Aes Sidhe

by Fergal F. Nally

  Well, he was hungry, Scalibur was hungry. His steel cut through the air, annihilating any threat in bursts of smoke and cinders. He swung Scalibur in a blinding arc, completing cycles of destruction again and again.

  For what seemed like days, he stood against the onslaught, taking and giving pain and revenge. His wounds were swallowed and absorbed by the blade’s magic, and he felt no pain. His body was Scalibur’s vessel. It used him, healed him, and breathed life and strength into his arms and heart.

  Eriu jumped, bouncing back and forth on the killing ground, Ae’fir’s ever-present shadow. He goaded the darkness, taunted it, dragged it forward into the light and pushed it into Scalibur’s path, a wicked smile on his face. This was no dream for the dreamcaster; this was what they had planned for back in Eynhallow. He wondered if Tara Lau and her Maidens knew, if they could feel the ripples of change in their hearts. Freedom was no longer just a dream. A thousand years of Banishment was coming to an end and he, Eriu was part of its unfolding. He danced in the darkness upon the bodies of the undead.

  He did not see the arrow that took his life.

  Chapter 25: King of Insanity

  Crowe’s blood was up.

  He had the bastard cornered. The fugitive had left his horse and cart and had disappeared into the mist. Crowe could taste victory within his grasp.

  Crowe knew the people of Wyndrush had few dealings with the western region. They were superstitious folk, as were most who lived on the fringes of the kingdom. They clung to old beliefs. The story of Sytra the blood witch and her wild wood did not trouble him―likely as not, she was an old crone dabbling in herbalism. That she was said to be three hundred years old was obviously a lie.

  “Tracker! Find the trail, and make it quick,” he shouted at one of his men.

  The man jumped off his horse and, after examining the grass, led the way into the trees.

  Crowe peered up into the midafternoon sun hanging pale above the mist. They should be done here way before nightfall. He kept his hand on his sword and ordered his men to fan out. He watched the trees. Leaves rustled in the wind as they passed through the woods. His mind started to drift as he pictured the life he’d lead after his retirement. What would he do with the king’s reward? Would it be a farm in the coastal region of Firth? Or would he open his own tavern in Sencha? He had always liked the dry climate there, and Senchan wine was glorious.

  The deeper the soldiers went into the woods, the larger and older the trees became. Their progress slowed, his men bunching together to pick through tangled undergrowth. Ground mist appeared, and the atmosphere became warmer, humid.

  Crowe swallowed. There was no birdsong.

  “Stay alert, spread out,” he ordered his men.

  The tracker was on foot, still visible some distance ahead. The rest of the party had dropped behind. Crowe shouted at the tracker to wait just as he disappeared into a dip in the land.

  Crowe cursed. The first law of the hunt: don’t separate your party in unknown terrain, especially in a forest. He pushed his horse on and reached the dip a few moments later. His man was gone. Crowe scanned right and left but saw nothing but trees and brush. The others came alongside and stared into the forest below.

  “Use the horn, we’ve lost him,” Crowe ordered one of his men.

  “Aye, lord,” the soldier replied and brought the horn to his lips. Its shrill sound pierced the air, reverberating through the forest.

  They waited for a reply. None came.

  Crowe’s horse took a few nervous steps backward and snorted. Crowe steadied his mount, patting the mare’s neck. His men searched the trees for any sign of the tracker.

  “My lord, look,” one of Crowe’s men said, pointing ahead to the right.

  A lone horse was approaching. Crowe recognized its livery as the king’s own. Its owner was nowhere to be seen.

  The horse stopped just short of their position and lowered its head, snorting at the undergrowth.

  Crowe cursed again, spitting on the ground. “Get the horse, but keep your eyes open. Spread out and flank that position.”

  His men did as ordered, descending the dip and dividing into two groups. The tracker’s horse was retrieved. They proceeded through the trees, sweeping the area.

  A cry went up on the right flank. “Here, to me!”

  Crowe turned toward the shout. His men were stationary on horseback, their eyes raised. Crowe followed their gaze and saw his tracker hanging from the lowest branch, his eyes bulging, a noose around his neck.

  Crowe looked on, stunned. “Free him,” he said finally.

