Fairy Dark

by Adam Golden

  Rhiannon stopped reading, looked up from the paper and stared off into the distance for a long moment. “Is the sun a candle flame?” she asked softly.

  “What?” the girl asked from where she knelt across Hervor’s straining form.

  “Lairgnen was a Pyski Master Meddyg centuries ago,” Rhiannon said distractedly, more as a means of lining things up in her own head than as an explanation, “who found a way of treating injured Pyski by . . . pushing them out of the Pattern and into the realm of raw magic, a place he called Carmot. Before his corruption, when the Bwgan was still Jogah, he was pushed there . . .”

  “Why?” Hervor groaned. “Why would he care?”

  Rhiannon looked across the fallen Norse woman’s body at the girl. “You said that the Red Man used a spark of creation to sunder the Pattern,” she said and saw the girl’s eyes go wide as what Rhiannon was already thinking dawned on her.

  “Aye, so I did at that,” she replied aghast.

  “We know that the Bwgan is engaged in blood magic, targeting Foci children,” Rhiannon said, “and you said they weren’t strong enough to sunder the Pattern themselves.” The girl nodded at that. “It took a score of our strongest elders an inordinate amount of effort to soften the boundaries for just a few seconds in order to push Jogah through,” Rhiannon said, recalling Niamh’s memories of the event.

  “Aye,” the girl said, “an’ if ye were wantin’ t’ punch a hole through, ye’d need somethin’ with more oomph.”

  “Like the concentrated will of a group of enslaved Foci,” Rhiannon finished.

  “For . . . what?” Hervor asked weakly. Her voice was fading and the gurgling in her throat and chest spoke of lungs filling with blood. “What will he do with all of that raw . . . magic?”

  “He’ll channel it here,” Nuada declared, and Rhiannon jerked, looking over at the wounded King. He lay sprawled against a coil of root, clutching his dead arm, black blood running through his fingers. “This monstrosity is the perfect engine fer such a Sunderin.’”

  Rhiannon felt her jaw clench. Her whole body hummed and trembled with the sheer horror of it. That many Foci directing the raw primal tide of magic. The scope was inconceivable. “The Strief is incomplete, and my vision made it clear that the Bwgan can be stopped. In both cases,” she looked to Nuada, “I need the Bough.” She looked to the dented, tarnished gauntlet which Airmed had thrown at her feet. “Obviously that isn’t it,” she said. “So, what did you do with it?” she asked the wounded king.

  She got a bark of bitter laughter in response. “I dunnae know lass,” Nuada said sadly. “None o’ us do. Our entire party swore an oath t’ do whatever needed doin’ in order t’ protect that blasted thing. We drank a draught. T’was a concoction brewed by a bookish, surly sod o’ a dragon.” The king’s grimace was almost fond, and Rhiannon’s heart dropped a touch. “It made us forget.”

  “Wait,” Rhiannon said, shaking her head in frustrated disbelief. “You hid it from yourselves?”

  “One of us didnae drink the draught,” Nuada said softly. “We didnae have enough, he was . . . unexpected. Miach.” The King looked up at Rhiannon, and those brilliant azure eyes were haunted with ancient grief and pain still fresh after so long. “She blames us, but Miach took his life to keep the pact. To keep the bough hidden from those like his sister.”

  Chapter 24

  The fog rose from the ground, thick, full and rolling over everything like a wave. Even knowing where to look Nuada could barely make out any of the others. Good. “There’s a good lad,” he said, patting Ambisagrus on the shoulder. “Remember, keep it good an’ thick ‘til ye hear the call, once it sounds, though, clear it quick. Sure’an we may be comin’ fast.”

  The old man nodded and gave him a gap-toothed grin. He brushed a mesh of long, thin gray hair from his eyes and went back to his strange finger wagging and muttered chanting, pushing his blanket of fog against the walls of the target.

