Faerie Apocalypse

by Franks, Jason;

  The weapon felt weightless. The swordsbeast raised a parry, but her stroke sliced through its blade without resistance—and then all the way through its torso, cleaving it in two.

  She was surprised to see that the beast’s blood flowed as red as her own, although her uncle had many times described how faeries bled. She had never killed anything before. Not with this degree of realism.

  The mortal banished her avatar, leaving only a blinking cursor to stand vigil over the swordsbeast. She stayed there, bodiless, for a long time.

  Her uncle had not been in any swordfights during his own quest. He had never even had a sword. She would tell him about this, when she next saw him. She would tell him he’d been doing it wrong. She was proud of her victory, but something rankled.

  Her reception into this sandbox world—she assumed it was a sandbox—had been more hostile than she had expected. Certainly more hostile than her uncle’s low-key entrance. If this was how the rest of the quest was going to be, she wanted out. She was far too old for hack-slash dungeon crawling. Her uncle had claimed that her quest was for meaning—surely there was more to accomplish here than this?

  The mortal cast herself a new avatar, based upon the shape of the body she wore in the real world. She broadened its shoulders, shaved some of the softness from her belly. Added a couple of inches in height. Yeah, that was good. The mortal dressed her avatar in brown trousers, a baggy white tunic, and soft leather shoes. She drew its ears to points and widened its eyes, but quickly let her face snap back to its usual configuration. Pixie ears would fool no one.

  The mortal picked up one of the swordsbeast’s weapons. It was too big to fasten to her waist or to strap onto her back. Briefly, she considered enlarging her avatar, but that seemed unnecessary. She was infinitely strong; carrying the enormous blade in hand was no encumbrance, and she’d feel bad if she left the spoils of her first combat lying in the dirt.

  The mortal followed the river through the meadowlands and into the hills until she came upon the village. Dusk had given way to evening by the time she went down into the cusp where it nestled. She was hoping to find a bed for the night. Once her avatar was asleep she could abandon it in the sandbox and get back to work. She would return to Fairyland in her own time. If she got bored.

  10. The Village

  In the village marketplace, merchants were packing away their stalls all along the main thoroughfare. The folk ignored her as best they could, but they became timorous in their business when she approached. She supposed that her uncle’s past misdeeds were the cause of this.

  As the folk took down the market around her, she noticed that one stall remained: a purple tent pitched at the far end of the avenue. In front of it stood an A-frame sign that said, in English, Fortunes Told. The mortal brushed open the door-hangings and went inside, being careful not to damage the fabric with the swordsbeast’s weapon.

  The tent was also the fortune teller’s garment. The walls and floor rose to its neck and curled behind its head as an ornate collar. Its tresses were long and golden, piled on top of its head and secured in an enormous bun. Its eyes were big and bright and blue.

  The fortune teller held its fine-boned hands in front of it, fingertips pressed together, and said: “Fortunes read, fates foretold. Lay down your arms and enter, an you desire my services.”

  The mortal laid the sword near the entrance and knelt before the fortune teller. “What will a reading cost?”

  “For most, it costs silver or gold or goods or labour or magic,” said the fortune teller. “For you, the only cost will be the burden of the knowledge itself.”

  “Sounds like a bargain.”

  “It is no bargain, when one party gives and does not receive,” said the fortune teller. “Yet I fear that I have the better end of this transaction.”

  “Speak my dark fortune, then.” The mortal made her avatar smile. The notion that she had a story worth telling—dark or otherwise—was beginning to appeal to her.

  The fortune teller’s hands came apart and a small, silver globe rose from between its previously empty palms. The globe performed a single orbit around the mortal’s head, then the fortune teller’s. It divided into two smaller globes, which each sought one of the fortune teller’s eye sockets. When the fortune teller raised its head, its blue eyes had become silver.

  “You are descending into the darkening sky. Clouds froth about you, churning apart into nothing. The stars come down to look upon you, but when they are close enough to see you true, they take fright and flee.

  “But you are not alone, up there in the darkness. A shadow approaches; a vast thing, darker than the night, emptier than the void into which you have been cast.”

  The fortune teller closed its eyes and lowered its head.

  “That’s it?”

  “Aye.”

  “That was a lot more…abstract…than I had hoped.”

  “You have ventured only a symbolic presence into this world,” said the fortune teller, blinking the silver from its eyes. “It should come as no surprise that your future is told in similar terms.”

  The mortal thought about it some more. “Your fortune says that I’m going to die, and there will be no afterlife. I already knew that.”

  “Death is not the same as fate,” said the fortune teller. “To predict that a mortal is fated to die is no prediction at all.”

  “Lucky you waived your fee, then.”

  “Luck is a sector of fate,” said the fortune teller. “If you believe in such things.”

  “Now you’re just spinning shit,” the mortal replied. “Is there somewhere in town I can find a bed for tonight?”

  “You will find no welcome here.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Once before a mortal scourge walked among us, and he brought harm,” said the fortune teller.

