Aes Sidhe

by Fergal F. Nally

  The thing pulled its arm back, drawing in its whip, the flaming cord snaking through the air in a high arc, incinerating the space where Ae’fir’s had stood mere moments before. Ae’fir remembered his training: those that kept still, died. He avoided the vidious attack by a split second and threw himself at the demon, momentum carrying him through its spectral form.

  Cold rushed through his arms and veins. He felt icy tendrils reaching out for his heart like poison, clamping his tissues in a vice. He felt himself falling, but this time he felt Scalibur bite into something. He turned to see the thing’s whip fall, the lash severed at the handle. The demon screamed as its weapon fell. Clutching the stump of the whip, the demon swung around, flinging itself at Ae’fir.

  The remains of the whip crashed into his left shoulder with devastating force. Indescribable pain burst through every fiber of Ae’fir’s body. He was thrown backward, almost dropping his blade. His vision blurred, and for a moment two demons stood over him.

  His enemy raised his arm for the killing blow, its flaming whip regenerating, writhing in the sulfurous air. The demon seemed to gain substance from Ae’fir’s pain―its body took on an opaque quality, the fire intensifying. Ae’fir felt a burst of energy from Scalibur and made a swift uppercut, cutting deep into the thing’s groin. He rolled, twisting his blade.

  Scalibur was alive. Ae’fir felt exhilaration.

  The demon staggered and almost fell, hissing obscenities. Its hand went to its groin, the flame engulfing it, fading momentarily before returning to its former brightness. The demon threw its damaged whip at Ae’fir, who instinctively parried. Ae’fir felt Scalibur absorb the impact, then felt the demon’s dead weight on his sword. Scalibur’s hilt hit the forest floor as the demon’s weight pressed down from above. It impaled itself on his blade.

  Ae’fir smelled burning and realized his skin had blistered and his hair was on fire. He coughed, black smoke consuming him. Ae’fir screamed, pushing back on the demon’s form, burning his hands and arms, feeling his lungs fill with toxic fumes. And all of a sudden, he was free. The demon had vanished. Ae’fir rolled around extinguishing the flames then scrambled to his feet, glancing left and right. Where would it attack next?

  Seconds passed. The killing blow never came.

  Realization hit Ae’fir.

  He had defeated the demon. He had beat the champion. He was still alive.

  He had won passage through Monkwood.

  Scalibur’s healing warmth spread up through his arm and body. Consciousness finally gave way.

  Darkness descended.

  Chapter 27: Capture

  Wyndrush was in uproar.

  Angry citizens gave rallies in the square. King Loarn’s men had not returned, and the jarl was still missing. Wyndrush was done for.

  Lamorak sighed. The jarl had been a pawn―Lamorak had almost forgotten him. He’d left the jarl and his lieutenant tied up in the foothills southeast of Wyndrush. He looked around, hanging back in the crowd. She would emerge sooner or later.

  The jarl’s wife appeared shortly after midnight, surrounded by her shield maidens. He watched as they walked the narrow street to her home on the high stump of rock they called the Fist. Lamorak watched as gates and doors were barred and bolted. He spat on the ground. Bars and bolts had never stopped him before.

  He allowed the night to settle. Stars came out, bathing the town in a pale glow. He waited until instinct told him it was time before approaching the high palisade surrounding the house. He stood for a moment before pulling out two iron hooks and several metal spikes. He attached the spikes to his shoes and secured the hooks to his wrists using straps. He faced the palisade and started climbing. The hooks and spikes bit into the wood and he made rapid progress. A gust of wind cooled his face as he crested the edge. A raven cried out, disturbed in its roost. A dog barked plaintively in the distance.

  Lamorak clambered over the top and dropped. He was in. The jarl’s home was grand, the largest in the town. He listened for a long moment, remaining perfectly still, but heard nothing but the birds. Following the building round, Lamorak saw a window high above the ground. He listened carefully. When he was sure the way was clear, he began to climb. He reached the window quickly and hauled himself through into the room beyond.