  They cut down the dead man, their eyes flitting nervously at the forest.

  “Bastard will pay for this,” Crowe muttered to himself. “Leave him, we’ll bury him later. Onward, let’s find this son of a whore and rip his lungs out.”

  The soldiers laid the body down and mounted their horses. Crowe gave the signal and they fanned out, searching the forest floor for tracks.

  It was Crowe who finally found the tell-tale scuff mark on a fallen tree. Lamorak had doubled back. Crowe followed the trunk, finding a patch of dislodged moss and a footprint pointing back the way they had come.

  Without shouting, he signaled his men. They would continue on foot. Crowe left three men to guard the horses, taking the others to track this ghost. Even ghosts run to ground . . . eventually. With swords drawn, they fanned out, following the new trail. Crowe found another footprint and, shortly after, a broken branch. He crouched, examining the ground. The forest was quiet, expectant, watching.

  He didn’t like it. His men became blurs on either side of him. When, some distance further on, the trail had vanished, Crowe stopped and looked around.

  Nothing . . . no one.

  Nothing but trees. His blood froze. He searched the trees. He pulled his dagger from its sheath with his left hand. With dagger and sword drawn, he waited, his breathing fast, his heart pounding. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Life felt strongest when death was near.

  And death was close, he could feel it. He’d been around death most of his life, had seen its many forms: slow, fast, painful, bizarre. What awaited him? The last thing that passed through his mind was the memory of his first kill, a boy whose life he had taken on a challenge. Honor was everything, it was life. The boy’s face returned to him, eyes black, face skeletal, arm outstretched, beckoning.

  It’s time, your time . . .

  The arrow pierced his heart from behind.

  Crowe died a quick death. Clean, efficient, cold.

  Lamorak stepped into the dappled sunlight. “Now perhaps you’ll leave me alone. Go to your ancestors. Leave this land in peace.”

  Lamorak felt a weight lift from his shoulders. It had been easy to pick off the men either side of Crowe. He would leave the others―they would fall back with their leader slain. They would talk of this defeat and his own reputation would grow. He would no doubt attract a bounty, and more would come. An endless cycle of violence.

  No matter. His job was done.

  He turned and walked back through the forest. Away from the blood witch, away from Rysa and his unborn child. Away from his old life and toward a new chapter.

  Who was he to ignore the call?

  He walked for the rest of the day to the spot where he had left the horse and cart. To his surprise, he found the mare a short distance away, its nose buried in clover. He approached and reached out. The mare did not flinch. He mounted and clicked his tongue, turning her around. He’d return to Wyndrush and make his way north, along the great glens, to the heart of this rotten empire.

  It was calling him, and he would heed the call.

  Chapter 26: Those That Remain

  Sive looked around the clearing. The earth was covered in the ash of the undead. Ae’fir had stood his ground against the tide―they’d broken against his blade as the sea breaks against rocks. They’d risen up against him, and Scalibur had taken them, turning them to ash. They had finally withdrawn, but not be
fore slaying the dreamcaster.

  Sive didn’t know what to think. She stared at the mage’s corpse. Now it was just her, Ae’fir, and the other girl, the one called Mevia. This was it? This was how they were to rescue Dal Riata? The sword was impressive, granted, but how were they to escape Monkwood and reach Inis Cealtra? How were they―?

  “You’ve lifted the curse from Inis Cealtra?” Ae’fir asked Sive.

  She stared at him blankly.

  “Answer me, girl,” he said, his voice softer. He stepped toward her, lowering Scalibur.

  “Aye, lord. The curse is lifted. I met with and spoke to the first crone there, and her sister, the Monkwood crone, gave me the sword you now carry. My job is done . . . but you must get to Inis Cealtra and unlock the Banishment and release the Aes Sidhe. They must reclaim Dal Riata. That’s what the crone said . . .”

  Mevia groaned, her eyelids fluttering. She coughed hard, blood splattering the fallen leaves near her mouth. She was shivering, her lips blue. A layer of frost coated her hair. “I thought she was dead,” Sive whispered.

  “It seems not . . . she’s tough,” Ae’fir replied. He strode over to Mevia, raising Scalibur.