  Somewhere in the obscuring cloud a crow cawed a single screeching caw. Babd’s team was in position. Nuada wiped damp palms on his trousers and let out a short trilling whistle in response. Go. He braced, tense as he gave the command. No turning back now boy-o. His grip on the faceted crystalline hilt of his sword hurt his palm, but he couldn’t relax it. He couldn’t see the others, but he could feel their eyes on his back, waiting for the command. A count o’ thirty t’ reach the walls, another ten fer Cian to breach . . . The exiled king let out a long slow breath and lifted himself in a crouch, moving away from the old weather god with a final pat on the old man’s slim shoulder.

  Nuada moved at a ducking run as he passed through the last row of apple trees. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight . . . He felt Lugh pull up on his right. Not even Ambisagrus’s fog could obscure the grin the young hero beamed at being in the field again after so long in hiding. The warrior loped along, easily hefting his spear. Nuada knew the young warrior would be watching for signs of patrols and guards they hadn’t accounted for. There wouldn’t be any, they’d been careful in their scouting. I hope.

  Both Lugh’s Areadbhair and Nuada’s sword, Claimh Solais, had been carefully shrouded to obscure their light, and the king hoped whole-heartedly that neither would be needed this night. If it came to that, though . . . Nuada gave his head a shake. There was no time for doubts now. They were the walls. They were relatively low, no more than ten feet, but wrapped in protections and dutifully patrolled, at least they usually were. Tonight there were only four watchers to cover the whole perimeter, and their rounds were as regular and predictable as the sunrise. If Babd’s team had done their work as they should . . .

  A hammer of confusion and dread struck the Tuatha king a stunning blow that brought him up short a half-dozen paces from the wall. This is folly! Madness, we’re all going t’ be killed, or worse! Panic gripped his heart like a vice. We have to retreat! Nuada opened his mouth to call the abort—he had to get his people away before the inevitable happened. Before he led them all to their doom!

  A cool hand pressed gently against his cheek and a wheezing breath rushed from between his lips. A voice like the soft tinkling of bells sounded in his mind. Be still. Nuada blinked, shook his head slightly, and nodded to Becuille.

  The slim, pretty, ashen-haired sorceress patted his cheek warmly before she pulled the long dirk from her belt and gestured for him to lead on. She’d go on countering Babd’s fear magic for the others.

  Nuada hefted his weapon, looked to Lugh, nodded, and kept on toward the walls. He’d lost count. Where were Cian and the others? Had something happened . . . ?

  The convent’s great iron-sheathed gates slid open without a sound and Nuada offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving as he made out the bulk of Sucellos with his great hammer in hand. The big man’s lucky charm seemed to be holding so far. They’d been concerned that the wards around the grounds might interfere.

  The king waved his people forward through the portal which Sucellos was already heaving closed again. Nuada looked around the abandoned inner court nervously, ensuring himself that all was secure. A high musical laugh came from above and Nuada looked up to find Aengus lounging on the edge of the wall, one foot dangling as he plucked the strings on his harp.

  “Not t’worry pops,” the young man said gaily. “Me tune’ll keep them lulled as babes in swaddlin’.”

  “See that it does,” Nuada said gruffly, but with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Dagda’s youngest boy just made one want to smile, and he played the old man’s harp as well as their father ever had. The boy stopped his plucking and touched his brow, offering Nuada a gently mocking salute before the Suantrai, the strain of sleep, burbled from the strings again.

  “Babd,” the king said, turning toward the dark willowy woman who was crouched near the bodies of the sleeping guardswomen, stripping them of their cloaks and armor. “Ye, Aengus, Flidais, an’ Cian must hold this gate.”

  The two women nodded fiercely, almost as a single entity, but a groan came from th
e young harper. “Ach, I still say Beci should stay with the womenfolk an’ I should be with ye,” Aengus said, plucking a harsh sour note on his harp.

  “Aye, an’ can ye nullify an inverted inveiglement charm?” Becuille asked, giving her young cousin a sweet smile, which he answered with a rude gesture that made her giggle.

  Babd handed Flidais one of the cloaks recovered from the sleeping guards, and then balled up another and tossed it an Aengus’s head.

  Nuada looked about him “Cian, where is—?”

  A legion of insects suddenly filled the courtyard, appearing from every crack, crevice, and hole in the ground and walls, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, all converging in front of Nuada, crawling all over each other, coalescing, shaping themselves into a tall amorphous blob that slowly took on the shape of a man. Cian. Lugh’s father, and one of Nuada’s oldest friends. The bluff, earnest-looking man gave a tight nod to his friend and king as his form solidified.

