water that took a half day’s walk to collect. The sensation grew stronger. The feeling wasn’t akin to what Aoife had felt when Roi had whispered promises in her ear and had given her body pleasure she’d never known before the sorcerer king’s expert touch. It was warmer and gentler.

  The lad stank. His tunic and braies were threadbare and ugly. Yet, he was beautiful. She did not mean simply his looks. He had a quiet confidence and elegant grace as he worked. He wasn’t fae born, but captivating. She owed this man. A fae could not abide by a debt.

  “Would you like to make use of my body as payment for yer services?” She had nothing else to give.

  His cobalt eyes darkened and his brows furrowed. The corners of his shapely mouth turned downward in a disapproving grimace. “What kind of man de ye take me for? Of course, n
ot.”

  Given the swiftness of his rejection and violence of feeling behind it, Aoife assumed he believed she wanted to trick him into his death. “Are ye afraid? If I offer ye my body, I cannot kill ye for having yer way with me.” She offered him her hand. “Come. Carry me to yer bed and find what I have to offer is well worth the trouble ye suffered for me.”

  “Ye’ve suffered a grave wound. Yer far from yer kith and kin. What kind of man d’ye take me for?”

  That question again. A far cry different from Roi or any man she’d ever known, Aoife thought. There wasn’t a man, mortal or fae, who’d ever turned her down.

  “Ah,” She nodded. “Ye fancy lads. I suppose I’ll have to find another way.”

  A blush crept up his face.

  Aoife laughed. “Tis true! I should have known. Four days and ye’ve left me unmolested.” This would put a damper on her plans to offer him as a lover to the queen, but still, he would make a nice fae knight. Aoife would set him up with trysts to earn his trust. Maybe they could share a lover or two and make him her confidante at court; he certainly knew how to keep tight-lipped. She smiled to herself, picturing their future as allies.

  “I beg yer pardon, kelpie. I dinnae ken the way of it where ye hail from, but tis not what’s between someone’s legs that stirs my heart nor my tarse.”

  Such romantic notions could mean only one thing.

  “Yer a virgin!” Aoife clapped, delighted with this information. The queen would love an untouched mortal, completely moldable to her majesty’s tastes. That he had no preference would be another boon.

  “No. I am not,” the lad answered with such a plaintive tone Aoife itched to know the story but knew better than to ask if he was not offering.

  He finished cleaning the mess and his hands. After pouring water in a cup, he offered it by setting it on the table in front of Aoife and backing away.