Night Ride of the Sidhe

by Shana O'Quinn

noticed rustling and snuffling in the dark brush beyond the road, and heard the braying of canines that were not the Cu Sith. The Faery dogs immediately pricked up their floppy ears and stood still and quiet. “What is that?” he whispered.

  “There are things that roam the wild at night,” Kanaidwen answered him softly. “Things that have no love for mortals or Sidhe.”

  “Let us be going,” Tirnen insisted, then bade the dogs to stay close. “Make no sudden noise or movements,” he instructed the old man, who was now stricken with increasing dread.

  The next fork in the road on the left was the little path that would lead him home, but there were things all around them, in front and behind, left and right, just out of sight. He could hear monstrous breathing and began seeing glowing yellow eyes peering balefully at them.

  “Dubu-Sidhe,” muttered the auburn-haired half-elf.

  “Come with me,” declared Kanaidwen, who with one hand pulled the startled man up onto the saddle in front of her. “Which way?”

  “The left-hand path, there,” he pointed. The white mare sped off in that direction, the other riders right behind Kanaidwen and her passenger. Padraic risked looking back and saw huge black hounds with red ears and feet bounding along the road, nearly as big as yearling cattle. Behind that, gaining ground, were terrifying cloaked riders on dark horses.

  He faced forward again, swallowing the growing knot of fear in his belly, to witness his yard bounding up towards them as the horse galloped. The half-elven woman pulled the steed to an abrupt stop. He turned to face her, memorizing her lovely face, every angle and curve of her features, for he doubted he would ever see any of the Sidhe folk again. “I name you Elf-friend,” she spoke, with the force of magick and ritual behind it. “May you have our blessings, you and your line.” She kissed his forehead in benediction.

  “Thank you,” he whispered back, then surprised her by threading his arms around her tiny waist in a tight embrace. It was the only way he knew how to express the joy and the memory he would carry to his deathbed. Holding her was like hugging a piece of hardened steel wrapped in velvet, and for a fleeting moment he wondered if all Elves were such strange beings. There was strength and power that belied her slim form. But no, she was part human, too: her kind eyes and rolling laugh were a testament to that.

  “Get inside,” she urged him. “Bar the door, and don’t come out. Don’t even look outside.”

  “What about you and Lord Tirnen and the others?”

  “Never you mind.”

  He dropped stiffly to the ground, fumbling with his keys. He ran to his doorstep as the Fae sped away on their magic horses like the wind. After steadying his shaking hands he opened the front door to his cottage and was stepping over the threshold when something grabbed his forearm and stopped him from moving.

  He twisted around to find himself in the grasp of a Fae, for her shape, eyes and ears proclaimed her so, but her skin was a deathly pallor and in her mouth were rows of sharp teeth. Her honey-colored hair was tied into many little braids all over her head, and she was clad in black armor and blood-colored cloak. She pulled him easily to her, and he caught the scent of decay and blood about her and tried to look away. She shook him as a dog does a rat. “Who did you meet on the road, Mohrtei? Who is out on a Hunt?”

  Padraic couldn’t get his mouth to work or his voice to sound, so she shook him again. “Where are they going, old man? If they are chasing the White Stag, a portal will open for us. Which way did they go, meat? Tell me!” The Dark-elves had been barred from their ancestral lands in Tir-na-Nog, and so were always searching for a way back, along with any excuse to destroy their hated cousins.

  “Dana preserve me!” the bard managed to croak. “Unhand me, demon!”

  The dark-elf squealed and did just that, as if her hand had been burned. Padraic scuttled inside his house and slammed the door, then barred it shut. He ran to every window, making sure they were all shuttered and secured. He heard the horrible Dubu-Sidhe howl and scream at him from his front yard, but she didn’t enter. She couldn’t enter, it seemed. His heart was still racing as he gazed around the room, looking for something he could use to defend himself. He ran and seized his old, trusty walking stick, and a silver candlestick that he’d had from his mother. She had been a medicine woman and had received many things of value for her services over the years. She also knew spells of protection.

  “You cannot enter here!” the old man cried in the Old Tongue. “I have been blessed by the Lady’s Daughter! I will protect the Good People any way I can.” He heard the voices of other Dubu-Sidhe, speaking in their own harsh tongue.

