She came in through the door, setting off its electronic chime. Tall and elegant, she had thick blond hair, framing a pale face with sea-gray eyes. Delicate pointed ears poked from the golden hair. As she walked toward him with a balletic grace, she said, “Jeremy Leclerc?” It was pure music; he could have listened to it forever.
“Snap out of it.” Shadowheart sent.
Jeremy recovered his voice. “Yes.”
“Thee are young for a Knight Templar.”
He swallowed. “Most people around here know me as graphic designer, but yes, I’m a Templar. How it is that one of the fair folk walks abroad in Charlotte, North Carolina?”
She laughed like a brook running over clean stones. “You know of the Renaissance Festival in Huntersville?”
“Sure,” he began, then stopped. “You’re kidding.”
She smiled. “Did thee not wonder why the humans would have come up with such longing for a period of hunger, pestilence and war?” “The idea was planted by we who still dwell among the humans. Look,” she twirled in her black leather and green velvet. “I can wear the traditional garb of my people and they put down any peculiarity to my being artistic.
“There’s a circuit of such events: Shakespeare revivals, Burning Man Festivals, Medieval Times Restaurants, Las Vegas, Indievision’s Halloween party … we get around.”
Jeremy shook his head. “What do the fair folk want of me?”
“The festivals have been good to us,” she said. “But of late a shadow has grown. A human has learned that some of us who travel with the festivals truly are of otherworld. He has been…shaking us down.”
Jeremy realized his mouth was hanging open. “May I get you something to drink?”
“Pure water,” she said.
Jeremy reached for the small refrigerator he kept in his studio and pulled out two bottles of Poland Springs. As he handed one to the elf, he said. “May I know your name?”
She sipped the drink. “Eldárwen Táralóm, but on my 1099 I use Tara Lom.”
“Very well, Tara. I sympathize with your problems, and there is no enmity between Templars and Elvenkind, though we have fought others of the Sidhe.” He shivered with remembrance of a deadly encounter with a Bain-Sidhe near South Park Mall last Christmas. “But my charge is to protect humans from supernatural evil. Not the other way around.”
“Jeremy,” she sang and his resolution wavered. “We cannot go to the human authorities. If you do not police this matter, then it may draw humans and us into conflict. Word reached us of the existence of a Templar in this unlikely place, and I slipped away to seek you.”
“Can’t the folk of Faerie dispose of him?”
“We cannot,” Tara said. “Orc, witch or goblin we could deal with. But he has invoked the old magic and raised a Norse goddess to protect him. She of the dark and light countenance, Hel by name and by homeland. Against an Elder God we are powerless. He gives her worship and,” Tara shuddered, “sacrifice. In return she protects him. He calls himself King of the Festival now, but I think he aims for wider dominion. None of the other folk know that I have come to the humans for help. My only ally is Copperfist the dwarf. The others are either taken and under guard or utterly cowed.”
“Who is this human?” Jeremy asked.
“His name is Derek Acre. He is aided by his cousin, Lester Shales.”
“Shadowheart?” he mindspoke, wanting his guardian’s advice. Does she speak the truth?
To Jeremy’s surprise, Shadowheart manifested, something she rarely did. His guardian angel appeared in her usual guise of a small blond girl, more cute than pretty, wearing a simple, blue dress.
“An angel walks with you?” Tara said in surprise. She bowed, her hands outstretched and the pure beautiful speech of the Eldar flew from her lips. Shadowheart spoke the same in return, then turned to him.
“What do you say?” he asked.
“I do not make your moral choices, Jeremy. I am guard and guide only.”
“Oh sure,” Jeremy said, uncapping his bottle of water. “Now that I want your opinion…”
Tara turned to Shadowheart. “Is he always like this?”
Shadowheart rolled her eyes.
*****
There were no other Templars closer than New York, but a few friends knew of his supernatural mission. Jeremy called Samantha Pelton, with whom he’d fought a Mandrake demon last year.
“You’re kidding,” she said, upon learning of the details.
“I could use your help,” he said.
“Count on it,” Samantha said. “Will I get to meet the elf babe and is she broad-minded?”