  “You really believe I’m here to do you ill?”

  “I do not,” said the fortune teller, “But I would not go so far as to name that belief ‘knowledge’.”

  The mortal stood up. “Well, thanks for nothing.”

  “That is all that you deserve,” said the fortune teller.

  The mortal made her way down from the village and out into the foothills. Her virtual form needed neither sleep nor food nor water, though her true flesh did in the real world. She could not tell whether that flesh was hungry or thirsty, and that bothered her a little. She was also puzzled by the fact that nobody had disturbed her yet. Even if her colleagues hadn’t noticed that she was playing games at work, the system administrator should have. The corporation did not pay her to daydream in computer-generated fairylands.

  Perhaps she was hallucinating. Perhaps she had slipped into madness. That would be alright. If she suffered any ills on the corporation’s property, her employer was liable for them. Perhaps she would play for a few minutes more.

  She checked the time on her Head Up Display, hoping for a more sensible readout. This time, the data was presented in the Hindu-Arabic numerals she knew, but there were too many of them, and they were inappropriately punctuated.

  The mortal went on, following the river away from the town and out into the hills. Night had fallen, and the stars had come out to see what she was.

  11. The Council of

  the Magi

  In the Realm of the Magi, the passage of the sun across the sky was visibly articulated. The Warrior Queen could observe every moment elapse as she might watch a column of soldiers marching—but the seconds did not salute as they passed her.

  The City of the Magi had no walls, but the folk who dwelt there had raised gateways over every road that led into it. Those gates would only yield to those with craft enough to open them.

  Alone, the Warrior Queen stood before one such gateway: two massive columns cast from colourless rock and etched with symbols from a thousa
nd alphabets. “I am the Queen of Warriors, and I demand an audience with the Council of the Magi,” she said. “Open the fucking gates.”

  A hooded figure approached from the far side of the portal. It made a small motion with one burn-scarred hand and drew open the gates. “Come, Majesty,” it said, in a stentorian voice that belied its stature.

  The cowled figure took the Warrior Queen down into the City of the Magi, where the crystalline buildings were wrought from purest magic. Together they walked down the roadway…but they did not walk very far. Although they did not cross the threshold into any of the buildings, somehow the figure led her into the doorless chamber where the Council of the Magi held session.

  The chamber was vast and polyhedral. Every facet reflected the proceedings that occurred within in non-visual terms: as smell, or taste, or thermal energy, or whorls of relative time. Twelve councillors sat around a table that was shaped like a rimless wheel, with a spoke extending from the hub towards each of them. The throne at the end of a thirteenth spoke sat empty.

  The Warrior Queen could not tell which, if any, of the Councillors was the one who had transported her there.

  “Your Majesty,” said the Speaker for the Council. “How may the Council of Magi be of service to you?”

  “I seek the mortal magus,” said the Warrior Queen. “You know the one I mean.”

  The Councillors looked to the empty thirteenth place at the table. “Why do you seek him?”

  “I would avenge the death of my mother.”

  The Council was silent, but they turned their heads as though addressing each other; holding a discussion that the Warrior Queen could not otherwise perceive. Eventually, the Speaker said: “The magus is long dead. We keep his seat empty to ensure that he is content to remain thus.”

  “He was a member of the Council?”

  “He still is, though he is dead now, never once having sat in session with us.”

  “He is dead, but still you fear him?”

  “He was a mortal, your Majesty. It is not unknown for such creatures to return from their graves, if they feel themselves slighted.”

  “You’re afraid of dead mortals.”

  “Not usually,” said the Speaker. “But in this case, the Council finds it prudent to be wary.”

  “Surely an already-dead mortal cannot stand against the Council of the Magi, here in the Realms of the Land of the Faerie?” Weakness was not something the Warrior Queen could abide. Cowardice was not something she would tolerate.

  “Surely not,” said the Speaker. It hesitated. “But we are faerie; we have no skill with the necromantic arts. In these Realms, death is rare and final—as you know, Majesty.”

  “Tell me how he died.”

  “He was slain by the dog-man.”

  The Warrior Queen knew who the dog-man was. She knew the heritage and calibre of all warriors that were born in the Realms of the Land, though she did not know their fates.

  The Warrior Queen was silent for a time. “How can I be certain?”

  The Speaker looked upon her long enough and hard enough that its face became visible in the shadows of its cowl. “Vengeance is not your true end, is it, Majesty?”

  “Do you doubt my word?”

  “Your words are true,” said the Speaker, “But your intentions are not. You do not seek vengeance for the sake of honour or propriety or form; you seek it because you desire a story quest.”

  She could not deny it.

  “You are of the Faerie Folk, Majesty,” said the Speaker. “Questing is for mortals.”

  “I say otherwise.”

  “With all due respect…this quest of yours is a mistake. It is mistaken on several counts.”

  “I will have my quest,” she said. “And you will assist me as best you can.”

  “The Council refuses, with regret.”

  “No,” said the Warrior Queen. “You will not deny me. I am the highest ranking military officer in all the Land; I command it.”

