Faerie Apocalypse

by Franks, Jason;

  They joined the back of a line of other folk seeking admission to the performance. The dog-man was so excited that it could not remain in its place. It kept darting away to try to find a new vantage of the amphitheatre, or the queue, or perhaps overhear something about the performance. Then it would return to the magus’ side and wait, fidgeting and panting, until it could wait no more and had to dart away again.

  “You see a candy bar?” asked the magus.

  “A what?” said the dog-man, keen for some service to perform.

  “A place that sells snacks,” said the magus. “Popcorn, chocolate…that kinda stuff.”

  The dog-man shook its head. “I could fetch you some squirrels,” it said. “Or perhaps a rabbit, if you are hungry.”

  “Maybe another time,” said the magus. “What I could really use is a beer.”

  At the head of the queue, a long-armed creature wearing a rolled up conical hat sat behind a stone slab. “Admission is one two coin each,” said the cashier, holding out a metal jar, which it shook to indicate what they should do with the coins.

  “What kind of coins?” said the magus.

  “Whatever kind you carry in your pocket.”

  The magus turned over his hand and revealed four gold coins. “I do not carry them in my pockets,” he said. “But I hope these will suffice?”

  “No!” A rangy being with a protuberant chin and beady, intelligent eyes came rushing up, a black cape fluttering behind it. It pushed the cashier’s pot away from the magus.

  “The punters must pay their way, Revallo,” said the cashier. One of its ears, which was long and pointed and hairy, twitched out from underneath its cap. “How else are we to eat?”

  The playwright kept its eyes fixed on the magus. “You are no punter, are you?” he said. “You are a mortal, a-questing in these Realms.”

  “I just come to see the show,” said the magus.

  “And see it you shall!” declared the playwright, reaching out and folding the magus’ hand closed upon the four one-dollar coins he had offered. “But we will take no payment from you here.”

  “Well, isn’t that generous of ya,” said the magus.

  “It’s a trap, master,” said the dog-man. “Agree to no bargain before you have asked the price.” It turned to the playwright, hackles raised, and grabbed the playwright by its collar. “What will you have from my master in another place, that you will not take his gold here?”

  “That’s no gold,” said the playwright, wrenching himself free of the dog-man’s grip. “Not if I am any judge. What I desire is something far more valuable: I want his stories.”

  The magus considered. “I’m not much of a raconteur,” he replied.

  “You are something even better,” said the playwright. “You are a source of stories. You just tell me the events—I will find the drama in them.”

  “Alright,” said the magus. “Two stories—one for my admission, one for the dog’s.”

  “Three,” said the playwright. “Because I know you did not come here to watch the show, and I know you desire something else from me.”

  “Alight,” said the magus. “It’s a deal.”

  The playwright shook his hand with far too much enthusiasm. “Enjoy the show, my mortal friend. We will meet afterwards to complete our business.”

  “I’m not your friend,” said the magus, to the playwright’s retreating back.

  The magus and the dog-man sat at the back of the amphitheatre, but the view down to the stage was excellent. The players voices carried to them without difficulty, and the moon above provided a spotlight that tracked the action across the rickety boards.

  The magus had not expected the show to be an anthology, but there were two supporting dramas before the main feature.

  The first was a slapstick called Thomas and Jeremiah. It was a pair of rival homunculi—one fashioned into the shape of a cat, the other a mouse—who caused havoc in the house of their ever-absent master. The magus quite enjoyed it, but it was over very quickly.

  The second was a situation comedy called Different Folks. It was about a pair of mortal children who were adopted by a Faerie noble and brought to live in his tower. The children’s poor comprehension of the customs of the Land was supposed to provide humour, but the magus did not understand the jokes which the rest of the audience found uproarious. The noble concluded the episode by lecturing the children about the danger of traveling about the Realms without a guardian.

  The third play was called The Day the Realms Stood Still. It was about a mortal who came to the Land aboard a falling star. This frightened the monarch of the Realm in which he had set down and she set her army upon him, but the mortal was protected by a demon who destroyed her forces. The mortal wandered the Land, making friends and enemies alike until finally he was tricked and slain by the monarch’s agents.

  But the mortal possessed a soul, unlike the denizens of the Realms, and the demon brought him back to deliver a warning to the Folk: let mortals be about their business unmolested, or the demon would summon others of its kind, who would burn the Realms to a cinder.

  At the end of the play, Nentril Revallo descended upon the magus, his fingers clutching with eagerness and his black cloak billowing like the wings of some great carrion bird.

  Revallo herded the magus and the dog-man from the amphitheatre into a ring of covered wagons, where a great fire blazed. The players they had seen strutting upon the stage were there, gossiping and bickering and carousing in celebration of the night’s performance, which by consensus seemed to have gone well. When they saw the playwright approaching with his two companions, however, they fell silent and retreated back into their accommodations.

  “Pay them no mind, no mind at all,” said the playwright. “They are weary from the night’s exertions.”

  “And they fear my master’s presence,” said the dog-man.