  Snarling and sniffing sounds came from all corners of the cottage outside, and the whining of enormous hounds could be discerned. Hellhounds. They devoured their enemies whole, and often began feeding before their prey was dead. Then he heard scratching and the snapping of tremendous jaws, as the evil ones sought a way inside. Padraic sank down to the floor, sobbing. “Go away, go away,” he groaned. “You...cannot enter here.”

  The last thing he remembered was hearing the pounding of hooves coming back up the path to his house and the shouts of the Light-elves. He recognized Tirnen’s loud, deep voice ordering the dark ones to be off, and heard the yelps and yells of the hellhounds and their masters, then he knew no more.

  Padraic opened his crusty eyes and sat up, only to find he had been on the cold floor all night. The cold had seeped into his very bones, he found when he slowly got to his feet. He also found he was still clutching his walking stick, then remembered why. Against his better judgement, he threw open his front door to be greeted with warm morning sunshine and a pleasant breeze.

  He discovered all around his house dried blood and bits of animal fur, but no bodies anywhere. Huge pawprints and hoofprints decorated the surrounding area, proof that there had been a skirmish in the night, but nothing else could be found.

  The bard remembered the soft lips of the Lady’s Daughter against his forehead and smiled. A song was already writing itself in his head. He hadn’t been this inspired in a good long time. He went back inside and immediately wrote a song dedicated to the Sacred Lady and her Children. Pieces of it would be lost, but others survived and were passed down through the ages, until dozens of generations later, Marianne ‘Mimi’ O’Connell, guitarist of the glam band Stellalune and bard in her own right, would recite them back to Kanaidwen, and fill the jaded, troubled half-elf with hope and joy.

  As they were intended to do.

  About the Author

  Shana O’Quinn lives in the Appalachias, far far removed from the real world. Which is likely why she lives in a world full of fantasy, history, comic books, zombies and elves. She is an artist, digital designer and author, and spends much of her time researching things like Viking sword designs, what a Roman banquet consisted of and the constant appearance of elves and elf-like creatures in nearly every culture around the world.

  Some of her favorite things include: heavy metal, stoner rock, cats, her boyfriend Ronni, drawing fanart of things few normal people have heard of, fantasy, horror films, being carnivorous, and reading entirely too much for one’s sanity.

  One day she plans to have an all-girl Black Sabbath tribute band. She gets to be Ozzy though.

  Lady of the Sidhe

  Damosel Imerra looks for her lost son Tirnen Halfelven, and finds more than expected in that he's now in the service of an undead wizard with a chip on his shoulder. This Necromancer wants nothing more than to live again to fulfill his mission of subjugating the world of Telamon and will destroy anything that stands in his path.

  Enter Imerra the Guardian and her band of unlikely companions that includes a hapless, smitten Druid, a Sorceress, a Dwarf-woman, and an Orc among others.

  Enter the world of Telamon, a world already ancient and full of creatures that no longer exist. This tale is the first of an epic series of tales and stories covering this amazing, vibrant world
long forgotten, where humans, or Mohrtei, are only one of a myriad sentient peoples inhabiting this post Ice Age time.

  This is the first of Ages of Telamon series.

  Secret Ones Volume 1

  A part of the Ages of Telamon series, this takes place in a 1970s that might have been and follows the megaband White Death, fronted by flamboyant elf Joe West. What develops is the resurgence of the dangerous Dark Elves, the Drow, as blood-drinking vampires bent on the destruction of the surviving Sidhe (the Elves) and the subjugation of humankind.

  And if that wasn't enough, werewolves under the dominion of a spirit that refuses to die appear. Terrible folklore comes to life in a real and frightening way. And that's just the beginning, because soon there will be a showdown between ancient foes and forgotten legends in a modern world totally unprepared for it.

  The world's saviors? Imerra Silverhair's descendants, an elf vocalist who refuses to take anything seriously, wizards, telepaths, and a guy that's been bitten by one of the vampires. Oh, joy.

  Secret Ones, Volume 2

  A book in the Ages of Telamon