“Yes to the first and your guess is as good as mine on the second.”
His next call was to Sydney Tindall. Jeremy had rescued the Aussie expat from an unfortunate one-sided love affair with a local vampire, Debbie Middleton. Debbie enjoyed a truce with the forces of light, preferring to trade her legendary knowledge of sex for a nonfatal “nip and sip.” But Sydney had the soul of a poet and had fallen in love with his demonic one- night-stand. To avoid having to kill him for constantly interfering with her dinner plans, Debbie enlisted Jeremy’s help. Jeremy consoled the tall Aussie through a three-day bender and they’d been friends ever since.
“Sounds bonzer, mate,” Sydney said. “Will I get to meet the elf-babe?”
*****
Jeremy met Sydney and Samantha at the gates of the Festival early the next day. Despite the bright sunshine, it was mercifully cool for Halloween in North Carolina. Bagpipers skirled notes up to the blue of the sky. Red dust, stirred by hundreds of feet, hung over them. Revelers, many in Celtic or fantasy dress, wandered about.
Samantha waited in her usual jeans and T-shirt. Gold-rimmed glasses perched on her slender nose and her auburn-gold hair reached her shoulders. Sam’s small frame hid a surprising strength and she looked a decade younger then her true age.
Sydney, tall, gangly and blond, stood next to her in khakis, boots and blue shirt, carrying a leather satchel. He wore sunglasses but still squinted in the sunlight.
“Jeremy, honey,” Samantha said and kissed him. For a woman with no interest in men, she kissed well.
“Mate,” Syd said, pumping his hand.
“Glad you both could make it,” Jeremy smiled. “Last chance to back out.”
“Don’t be insulting,” Samantha slapped his shoulder.
“Besides,” Syd said, “who wants to live forever?”
“We do,” they all chorused.
“Where’s Shadowheart?” Samantha asked.
“Good question,” Jeremy answered. “Well, Angel?”
“I sense something,” came Shadowheart’s thought. “There are those here who will detect me if I manifest. For now I will ride in my crystal.”
“Her feet are sore,” Jeremy said aloud, “she wants to ride.”
The crystal thumped him on the chest.
Samantha pointed at his cloak, mail, boots and sword. “Nice get up.”
“One advantage to being a Templar,” he grimaced. “I have the stuff and it fits.”
They bought tickets and walked up to the gate. A Charlotte cop gave Jeremy’s ruby-hilted longsword a disapproving look. “It gets peace-tied,” the cop said, wrapping a piece of red ribbon about the weapon and scabbard. “No drawing it at the festival.”
Jeremy and his friends passed through the ornate faux city wall and left human law on the other side. Once inside the festival, a few girls with daring décolletages that could only yield serious sunburn greeted them. “Welcome masters and mistress. Enjoy the festival.”
Jeremy led them down the main street with its faux medieval buildings, past the harpists, the giant walking tree, and various musicians, jugglers and warriors. They entered a costume shop slightly back from the main street. Inside, Tara Lom waited for them. Samantha and Sydney needed a few seconds to recover from meeting the elf. Jeremy had to stop Syd from pulling out his journal and penning lines of poetry to her.
“Lat
er,” he insisted. “For now we need to deck these two out in costume so we can move about in the back areas.”
“Yes,” Tara said. She smiled at Samantha, who looked a little faint. “Come with me. Thee does not seem the delicate type, so no fair maiden. Nor are thee quite tall enough for an elf…” In minutes Samantha returned clad in green leathers and mail. Over her shoulder was a bow, with a quiver of fletched arrows
“An archer of the Rangers,” Tara presented.
“I’m a bit rusty,” Samantha said, “but I used to be a good hand with a bow.”
“Now for you,” she reached for Sydney’s arm. A blissful smile lit his face. “I see a gentle soul, not a warrior, save at need, a cleric and scribe perhaps.”
“Oh yes,” Sydney said. “Perhaps I can even write a sonnet about you.”
Samantha sighed. “Has he ever met a woman he hasn’t fallen in love with?”
Jeremy shrugged. “At least he doesn’t have commitment issues.”
Sydney returned clad in a long, flowing cowled robe that he looked down at dubiously.
