She skirted the ruins of the Sea City on the Plains, where the few remaining buildings had dried to brittleness. Most of the structures had cracked open or collapsed into a burned-looking sludge. A few of the pastel-skinned folk her uncle had described to her milled about, weeping. She hurried on. There would be no welcome for her there.
She followed the great milk-white river through the Sinewed Forest. The trees seemed knobby and arthritic, crackling as they flexed in the wind. They bore no fruit. The distortions in the gravity field she expected did not manifest, though that might have been because her avatar had no true physical presence in the Realms.
None of the pig-birds her uncle had mentioned were in evidence. She smiled to herself as she considered how she would relay that fact to him. “Pigs might once have flown here,” she would say, “But not anymore.”
The mortal went on. The Sinewed Forest became ordinary woods, and the river ran clear. Soon it began to rain.
19. The Inn
The mortal’s avatar felt the rain as a series of tiny digital contacts, but she did not feel cold or wet from it. Still, appearances were important, so she tuned her clothing so that it would appear to be waterlogged. As an afterthought she conjured an umbrella, in order to justify the continued dryness of her hair.
“Oh me, oh my,” she said, knowing that she was being observed from concealment, “it’s really fucking wet out here.”
“Bedraggled,” said a bush, though it sounded less than certain of it.
“Beg pardon?” said the mortal. “I could swear I heard a bush talking to me.”
“You, madam, are bedraggled, if you don’t mind my saying it.”
She soon tired of the game. “Come out of there and show yourself,” she told the bush. It shook and divested itself of a yellow fox with two bushy tails.
“Madame,” said the fox, “you look in sore need of shelter. There is an inn near here with a sturdy roof and a blazing hearth-fire.”
“Then why the fuck are you hiding under a bush?” said the mortal. She made an impatient sound and said “Come on, let’s go find this inn of yours.”
The fox led her through the trees, skirting puddles and skipping over fallen boughs, until they did indeed come to a quaint, gabled building with a thatched roof and the glow of the promised hearth-fire visible through its windows.
“Splendid,” said the mortal, and started towards the door, kicking her way through the sucking mud underfoot.
The fox yelped and had to rush to get ahead of her. On the stoop it turned to the mortal with a reproving look, before standing up on its hindquarters and opening the door with its forepaws.
Once the mortal had crossed the threshold of the inn, a matronly creature in a dress, who stood barely three feet tall, bustled up to her. “Come inside, come inside, mortal girlie,” said the innkeeper. “Come stand by the hearth, before you take a chill.”
“I’m already inside,” replied the mortal. She stood there on the threshold and gazed around at the inn and the creatures who were lounging about there, eating or drinking or conversing or playing the fiddle.
“Show me your true selves,” she said, and the inhabitants of the inn were revealed to her as ferrets and polecats and stoats. The fox, who was halfway across the room, remained a fox—but it stopped where it was and turned to look at her over its shoulder.
“I, I…we can explain…” said the innkeeper, but the mortal would hear none of it.
“I already know this is a scam.” She put her hands on her hips. “My uncle let you off, when he came wise to you, but he’s a strange and horrible old man and I think perhaps you set him under some enchantment. I, on the other hand, am a suddenly very angry young woman and I will not allow this to continue.”
The weasel-folk cowered but they offered no more excuses. “Get out,” said the mortal. “Every one of you, if you value your lives.”
They did not need to be told a second time. The weasel-folk bolted for the door, streaming past her on both sides, squealing with fright.
The fox jogged after them, paused in the doorway again, and then disappeared over the threshold.
The mortal looked at the hearth fire, which had guttered low in the draft from the open door. She could fix that. “Burn,” she said, and the flames rose higher, and soon the walls and the floor and the benches were alight and crackling like tinder.
She stood a moment to survey her handiwork, and then turned and stomped her way back outside so she could watch the place come down.
It did not take long before the thatch upon the roof caught fire, and the glass windows shattered with a satisfyingly dramatic explosion.
“Come to me, fox,” said the mortal. “We are not done yet.”
The fox stepped out from behind a tree and came sauntering towards her—but it came on slowly, and with fear in its eyes. “I am here, mortal.”
“Fox, I would better understand your part in all of this.”
“I’m just a guide,” said the fox. “I guide people to the inn, and there the weasel-folk do as they will.”
“That’s a pretty sad existence,” said the mortal. “Hanging around here, waiting to lead unsuspecting mortals into a trap.”
The fox lowered its snout. “It was not always so.”
“Oh, indeed?”
“Once I went all about the Realms, and beyond. I travelled to the mortal worlds, guiding your folk among the Ways, helping them to find what they sought. But the world has changed, has it not? Now it is more difficult than ever to cross between the worlds, and few of your kind seek the quest among the Realms. I did not choose these circumstances, mortal. I would have the old days back if I could.”
“Time travels in one direction only,” said the mortal, wondering why she was wasting so much energy lecturing a non-player character. But perhaps the fox was a player, after all. Surely she was not the only real person awash in this virtuality?