  “We are not your soldiers.”

  “No,” said the Warrior Queen, “but I am still royalty, and I will have my way.”

  “These are not sufficient grounds for the Council to retract its decision.”

  “If you will not assist me in this small matter, the Council will have to pit itself against the finest and largest military force in all the Land—and all of those allied with us.”

  “You would perpetrate a war, across all of the Nations and Realms?”

  “Only a short one,” replied, the Warrior Queen. “My forces keep the peace amongst the Nations; how many of the Faerie Folk would side with you against me?”

  “The Council provides valuable governance in the use of sorcery and magic.”

  “The Nations would rather govern their own magic,” said the Warrior Queen.

  “We are more powerful than any mere Nation,” said the Speaker.

  “So am I,” said the Warrior Queen.

  Another silent discussion ensued amongst the Council. Finally they returned their attention to her.

  “The Council will assist you in the matter of your vengeance, but not directly,” said the Speaker.

  “Make me an offer.”

  “We will train you in the Art Magic so that you may proceed of your own accord.”

  “That will do.”

  “But be warned, Majesty—you are acting in error. You are not in possession of all the facts.”

  “I am a sovereign and a warrior and a questor,” she replied. “I will act as I see fit.”

  “As you wish, Majesty,” said the Speaker, drawing the cowl back down over its face. “As you will.”

  12. The Sage of the Fallen City

  Malo climbed from darkness into dream.

  He did not know when the transition was made, but after a time he found that he was swimming, not climbing. Soon, he found that he was no longer swimming, but crawling through some place dark and wet. Malo did not care where that place was; he cared only that it was on the way to the place he was headed. In the far distance was a beacon that shone darker than the absence of light. He knew that he would find his father there.

  Soon Malo rose up from his crawl. He was on his feet, breathing air that was hot and thick. Green ropes hung before him, obstructing his way. Somewhere distant, the beacon continued to shine, black with evil. Noise rang in his ears, though there was nothing to hear but his own harsh respiration.

  Malo stumbled over something he could not see. The darkness shattered and he crashed down into full consciousness.

  Malo was in a jungle. All around him stood vast, wet trees, hung about with lianas and thick with deep, wetter shadows. He rose slowly to his feet, which crunched and cracked on the ground. Malo was bleeding from dozens of small wounds. The jungle was bleeding, too: it had been slashed and torn by shards of black glass, which lay scattered across the jungle floor.

  He closed his eyes again, found where the emptiness lay, and struck out towards it. But the signal was fading. Malo had to concentrate hard to keep a sense of where it lay.

  After some hours, Malo came across a cage. Its bent and misshapen bars were rotting, rather than rusting, though they were made of a silver metal that still shone in the green-filtered sunlight. The cage contained the remains of a bent and twisted thing; little more of it than a skeleton and a few clumps of purple fur. A sliver of black glass as long as Malo’s forearm had impaled it through the chest.

  Seeking a weapon, Malo tried to prise one of the bars from the cage, but the metal dissolved in his hands. The skeleton collapsed into pieces.

  He stood for a while, regarding the pile of bones. Then, he took the straighter of the two femurs and struck it against his foot. It was good and weighty. He tried to bend it in his fists, but it would not give.

  “Hoy there! Ahoy!”

  A small
being, all hair and beard and spindly arms, came out from behind a jagged sheet of obsidian. Its beard was matted with long-dried blood and its arms were covered with scars and scratches. The being was barely shoulder high to Malo, but it somehow contrived to look down upon him. Perhaps it stood upon its own hubris. “I am the Sage of the Fallen City,” it said. “On what business do you interrupt my mourning?”

  “I seek my father,” said Malo.

  The Sage looked him up and down. “Your father,” it said. “Yes. I see him in you.”

  Malo stood over the Sage, the femur hanging from his hand.

  “I seek my father,” said Malo.

  “Your father passed this way many seasons ago,” said the Sage. “He cast my Sky City to ruins out of jealousy and spite.”

  Malo just stared at him.

  The Sage folded its arms and drew itself up to its four feet of height. “Help me escape from this jungle and I will ensure that you are well rewarded. I am a great sage, and I will again be as puissant as I am wise. My wealth will grow to match my renown.”

  “Reward,” Malo replied. He could no longer feel the pulse of the dark beacon. The sage’s conversation had driven it from his mind.

  “A fortune, you may be sure,” said the Sage. “Gold and power and wisdom and happiness, forever and for always, in this and any other Land.”

  Gone. The beacon was gone. Now he was truly lost.

  Panicked, Malo struck out with the femur. “No,” he said, repeating the word with each stroke until he lost his grasp of its assigned meaning. When his rage was spent, little more than bonemeal and paste remained of the Sage.

  Malo stalked through the Fallen City, kicking apart those panels that remained intact. Eventually he found what he sought: a sliver of black glass that was curved and sharp and thick. He strapped the sliver onto the femur and hefted his new sickle. The weapon made him proud. He had never made anything before.