  “The dandy’s harpin’ seems t’ be workin’,” he reported. “Nae an open eye within fifty paces o’ the yard.”

  “Aye, an’ the breach?” Nuada asked.

  “Couldnae have gone better,” Cian said. “The fog got me close, an’ Babd’s panic hex had them millin’ about so they’d hardly notice a few mice pressin’ in under their gate. I had the postern wide before any were the wiser.” He pointed to one of the guardswomen who appeared to have a broken neck. “The big man’s hammer did fer her.”

  Nuada gave his friend and the hammer-wielding giant a hard look. “Ach, I said—”

  “Aye, so ya did,” Cian said, cutting off his leader. “An’ we tried right enough, but things happen in war. Ye know this.”

  “Luck ebbs and flows,” Sucellos said with a shrug. “I struck the wall, she missed a step an’ she went down.”

  “Dian!” Nuada called. “See t’ her.”

  The healer nodded and trotted over to the fallen Maiden.

  “No bodies,” Nuada said, raising his voice just enough so that they could all hear him. “I want t’ get away cleanly. The longer a lead we have on pursuit the better.” He touched Cian on the shoulder and grinned. “Time fer ye to change, is it nae?”

  Cian gave him a long-suffering grimace and his form started to shimmer, growing shorter, slimmer and decidedly curvier. His features softened, smoothed and, as he tossed his head, a flowing mane of brilliant red curls sprang fully formed into existence.

  “Da . . .” Lugh groaned.

  Cian, now fully formed as an impractically buxom red-haired female, turned daintily on her toes and spread her arms wide, inviting inspection of her new and very naked form.

  “Come on then lad,” Cian said in a high sweet lilt. “Give yer daddy a kiss.”

  Babd snorted rudely and threw a cloak at Cian. “Pig.”

  Cian caught the silver drapery and held it purposefully away from her nudity as a hand slid from the heavy globe of her breast down over the taught flesh of her stomach and around to a full round hip. She looked pointedly up and down Babd’s thin, flat figure hidden in her customary formless black robe.

  “Jealous?” the shapeshifter asked his little sister with a grin.

  Babd growled something unintelligible and spun around, stalking off a few steps, which made her elder brother burst out laughing as he fixed the cloak around his naked shape.

  “Alright, that’s enough then,” Nuada said, swallowing his own smile at the bickering between the siblings. “Babd, Aengus, Flidais, and Cian, ye hold this position at all costs.”

  Flidais raised her bow in salute from atop the wall and the others nodded, all signs of mirth burnt away but the gravity of what they were about to attempt.

  “Keep yer eyes open an’ yer wits sharp,” the Tuatha king told them all. “They’re weaker than they’ve been in centuries, but that doesnae mean they’re weak. Sucellos, we need yer luck again cousin, you lead us in.”

  Big man nodded, hefting his hammer onto his shoulder.

  “Lugh, keep close t’ him, watch his back.”

  The hero saluted with a tip of his spear.

  “Bec, ye and Dian are with me in the center. Keep sharp, we dunnae know what surprises they have lyin’ about. Dian, you keep us healthy an’ movin.’”

  The healer nodded, fingers wagging distractedly as he worked through his catalogue of charms in his head.

  “An’ Creidhne, ye bring up the rear, watch our backs til we get ye to the vault.” The gigantic smith closed hands that could have easily encircled Nuada’s waist and his knuckles popped loudly.

  Nuada took another slow calming breath and made his hand relax on the hilt of his sword. “Right, let’s be about it then.”

  * * *

  “They’re comin’ fast!” Becuille called as she slammed the huge doors of the outer chamber closed and dropped the heavy bar. “Must be a full company . . . a hundred or more.”

  On the other side of the antechamber, Sucellos slammed the bar down on the other entrance and then leaned heavily on his hammer; the big man was streaming blood from a half-dozen wounds.

  Dian Cecht moved over to his side and started a humming chant.

  “Dian!” Nuada called. “See t’ Creidhne first, we need to breach the inner chamber.”