  Inside, Lamorak found clothing hung against the wall and a desk littered with scrolls. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom and crept to the door. He listened for a long time before opening it. The walkway beyond looked down onto a communal area. Four forms lay asleep on cots and chairs below. Lamorak could hear their breathing. He moved quietly along the raised level and came to an open area at the top of a staircase. A large door lay before him. This was it: this was her chamber. He looked back and, seeing no threat, made for the door.

  He placed his fingers on the handle and pressed his ear up against the wood. Nothing. He pushed open the door. Perfume, rosewater, lavender. A single candle in the corner, flickering shadows. He approached the woman’s bed. She was asleep, her brown hair spilling out over the goose-feather pillow. As he drew nearer, Lamorak could pick out the golden tattoos on her face. The needlers had done a good job. Even in sleep, she looked regal. He reached over the bed and put his hand over her mouth, holding her down. She woke suddenly, her eyes red and wide. She struggled but was no match for Lamorak’s strength.

  He pressed his lips to her ear, inhaling her perfume. “Listen carefully. Your husband is held in a cave in the foothills to the southeast of Wyndrush. Where the Snake River joins the Sark there is a cave, up on the cliffs, your men will see it. Free him and restore order, and do not search for me. Anyone who comes looking for me will die . . . nod if you understand.”

  The jarl’s wife nodded.

  “Good. You’re going back to sleep now. When you wake, you will give the order to free your husband.” Lamorak pulled a fragrant cloth from his pocket and placed it over her nose and mouth. The woman went limp.

  He retrieved the cloth placing it carefully in his tunic. It was ugly business, but it had to be done. He was about to turn when he felt a blade at his neck. A woman’s breath hissed in his ear.

  “Do not move stranger, this blade is smeared with moon berry. One nick and your heart will stop and your throat will close. There is no known cure. Just give me a reason . . .”

  Lamorak froze, cursing inwardly. It’d been too easy―he’d underestimated them. It had come to this: after defeating Crowe, he’d instead been caught by the jarl’s wife. But there was relief too: it was out of his hands. He wouldn’t risk moon berry sap―it was an excruciating way to die. Perhaps it was a bluff, but perhaps not . . .

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” the voice said.

  Lamorak felt a sharp pain in his skull and his world exploded into bright light, followed by deep darkness.

  Lamorak awoke with a splitting headache. His hands and feet were in chains. He felt sick and his whole body ached. He heard water running and opened his eyes. Dim light filtered down from above. Rhythmic rocking swayed the cocoon that was his world. A ship . . . it could mean only one thing. He was being sent north to meet King Loarn. He would see the heart of this rotten empire. He’d see the man who had wanted him dead, and for what? He lay in the rocking half light and tried to remember what had gone before, but it was a blank. Why couldn’t he remember? Nothing . . . no mother, no father, no childhood memories. A face drifted into his consciousness. He tried to hold onto it, but it passed. A voice followed, half remembered, half buried.

  You will be the diversion. You will distract the king and his followers from the true game. You will be made to resemble, in every way, our true leader, who’ll be working in the shadows to release the Aes Sidhe from the Banishment.

  The words fizzled and dried in his head. What did it mean? A diversion? He gave into the ship’s movement, letting it take him away to a dreamless sleep.

  He awoke to food and a jug of water being pushed through an opening in the door. He took the food and ate mechanically.
There was nothing to do except exist, stay alive. The room was cold and wet. He gave in to the discomfort, used it to keep his edge keen. He’d be ready for his chance when it came.

  The days wore by.

  Finally, the door opened. Light streamed in, blinding him, and he curled away, groaning. They hauled him out of the room and tied a sack around his head. His bindings were checked before he was led outside. The air was fresh and cold. Despite everything, it was good to feel the breeze on his skin, to hear the birds, to feel solid ground beneath his feet.

  “He stinks. Is that really him, the one who defied the king? Where’s his sword?”

  “It’s with the jarl’s men. It’s pretty enough, but it don’t look anything special. Ask me, it’s a fake, like him. This whole thing’s a piece of piss. Still, the king wants to see with his own eyes. Can’t say as I blame him.”

  “They’ve still not found Lord Crowe then?”