“Not always,” said the fox. “But even here it is uncommon for time to reverse itself and I take your point.”
“You must adapt to the changed world,” said the mortal. “There can be few travellers here if there are no guides to show them the way. Seek them out, if you have the ability. Surely you will find that occupation more rewarding than this one.”
The fox regarded the remains of the inn, which smoked and sizzled in the continuing downpour. “You have not left me very much choice in the matter, have you?”
20. A Sorceress
The mortal made her way back to the river and followed it along until she found an iron canoe lying beached upon the riverbank. She pushed the canoe out into the water and climbed into it, taking up the sharp-edged iron paddle. The current did most of the work in bearing her downstream.
The trees thinned as she went, and the soil became dry and grey. The canoe passed out of the forest and into the cratered and barren territory that her uncle had described as the Ore-lands.
The Ore City came into sight. Spires and domes gleamed amidst clouds of steam, which were purged from the many foundries and forges at which the Ore-folk plied their trade.
The mortal drove the canoe aground with the paddle and climbed out. This, she assumed, was the same canoe her uncle had used. It seemed rude for her to leave it there, for it would be difficult for its rightful owner to drag it back upstream.
The mortal looked at the source logic beneath the canoe, and found that it only ever travelled along a single track—down to the city. The fox had said that time was sometimes mutable here—perhaps she could set a loop upon it, so that once the boat had reached the end of its journey, it would automatically reverse back up its set path until it was once more at its original coordinates.
The mortal committed the change and, with a smile on her face, watched the canoe retreat upstream, against the current as well as the arrow of time.
Even
had she access to the source code of her home world—or at least its user interface—the mortal would have found such a task more difficult there. In these physics-bereft Realms she could simply apply her logic to the objects around her, for the operating system gave little resistance. She supposed that made her some kind of sorceress. A sourceress. She smiled.
It was certainly a step up from being a code-monkey.
21. The Playwright
The massive iron gates of the Ore City stood open and a caravan of covered wagons was making a hasty exodus through them. The mortal stood aside to let them pass, but a figure in the last carriage called a sudden halt and jumped down from its vehicle.
The caller rushed over to her, bobbling its head and waving its hands in a vain attempt to contain its delight, its ragged black cape fluttering behind it. The mortal regarded it with suspicion, but it showed no obvious threat. It had beady eyes and a protuberant chin; a high forehead and an impossibly mobile pair of brows. “Hello! Hello!” it said.
“Hello, there! You are a mortal, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Oh, excellent. Most excellent!” It extended a hand towards her. “I am Nentril Revallo.”
“Um, hi.” She shook Revallo’s hand.
“Mortal, I have met others from your world, and I have found all of them to be quite distinct in their roles. What type of a mortal are you?”
She thought about it, puzzled by his question.
“The first of your fellows that I met was a scientist,” said Revallo. “The second was a magus. What, pray tell, are you?”
“I guess, in this place, you'd call me a player.”
Revallo clapped his hands. “How wonderful!” he said. “I myself am one of those.” He waited a beat for drama, before he leaned in and said: “In truth, I am the playwright—but I often tread the boards with my troupe, in some small role.”
“You like to be seen, do you?”
“It is true. I enjoy being recognized. I enjoy being called by name.”
The mortal looked at him through narrowed eyes. “I thought that was dangerous,” she said. “To be named, among the faerie folk.”
“But not so amongst your people, yes?” said the playwright. “A name offers many benefits, to a player. It may lead to a recurring role. It may lead to danger, you are correct, but one who is wise to the traps of Story may profit from joining his fate to such an adventure.”
“And you are such a one?”
The playwright bowed.
“Well, congratu-fuck-o-lations.”
Revallo tittered with delight. Did he realize she was being rude? Did he simply relish hearing the profanity? The mortal did not care enough to pursue the question. She opened her mouth to speak her goodbyes, but the playwright held out its hands and said: “I would hear your story, mortal, if you would care to share it.”
The mortal shook her head. “My story is dull,” she said. “I am boring and ordinary. That is why I am here, playing this game.”
The playwright's eyes glittered. “I am the playwright,” he said. “Let me be the judge of your story, be it dull or otherwise.”
The mortal shook her head. “I don't think so,” she replied. “My story is not for you.”
“I will make you shine,” said Revallo. “Like a hero for justice. Like a star in the firmament.”
The mortal shivered, though she did not know why. “I have never desired stardom,” she replied. “I just want to be entertained, for a little while.”
The playwright clutched at her sleeve. “You need not be truthful,” it wheedled. “You may lie to me. You may offer a story that you have stolen. I will be in your debt.”
The mortal turned to look at him. A faerie did not offer debt lightly. “And how would you repay this debt? I have already refused your offer of fame.”
“Sometimes, a sympathetic ear is reward enough,” said the playwright. “Sometimes, the act of telling of a story will lead to a revelation that would otherwise remain unknown. You may profit from the exercise as much as I, my friend.”