  “No . . . what are you doing?” Sive asked, alarm in her voice.

  Ae’fir’s voice was quiet but clear. “I am in the wind, the rain, and the rising sun. I walk with you through the golden fields of wheat. I am in your right arm in the hunt. I am in the first taste of blood when victory runs through your heart. I am here, I am alive, I am spirit. Come, rise and rejoin the light of life. Breathe, be easy and live . . .”

  Sive watched Ae’fir as he spoke. His eyes were distant. He had brought his sword tip to Mevia’s chest, the point hovering over her heart. Light danced around the blade, flowing down its edge and into Mevia’s prone form. Mevia coughed, her body convulsing on the ground. She started breathing, rapidly at first, and then more slowly. At last, Scalibur’s light dimmed. Ae’fir’s head jerked up as if he had woken from a dream.

  Sive went to Mevia and crouched beside her. “Mevia, we are here. It’s Sive and Ae’fir. Are you all right?”

  Mevia coughed, this time there was no blood. She sat up, her eyes focusing on Eriu’s body beside her.

  “He saved me, I saw him. He shielded me from the undead, their magic . . .” her voice was flat.

  Ae’fir nodded. “He sacrificed himself that you might live, a noble act, but one that leaves us in a difficult situation. Without Eriu, how are we to unlock the Banishment at Inis Cealtra?”

  “Never mind that, how are we going to get out of Monkwood?” Sive said.

  “We’ll go back to the Shattered Falls and follow its course to the coast. We’ll hit civilization sooner or later,” Ae’fir declared.

  Mevia sat up, rubbing her chest. Ae’fir held out his hand and helped her up. She nodded her thanks. “Eriu was the key, he was the dreamcaster. You saw what he did at the stone circle―who else can open a portal or follow trails of magic?”

  Ae’fir grunted and sheathed Scalibur, removing his old blades. “Are you any good with a sword?” he asked Sive.

  Sive shook her head. “Bow and dirk. Never mastered swords.”

  Ae’fir handed one of his short swords to Mevia. “Here, take this. It’s better than the dagger.”

  “It’s getting late. We need to find somewhere to camp for the night. There could be more of those things coming,” Sive said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ae’fir said. He picked up Eriu’s body and started walking.

  Sive nodded at Mevia and gestured for her to move. They looked uneasily around them. Monkwood was living up to its reputation.

  They walked through the forest the way they had come. Sive glanced up through the canopy, taking care to keep the Seventh Star in sight. The trees pressed in menacingly as the light faded. Branches creaked and the wind groaned deep in the forest’s guts. Something was near, following, Sive could sense it. She quickened her pace to keep up with the others.

  Night fell. Sive could barely make out the shadows of the others. Weak starlight glimmered through the high canopy. Sive clung on to the Seventh Star―it was her only friend in this world, silent and true.

  “We can’t go on in this darkness,” Ae’fir said. “We need to stop for the night.” He placed Eriu’s body on the ground.

  Mevia looked concerned. “We’re dead meat if we stop. Those things . . . they’ll know we’re here. This is their ground . . .”

  Ae’fir shrugged. “This ground’s too rough to cross in the dark. We could easily become separated or injured. It’s too treacherous―we’ll stop here. We’ll take watches. I’ll go first. You two, get some sleep. If they come, they come . . . I’ll be ready.”

  Sive looked at Mevia. Her face was drawn and blank. Sive felt exhaustion flooding through her. Ae’fir was right―they’d take their chances. Sive and Mevia dropped to the ground and curled up back-to-back, and were asleep in moments. Ae’fir stood watch, his back against a large oak, hand on Scalibur’s hilt.

  Something Mevia had said earlier kept running through his mind. He looked at Eriu’s body. He’d not leave his friend to rot in this place, to turn into one of those things. He’d take him to the Shattered Falls, give him a clean burial under an open sky, away from the roots of these demented trees.

  Mevia had been right―Eriu was dead now, his magic gone, their chance of unlocking the Banishment on Inis Cealtra gone.

  Unless . . .

  Eriu had created Lamorak, Ae’fir’s doppelganger, to throw King Loarn off their scent. This double . . . he was of Eriu, created by Eriu.