“Now, it is time for you to seek the dwarf, Degn Copperfist,” Tara said. “His shop is down by the taffy store. Get word back to me when you are ready. Those of us that are free await your word to strike.”
It took a while to separate Sydney and Samantha from Tara, but eventually they made their way to dwarf’s shop. They passed the haunted dungeon on the way. Jeremy’s sharp eyes pierced the shadows, and he saw the actual goblins in the dark, safely away from the sun’s bright rays. He gritted his teeth at the abomination.
As they entered the dwarf’s armory, a thickset fellow with a beard and sharp eyes waved them in. “Greeting gentles. We take Master Card and Lady Visa both.” His thick Scottish accent sounded genuine.
Jeremy answered him in the ancient tongue of his kind.
The dwarf’s eyes widened. “So, Tara did find help among the humans.”
Jeremy gestured to Syd and Samantha “I’m armed, but the others need weapons.”
The dwarf pointed at the walls, racked with heavy swords and axes.
“Not this tourist crap,” Jeremy said. “These things are for actors to bang on each other, they’re thick as bricks.”
Copperfist roared in laughter and slapped his knee. “So, ye know true weapons. Come to the back.” They followed the dwarf past two more of his kind and into a back room. “Lass, you’re well equipped with a bow of Tara’s people. But you’ll need a decent knife. Something light…” He looked about.
Samantha walked over to the nearby anvil, picked up a heavy hammer and casually flipped it several times.
“Well maybe not so light,” Copperfist pulled down a short, broad blade of twenty inches length. “Not elf-pretty but it will take off an arm.”
He looked up at the lanky Aussie. “Do you have any experience with edged steel?”
“I had a Swiss army knife when I was twelve.”
The dwarf sighed. He pulled a six-foot, metal-shod staff from the wall and tossed it to Syd, who caught it awkwardly. Then he pulled a small metal war ax from the wall. “Keep it under your cassock in the back,” he grumbled. “If there’s trouble, hit things in the head with it.”
He handed Jeremy a beautiful white-hilted dagger. “I sense the magic in your sword and will ne’er touch that. But your armor leaves a lot to be desired.” Ten minutes later Jeremy stood in a new set of mixed plate and mail. Copperfist did the same for Samantha and Syd.
“Good luck to ye.” Copperfist said. “Best you slip out the back.”
Once outside, Syd turned to Jeremy. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m going to find this King Acre. You two stick together, try and find out what you can. Look for places that are guarded or where they won’t let you in. See if you can find where Tara’s Faerie friends are being held. Watch out if you go near the torture chamber. There are real goblins there.”
“Will you be all right alone?” Samantha asked.
Jeremy put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m never alone. Remember,” he tapped Shadowheart’s crystal and gold pendant. “Though I’d better tuck her away.” He placed the pendant under his mail.
“For god’s sake, be careful,” he told his two friends.
“Thought you were agnostic, mate?” Syd grinned. “Though what more proof could you want than your own guardian angel?”
“Even Doubting Thomas had nothing on you,” Shadowheart murmured
Jeremy grimaced. “Theology later, survival now.”
Jeremy wandered the festival taking in the scene. The fair was large and at first glance, innocent fun. But to Jeremy’s eyes, conditioned to see through both glamour and spell, there was much amiss.
He stopped at one show, where a ventriloquist dummy dressed as a pirate insulted the audience. While some howled at the ribald humor, others seemed hurt and slunk off. They had no idea how easily they were escaping. The dummy and his handler were one parasitic demon, siphoning off emotional energy from the victims of his japes.
Finally Jeremy saw the royal procession. At the head of it strode a florid, red-bearded man with crown, looking like a young Henry VIII. A trail of warriors with practical-looking weapons and armor accompanied him. Jeremy looked for guns but saw none. Not surprising with so many human police just outside the festival gate. The guards looked human though.