  “Well, perhaps,” said the playwright. “He is not the first mortal they have known.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said the magus. “Tell me about this other bloke.”

  Revallo waggled a finger. “Oh no,” he said. “First you must repay my earlier generosity.”

  Even depleted as he was, the magus had little doubt that he could destroy the entire encampment. The dog-man looked at him, the flames from the firepit reflected in its eyes, and he could tell that it was ready to fight if he so commanded it. But the magus was curious, and the playwright had answers.

  The playwright produced a wineskin and two stemless glasses. “May I pour you a drink?”

  “Yeah, why not,” said the magus. He was not much of a wine drinker, but then, he was never one to turn down free booze.

  Revallo poured the two glasses and proposed a toast, but the magus had already consumed most of his drink. The playwright toasted the night by himself and the dog-man barked its amusement.

  “Alright,” said the magus. “What stories would you like?”

  “Your own, of course, said the playwright. “You are obviously a man of power. Your story must be filled with adventure and marvels and wondrous deeds and, if I may be so bold, no little amount of darkness.”

  The magus looked away. He thought about his childhood, and his schooling, and his wandering. He thought about his brief time in the army, and his time in the gangs, and his time in prison. He thought his awakening to magic, and his conflict with the Conclave. But mostly he thought about his father, and again he considered destroying the place.

  When Revallo saw his face, he raised his hands and leaned away. “You would be a hero. Everyone would know of your bravery and your power—”

  “I’m not any kind of hero,” said the magus, “and you’re a fool if you think otherwise. My story is a horror show. Nobody wants want to hear all that.”

  “You might be surprised,” said the playwright.

  “I doubt
it,” replied the magus. “Those stories you put on tonight—I know them all. They’re what people want. The same, happy bullshit, again and again.”

  “That is why I want your story,” said the playwright. “So I may give them something new.”

  “Are you sure?” said the magus. “The show you put on tonight—those are all stories from my world. You nicked them off that other mortal.”

  “He gave them to me,” said the playwright. “We were friends, once.”

  “I bet he thought so,” said the magus. “But you were just a thief, weren’t you?”

  The playwright’s eyes grew cold. “They were not his stories, in the first place,” it said. “In any case, stories are wherever you find them. The art is all in the telling.”

  “I guess that’s why you’re so keen to steal some new ones,” said the magus.

  “I am waiting for what I am owed, mortal magus,” said the playwright. “If you will not give me your own then you must give me someone else’s.”

  The dog-man put his hand on the pommel of his cutlass, but the magus just laughed and pushed the hair from his face. “I’m just joking with ya,” he said, to the playwright. “Pour me some more wine and I’ll tell you some fucken stories.”

  The playwright inclined its head. “That would be most kind of you,” it said, pouring another two glasses.

  The magus took a long draught from his glass. “And then,” he said, smacking his lips, “If you don’t tell me what I want to know about this other mortal, I’m going to burn you and your players and this entire goddamned amphitheatre to a cinder.”

  “If there is one thing you can be sure about me,” said the playwright, “It’s that I tell a good story. I only hope that you can live up to your end of the deal.”

  “Well,” said the magus, “First thing you have to understand is the stories this other mortal gave you are rubbish.” He spat on the ground. “Sci fi bullshit. Men in rubber suits and cardboard space ships? No fucken way.”

  “You prefer a different genre,” said Revallo, his eyes alight with greed.

  “Abso-fucken-lutely,” said the magus. “The only real fucken stories you need to know are Westerns.”

  He went on to describe two of his favourites, quoting lines in imitation of the various actors, making sound effects with his mouth for the horses and explosions and gunplay. When he was done, the magus sat back and folded his arms. “What do you think?”

  Revallo had tears in his eyes and a smile on his face more genuine than anything the magus had seen on the playwright’s stage. “I think you have delivered admirably,” said the playwright. “Now ask me whatever questions you would.”

  “Tell me about this other mortal,” said the magus.

  Revallo looked up at the skies and closed his eyes. He cleared his throat and his sinuses, inhaled deeply, and then began to speak, in a voice that was deeper and plumier than the one he employed for conversation:

  “Times were harder, in the days when I met the mortal. My troupe was a ragged bunch, and our productions were just as threadbare. We had taken up with a group of wandering Tinker Folk, for there is some protection in numbers.”

  “You don’t have to tell it fancy,” said the magus. “Just tell me about this mortal.”

  “The mortal came here from the mortal realm, seeking employment for his mortal skills.”

  “A scientist,” said the magus.

  “His name was Duncan.”

  “Duncan,” repeated the magus.

  “Just so. But there is no place for such as Duncan in this Land. That is how we came to find him, wandering the hills, delirious and dying for lack of nutrition. We took him in, and tended to his health…”

  “The tinkers did, you mean,” said the magus, who felt he had the playwright’s measure.

  The playwright did not appreciate being interrupted. “The tinkers fed him and tended to him, aye, but Duncan was also stricken with a malaise of the spirit. I was the one who helped him through that.”