  “Not a sign. Only six of his men made it out of the witch’s forest. They made it to Wyndrush not right in the head. They’ve seen things, things no man should see. They refused to leave Wyndrush. The jarl’s still wondering what to do with them . . .”

  “Strange times. Crowe was the best the king had―funny how Crowe ain’t here and this son of a whore is.”

  “The gods work in mysterious ways. Anyhow, this one’s days are numbered. The king will make short work of him once he sees him and his fake sword.”

  “Aye . . .”

  The men’s voices were cut off as Lamorak was shoved back. Something hard struck his knees from behind and he fell. A wooden frame was lashed to his body. He did not resist. Once he was secured, he was lifted onto a horse. The frame was lashed to his mount, and he felt his legs rub up against the horse’s flanks. It was good to ride again, to feel living flesh. He opened his senses to the horse, feeling the life there. Among all the pain and brutality, there was this creature, living its life much as he was: captive, slave, a commodity to be used at the whim of others.

  King Loarn. It wouldn’t be long now.

  He considered what the voices had said.

  He’d been hunted by the king for his sword. Strange―the voices had been right. His sword looked special but it held no enchantments, he was just good at using it.

  Nothing about this made sense. What was this about? Something told him there were forces greater than him at play, that he was part of something bigger, a piece of the puzzle. For the first time, he felt different. Something unrecognizable stirred in him, and he backed away. It ignored his retreat and enveloped him.

  Hope.

  It was terrifying.

  They kept the hood on him for the entire journey. The sun beat down on his shoulders, as did the rain and snow. They fed him enough to keep him alive, and at night they kept him hooded, locked in a cage. He could hear men laughing, telling stories, and he heard the crackle of their campfire. All the while, he was getting nearer to the king, the man at the center of this nightmare.

  Outwardly, he projected defeat. He slumped his shoulders, hung his head low. But inside, he was strong, a coiled snake with venom enough to kill a score of men. His blood boiled for vengeance.

  Seven days and seven nights passed before he smelled smoke and human waste. Civilization always stank. He attuned himself to the shouts and screams of many throats, some in languages he didn’t recognize. Mud and stones struck his skin, drawing blood. Soldiers bellowed, beating the crowd back. The sound of hooves on cobbles rang through his head and his skin shivered as the sun disappeared behind buildings. They marched through the city, leaving the crowds behind. Lamorak retreated into stupor until his horse paused. He heard a gate open, heard the grinding hinges followed by voices. Finally, his horse stopped.

  He was taken down, the frame untied. Without it, his body screamed with each movement, muscles and joints burning.

  A voice in his ear. “For you, it’s almost over. The king’s keen to meet you, the great outlaw from the south, the one who defied him. Your head’ll be on a spike before the day’s out, I’d wager.” The voice stopped for a second. Lamorak heard a snort, then felt spit hit his neck and drip down his back. Absorb and abide. He would take it all and forget nothing.

  “Take him away,” the voice commanded.

  Chapter 28: Coast

  “Wake up, wake up!” Sive heard the woman’s voice as if through a distant tunnel. Someone took her hand.

  She opened her eyes but didn’t recognize the face that peered back at her. She pulled her hand away.

  “Hey there girl, steady now, it’s me, it’s Mevia. We’re on the same side, remember?”

  Sive gasped, recognition flooding through her. Mevia, Ae’fir . . . Scalibur. It hadn’t been a dream. The nightmare continued.

  “I was somewhere, it was . . .”

  “Better than this, I know. Welcome back to Monkwood. You and me were . . . asleep, I guess you’d call it. More like half-dead, or on the way at least. Ae’fir defeated their champion. They’ve backed off and we’ve won passage through Monkwood. We can get back to the falls. We’re not staying a moment longer than we have to―their goodwill might run out if we push our luck.”

  Sive nodded. Her head ached and her whole body hurt. Why was she back in this miserable place? She groaned and sat up.

  “Where is he?”

  “Ae’fir? Not far, just checking the way back. There’s some high ground over there, he’s hoping to see above the trees. I’m afraid your Seventh Star isn’t much use by day.”