  He was the thread.

  If they could locate Lamorak and bring him to Inis Cealtra, maybe whatever trace of Eriu’s magic was left in him could open the Banishment.

  An unearthly stench wafted from the forest. Ae’fir stiffened, the hairs on his neck standing up. He leaned forward and drew Scalibur. The wind rustled the leaves, and Ae’fir’s breath frosted the air. A dull glow came from the darkness ahead―were his eyes playing tricks?

  No, they were here.

  He saw movement at his feet and looked down. Eriu’s face was twitching, his arms and legs jerking. Ae’fir watched in horror as Eriu pulled himself up from the ground and staggered into a standing position, his eyes glowing red in the darkness.

  Ae’fir lowered his blade. “Eriu, is that you, my friend? Are you―”

  A thick drop of black blood dripped from Eriu’s nose and ran down his chin. Dread gripped Ae’fir’s heart.

  Eriu lurched toward his old ally, arms outstretched, teeth snapping at the air.

  Ae’fir lifted his blade. “Eriu, don’t―”

  Eriu ignored his plea, walking straight into the blade, impaling himself. Ae’fir felt Scalibur enter his friend’s dead flesh. Eriu thrust himself forward, the blade disappearing deep into his chest. The dreamcaster kept pushing along the blade, bone and cartilage crunching before the hard steel.

  Ae’fir heard Eriu’s ribs and spine snap as Scalibur’s steel bit deep. Eriu’s face was inches from his own, teeth biting, breath hissing. His friend was gone, they had taken him. With his left hand, Ae’fir reached down and drew his short blade. He hefted it for a moment, searching his friend’s eyes, before thrusting it into Eriu’s right temple. The glow in Eriu’s eyes dimmed and vanished. His body became limp. For a moment, Ae’fir thought he saw peace in his friend’s face.

  Eriu slumped to the ground, whatever force had been controlling him gone. All was still. Ae’fir heard pounding in his ears and realized it was his heart. This was not over―there would be more of them. He looked down at Sive and Mevia’s still-sleeping bodies. Their faces were contorted, frowning.

  Ae’fir pushed Eriu’s body from Scalibur and went to Mevia, nudging her with his foot, his blade ready. She didn’t stir. He tried Sive, who flinched but did not wake.

  This was it then―Eriu had been a test. There was something more. He could feel it in the air.

  “Come out you bastards, I kn
ow you’re there. Come and take me, I’m ready for you, all of you.” With his words, a shot of strength rushed up his arm from Scalibur. He felt strong, confident. He wanted them to attack. The darkness softened, the silver glow bathing the trees changing to flickering gold. A figure materialized from behind a large oak. Ae’fir squinted against the light. Had the bastards set the trees on fire to flush them out? The light grew nearer. No . . . the trees were not on fire . . . the figure was on fire. Ae’fir brandished Scalibur, standing over Mevia and Sive.

  This would be his stand. He’d give them a fight.

  The form burned brightly, hanging suspended in the air. Ae’fir watched it carefully. Its brightness dimmed momentarily, and what he saw shook him to the core. It was a demon decked out in flaming armor, its head an incandescent skull. From its right hand trailed a long, flaming whip.

  A voice ripped through Ae’fir’s consciousness like a wound.

  You belong to usssss, you tread across our bones, our souls. This is our sanctuary, our soil. Surrender to usssss, or face our champion . . . your choice is simple.

  Ae’fir spat on the ground. “Your choice is no choice at all. I know you want to feed on our flesh. I will not let that happen. You will let us pass. Send me your champion to settle this.”

  The champion’s flaming whip hissed and sizzled, writhing on the forest floor like a living thing. The demon hovered in the air for a few seconds longer.

  “So be it,” it said. The flames coating its body burst into greater intensity, burning white hot as it advanced.

  The demon’s whip made a wailing sound as it flew through the air. Ae’fir ducked and parried. His sword arm jarred and he felt strength drain from him with the contact. As soon as his strength left him, he felt a rush from Scalibur up his arm and into his heart. He leaped forward and struck at the demon’s midsection. To his surprise, Scalibur passed clean through the hovering form without resistance. The demon was some form of specter. How could he defeat such an enemy?