She pried his fingers from her garment. “I’m sorry, Mister Revallo. There are no revelations in my story. There is just a mortal life, with its meagre share of pleasures and its surfeit of pain and horror, and then, at its end, will be my death.”
“That is what makes the tale all the sweeter,” said the playwright. “The life of the fey folk is a fixed thing, a straight line without a necessary end. It is a ray. But the life of a mortal? Such a life may assume whatever shape it desires, because there is no force pulling it in a single direction.”
“And that is why you want my story,” replied the mortal. “You believe it will refract your own to some new course.”
“That is indeed so,” said the playwright.
“Well, you picked a bad day for it, Mister Revallo,” said the mortal. “Get the fuck out of here. I’m busy.”
“Alright,” huffed the playwright. “I shall trouble you no more. Enjoy the rest of your days, mortal woman. Just remember that your name could have lived beyond your death, if you had been more cooperative.”
The playwright walked back to its wagon with its chin held high and its cloak swishing limply behind it.
The mortal shrugged to herself as she turned her back on it and strode through the massive iron gates and into the City of the Ore-lands.
22. The Queen of the Ore-lands
The city streets were thronged with metal-clad people who rushed about clanking and clattering. The mortal wondered if they had been so heavily armed when her uncle had visited.
A sergeant with metal hair that gleamed like an oil-slick rainbow demanded to know her business. When the mortal asked to be taken before their Queen, he grunted and gestured for her to follow him. Thus escorted, she made her way through the steel-riven streets and into the chromed-metal palace at the centre of the city.
The mirror-plated throne-room was bustling with soldiers. Clearly, some urgent business was afoot. The sergeant stood at the mortal’s shoulder, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot impatiently while he waited for the Queen’s attention.
The Queen of the Ore-lands was tall and slender inside her suit of plain, battle-worn armour. Triangular steel teeth glittered through her cheeks, which had been peeled open and secured with wires. Spikes had been pushed through the flesh of her hands and protruded from between her knuckles. This did not appear to have any adverse effect on the function of her digits as she used them to test the soundness of a well-used sword.
The Queen of the Ore-lands did not look up when she addressed the mortal. “You have been granted audience.”
The mortal curtsied and said: “Majesty, I thank you for this—”
The Queen squinted down the length of the blade. “I am preparing to go to war,” she said. “I have no time for chitchat. Get to the point.”
“My uncle was here some time ago, and you rendered him assistance.”
“I do not recall,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands, sheathing the blade.
“He came seeking the most beautiful thing in all the worlds.”
The Queen paused. A smile caught her lips; then split them into a hideous grin. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I do remember, after all.” She extended her hands, fingers splayed. Attendants came to fit gauntlets over them. The plating locked perfectly over fingers and spikes alike.
“If I may, Majesty, I have some questions about him.”
“You may,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “If you’re quick about it.”
The mortal took a breath. “I don’t understand what it was about my uncle that drew your Majesty’s favour.”
The Queen of the Ore-lands strapped an articulated metal belt strung with knives about her waist. “He spoke with respect,” she said, “but he did not try to flatter me.”
“I see,”
the mortal said. “When my uncle was here, was he followed by the dog-man? Do you know anything about him?”
“Ah, the dog-man.” The Queen drew a hooked dagger from a sheath on her belt. “Like all true dogs, it was a mongrel. Its sire was a beast brought to the Realms by a mortal explorer; its dam was a fey creature that yet lives.” She replaced the dagger and drew another, straighter one.
“So…the dog-man was half mortal?”
“There is no such a thing as a half-mortal,” said the Queen. “Either one is a mortal, or one is not. The dog-man may have had a mortal beast in its ancestry, but it was as immortal and soulless as any other faerie creature.”
“Can your Majesty tell me anything about the magus?”
“There are many magi in the Realms,” said the Queen. “But I know the one you mean. He was a mortal scourge of a less discriminate kind than your uncle; one who deliberately set himself to mayhem wherever he went. He passed through my Realm on his travels, but my emissaries were able to turn him away without mischief.”
“And the dog-man killed him?”
“Yes,” said the Queen of the Ore-lands. “Though his dark tower yet stands.”
“There’s a dark tower?”
Seeking such a tower was a great and epic quest, and a quest was what she sought. In the absence of a dragon to slay, a princess to free, a talisman to assemble or a kingdom to win, this was the only candidate she had to choose from.
The Queen of the Ore-lands widened her stance so that her attendants could affix spurs to her ankles. “A mortal’s sorcery may persist beyond the death of the sorcerer, if that mortal was powerful enough…and the magus was powerful indeed.”
The Queen of the Ore-lands stomped each foot to ensure that her spurs were correctly attached and rolled her shoulders. An attendant handed her a poleaxe with a serrated blade on each end of the staff. “Enough questions. I must now do battle with the Tree Queen.”
Faerie Apocalypse Page 16