  “Don’t care,” said the magus. “I’m not a fucken shrink. What happened next?”

  “The Tinker Folk are seldom welcome anywhere they put down stakes. Soon after the mortal joined us, the Tree Queen took particular umbrage at our presence and sent a war party to exterminate us. The very woods marched upon us, then; the foliage bristling with anger; tree trunks creaking with fury…”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said the magus. “I told you, you don’t have to make it fancy. What did you do?”

  “We, the players, had been preparing some new material, and we had recently found an engagement in the court of a Queen,” said the playwright. “We are not warriors, any more than the tinkers.”

  “You ran away.”

  “Aye, and the tinkers would have, too,” said the playwright, “But Duncan persuaded them otherwise.”

  “He had some tricks up his sleeve, eh?”

  “The mortal orchestrated the Tinkers’ defence, and they defeated the Tree Queen’s forces…but the cost was high.

  “They had won a battle, but they could not win a war, even with the mortal’s terrible weapons, for the Tinkers’ numbers have always been few. They retreated into the mountains, and they have remained there ever since.”

  “So the Tinker Folk no longer travel the Realms?”

  “The Tinker Folk are no more,” said the playwright. “Duncan’s power has perverted them into something other. Their traditions are gone—their customs, their foods, their music. Now they are but slaves in the mortal’s machine kingdom.”

  “Where is this kingdom?” said the magus.

  The Playwright turned and pointed, and the moon shone a helpful beam to show the magus where to go. “You will find Duncan and his territory on the far side of the mountains, where the river winds down into the Ore-Lands.”

  The magus looked around for the dog-man. “Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll leave at first light, unless I’m hung over. In which case we’ll leave whenever I fucken feel like it.”

  “But first, you owe me another story,” said Revallo.

  “Alright,” he said. “This one is about the same guy as the other two.”

  “The gunfighter?” said the playwright. “Does he have a name?”

  “Well, they call him different things in each story, but you never really do get his name,” said the magus.

  “Go on,” said the Playwright. The magus was happy to oblige.

  In the end, the magus rose at noon. The dog-man was already awake, and he found it sitting beside him, watching over him where he lay by the ashes of the bonfire.

  The troupe was in the midst of breaking camp, so there was no breakfast to be had and there was no point in tarrying.

  When the playwright saw them making preparations, he approached them with a dignity he had not shown the night before.

  “Not now, writer-man,” said the magus. “My head feels like a battalion of marines took a shit in it.”

  “I just wanted to say goodbye,” said the playwright, “and to make you one final offer.”

  “Just so long as it means you’ll stop talking,” said the magus.

  “Once your business with my old friend Duncan is completed, if you should reconsider my offer, I would still like to know your story. Come and see me at my theatre in the City of the Ore-Lands and I’ll make a hero of you yet.”

  “Never been a one for the theatre,” said the magus. “But if you want to give me something, I’ll have some more of that wine, if you got any.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Revallo. He produced a skin from under his cape. “Let me just fetch some clean glasses, and we’ll toast to the success of your current enterprise.”

  “Nah mate,” said the magus. “I’ll just take the bottle.”

  8. The Queen of

  the Mountains

  They flew
all through the day, heading in the direction the playwright had indicated, but the distance was greater than the magus had reckoned. All too soon the setting sun had bloodied the snow-covered peaks, and the magus grew wary of his exertions.

  The magus and the dog-man alit on the shadowed western face of one of the smaller mountains, where the wind was less.

  “This is territory of the Queen of the Mountains,” said the dog-man. “And she is poorly disposed towards trespassers.”

  “What does she care if we camp here for a night?” asked the magus, rubbing an aching spot in his neck.

  “Would you permit itinerant travellers to camp in your home?” said the dog-man.

  “It’s just a fucken mountain. I don’t see so much as a mud hut, much less a palace.”

  “The mountains themselves are palace to this Queen,” said the dog-man.

  The snow was calf-deep, and the wind was bitter, so the magus laid a cantrip to warm himself and the dog-man. They tramped along the slope while the twilight waned, looking for a protected place to pitch their tent.

  “Fucken mountains. Fucken snow,” said the magus.

  “Do they not have such things in your mortal world?” asked the dog-man, surprised to consider the notion.

  “Oh, we have both of them,” said the magus, “But the place where I’m from is all hot wind and sand.”

  The dog-man made to reply, but instead it fell into a crouch and drew its cutlass. The magus stopped in his tracks, surprised to discover that they had been surrounded by a contingent of warriors.

  It was not easy to discern the warriors in the darkness, for they seemed to be made of the very rock from which the mountain grew. Twelve feet tall and armoured with quartz plates, each of them was armed with weapons made from some strange metal that was black and without lustre.

  “Dog,” said the magus, “How in the name of fuck did these gigantic bastards manage to sneak up on us without you noticing?”

  “This is their territory,” said the dog-man. “They are not as distinct from it as you might expect, and thus they have no need for stealth.”