“Not,” Shadowheart whispered in his mind. His vision suddenly sharpened and he could see that most were not men at all but goblins, protected from the sun by a spell, though their tongues still lolled in their mouths as they panted, trying to keep to the shadows. One was a true man, dressed as a knight, probably Acre’s cousin, Shales
Behind the warriors were a train of beautiful girls, half in medieval costume and the others dressed as belly dancers. Over them all towered a woman. The right side of her imperious face was golden of skin tone and hair, beautiful if remote. The other side was blue and the hair dark gray, the skin drawn and still like that of a new corpse. Her right hand, bejeweled with rings and bracelets, hung from its sleeve, but the left was covered in a glove of the same Nordic blue as her dress and clutched a delicate, slender scepter. There was an unpleasant suggestion of excessive slenderness in the glove, as if it concealed not skin, but bone.
“Hel,” Shadowheart mind-whispered.
As if sensing Jeremy’s regard, Hel turned toward him. Jeremy dodged behind a troupe of jugglers. The procession continued and when it was nearly passed, Jeremy joined it. He pulled up the hood of his cloak to discourage conversation. Others followed the royal procession, mostly musicians and guests. A few looked admiringly at Jeremy’s gear.
A tattooed biker wearing a Viking helmet and toting a huge mug of beer grunted at him. “Nice sword. Gem’s a bit much though. Who made it?”
“Joseph of Arimathea,” Jeremy replied.
“Never heard of him,” the biker said. “Does he have a webpage?”
The procession wound its way into the huge royal tent near the fair entrance. King Acre’s booming laugh filled it. “Welcome all my fine subjects. Here is to you.” He swilled wine from a gold goblet. As people sat on bales of hay strewn about the floor, the goblin men took station behind his throne on a raised wooden stage. Shales, the master at arms, stood by his king. Hel mounted the dais slowly, being given wide berth by all, and sat on the King’s left.
Jeremy looked for a way to get closer without being conspicuous. The tent was large but very open. Something brushed his sleeve and he looked down to see a tiny woman with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes. She held a wreath of autumn flowers and wore gossamer wings. “A song fairy,” he muttered.
She nodded and held up her wreath, he touched it, so she could sing to him. “Follow me,” she sang softly, “friend of Tara. In a corner we shall be, unseen through the magic of Faerie.”
She placed her small warm hand in his and they walked around the tent to the back. Jeremy felt like he was out of phase with the world. Colors were more vibrant and the air seeme
d to shimmer. People took no notice of them and they sidestepped Acre’s minions. They found a quiet dark spot beside some unused bales.
If Hel was the Queen, she was not a jealous one as the King was fondling a particularly well-endowed belly dancer in such a way that a couple with a small child abruptly left the tent, towing their protesting offspring.
“Well,” King Acre said, burlesquing offense. “You know what I always say, if they can’t take a joke, to Hell with them.” He leered upward at his silent Queen.
“Good one your Majesty,” Shales bowed. Acre’s minions roared with laughter but more of the regular guests left. The smell of wine and smoking meat was heavy in the air. The belly dancers started a lascivious dance to the wild eastern music. One of the nearby guards snuffled, his head turning as if he were hunting for a scent. The song fairy tugged Jeremy’s hand urgently. He took the hint and they slipped out of the tent. Once outside he smiled at the song fairy and put a twenty in her purse, despite her raised hand. It was always lucky to be generous to the Sidhe and they had bills too.
He found Sydney and Samantha near a stage where a man dressed as a giant chicken entertained a crowd. Sydney sported a fresh black eye and bruises.
“What happened? Are you all right?”
“No worries, mate,” Syd replied though his voice was shaky. “I found myself tangling with a couple of drongos back by the animal cages. They got a big croc back there. Nasty bugger. I was investigating what looked like a human leg bone there when two of them tried to put the rough on me. I managed to get away.” He shook his staff. “Gave one a set of sore nuts.”
Jeremy looked at Samantha.
“The captured Fair folk are in the dungeon, all right,” she said grimly. “And Jeremy, they don’t look good. We have to do something soon.”
“Wait here,” Jeremy said. He walked apart from his two friends and pulled his mobile. A voice answered on the third ring. “Yes, Barbara. It’s Jeremy. I need Cruzar at the Renaissance Festival in Mooresville. Money’s no object. Get him on a trailer and get here as soon as you can. Call me on my mobile when you arrive. Right.”
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