  The thin healer started to object, but Sucellos put a massive hand on his uncle’s shoulder and nodded. The healer blew out a breath of exasperation, muttered something about “meat headed warriors” and trotted over to where the massive forge god sat slumped against the wall, bleeding from a dozen arrow wounds in his gigantic chest. A pile of heavy bolts, thick as two of Nuada’s fingers, lay in a bloody heap beside the big metal worker. Even the Tuatha king hadn’t known his biggest brother could take such abuse and keep moving. The giant had bowled through whole files of armed and armored warrior maids in the running fight to reach this chamber.

  Everything had seemed to be going so well. They’d managed to penetrate deep into the convent without incident. The place was all but abandoned, and between Sucellos’s luck charms and Becuille’s divinations they managed to sidestep patrols and traps pretty easily. Or so they’d thought. The inner corridors of the convent were a warren of narrow, twisting halls, dead ends and switchbacks caked in layers of confusion hexes, illusions spells, and exhaustion charms so thick it was all Becuille could do to nullify them enough to keep the team moving, and that was before the arrows started flying.

  Lugh took the first shaft in the thigh and barely stumbled before Dian Cecht’s healing had him restored. Nuada called a warning but it came too late, the second arrow struck his collarbone and he would have fallen if Becuille hadn’t been there to steady him.

  The interior of the convent was a hidden shooting gallery. Concealed arrow slits dominated every corridor and, in a blink, Nuada’s strike force was surrounded by whistling projectiles screaming for their blood. Sucellos’s hammer struck the floor before him and waves of probability rippled outward, sending arrows careening off course. Some dropped early, some struck other projectiles, a few made their way into open slits and found Maidens rather than invaders, but the arrows kept coming. Lugh unfastened his shield from his back and took position at Nuada’s back while Becuille traced a locator in the empty air.

  “Right!” the sorceress called, racing down the corridor she’d indicated and into a barrage of barbed arrowheads that shredded the slim, dainty Tuatha.

  “Sucellos, carry her,” Nuada called. “Dian!”

  “Aye, I’m workin’ on it!” the healer called back, rushing to where Sucellos had scooped up the sorceress.

  “Brother,” Nuada said to Creidhne, “I need this corridor cleared.”

  The big smith grunted something Nuada didn’t hear and pushed his way through to the front of the group. He didn’t seem to feel the heavy arrows as they struck him. He roared like an angry bull, flexing arms thicker than Nuada’s thighs, and charged into the storm of projectiles, swatting them out of the air with massive hands. He reached the arrow slit at the end of the
corridor as the archers slammed the narrow iron portal closed. The giant drove a massive fist into the portal and it shot backward into the cavity behind the wall. The façade crumbled like stale bread; stone chips rained onto the floor and the giant fished around inside the hole he’d made, crushing whatever he could get his hand on.

  “Left!” Bec called, restored by Dian’s craft. “Creidhne, left!”

  The giant ripped his arm free of the wall, tearing out a heavy slab of stone as he did. He took the chunk of rubble in two hands, turned toward the corridor Becuille had indicated, and heaved the stone like a catapult releasing a shot. More than a few high female shrieks answered as the heavy projectile slammed into another arrow slit.

  “Soldiers coming up behind!” Dian called, ducking behind Lugh’s shield.

  “We’re there,” Becuille said. “Those doors on the right, that’s the antechamber.”

  “Everyone inside!” Nuada called.

  They were safe for the moment, but the door to the inner chamber was god-wrought, star metal and silver; charm resistant in the extreme Bec said, and far too strong to be forced by brute strength. They needed Creidhne’s skills for this, but the healing was slow going.

  “He’s taken so much damage,” Dian Cecht muttered as his fingers worked across the massive smith’s bloody chest. “An’ that bloody door makes workin’ the spell feel as though I’m tryin’ to push me head through a keyhole.”

  The doors to the antechamber shuddered as something heavy struck them from the outside.

  “Rams,” Lugh called. “They’ll hold fer now, but we need that door opened.”

  “I’m bloody workin’ on it, aren’t I?” Dian snapped.

  “Bec, can you help him?” Nuada asked.