  “Aye, there is that,” Sive replied.

  Mevia tilted her head. “You don’t mind me asking, but your accent . . . are you from the north? I’ve met a few northerners in Imraldi, and your accent sounds similar.”

  “Aye, I’m from the top end, which is where we need to go if he’s to have a chance of completing his task.”

  “Opening the Banishment, I know. So, you’ve been to Inis Cealtra? How’ll we get there?” Mevia asked. “Is there a link between Inis Cealtra and Danu?” she added.

  “We can get there by land, but that would take forever. We need to go by sea. I hope he’s got a plan―I’m not sure he can do it himself. The dreamcaster, Eriu, was to play a vital role,” Sive replied.

  “Yes, I know, Ae’fir told me. He’s working on something though. He’s not said exactly, but I saw something of how magic works in the Screaming Mountains. There’s possibly a way, but I can’t see it.”

  They paused, listening to the breeze pass through the trees. The forest seemed less threatening now, almost like a normal forest. Sive shivered. She’d never trust this place, not after what she’d seen.

  She was about to speak when a twig snapped. They turned as one, Mevia brandishing her blade.

  A blond-haired boy stood among the trees, disheveled and expressionless.

  Sive blinked. “Cal?” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”

  Mevia looked at the boy, then at Sive. “You know him?”

  Sive nodded. “It’s a long story. Cal, it’s all right, she’s with me. Come here, are you hurt?”

  Cal hung back, looking at Eriu’s body on the forest floor. He made a small step forward. “I heard what you were saying. You looking to get to the coast?”

  Sive nodded. “We are.”

  “I’ve got to leave this place . . . those things burned my village. They killed my family as they’ve killed your friend.” He nodded at Eriu’s body. “I know I said I’d run away from the village. I know they were bastards, my parents . . . but they were the only kin I had, except for Shanir.”

  “Shanir?” Sive echoed, sensing Cal’s distress.

  Cal looked at them intently. “Yes, Shanir. My cousin. He works for the slavers out of Port Ross. He started as a cabin boy, but last I heard he was ship’s mate. If anyone can get you passage north, he can.”

  Sive looked at Mevia.

  Slavers?

  Sive shuddered. But if Cal could get them to Port Ross, well―that was a start.

  “Cal,
yes, if you can get us to Port Ross that would be a great help. But what about you? What will you do once you get there?”

  Cal shrugged. “Plenty of work in a port. I’m sure Shanir will give me some pointers.”

  “Who are you, boy?” Ae’fir’s voice sounded out from behind.

  Cal stiffened and turned to face Ae’fir. His hand went to his bow.

  “Don’t even think about it lad,” Ae’fir said, reading Cal’s intent. “I can have my blade at your neck in the time it would take you to ready your bow. Just relax and answer my question. We’re a little low on goodwill at the moment.”

  Cal looked at Sive and Mevia. “The name’s Cal. My family was killed in that village back there, you saw the smoke? I met Sive a couple of days ago, she was tired, in need of shelter, I helped her, me and my dogs―they’re gone now, those things got them . . . that’s all. Oh, and I can show you a way to the coast and Port Ross if you hadn’t already overheard that part.”

  Ae’fir nodded. “That’s good enough for me. If you want to join us, you’re welcome.”

  Cal shrugged. “Aye, I’m in.”

  Sive stretched out her hand to Cal. “It was meant to be, Cal, you’re with friends now.”

  Mevia nodded her agreement. She still hadn’t found out if there was a link between Danu and Inis Cealtra. She’d choose her moment and ask again when the time was right.

  Ae’fir helped Sive to her feet. “I’ve bearings on the Shattered Falls. Once we’re there, I’ll hand over to Cal―he can take us to Port Ross. From there, it’s anyone’s guess.”

  They set off and walked all morning and most of the afternoon. Ae’fir carried Eriu’s body across his shoulders. That night, they slept fitfully, taking watch in turns. The next morning dawned dim and misty. Cal climbed a tree to check their bearings. They emerged from the trees just before nightfall and felt fine spray on their skin. The roar of the Shattered Falls beckoned.