The Shattered Mirror (Winter's Blight Book 4)

by M. C. Aquila

  “Right.”

  Rubbing her chin thoughtfully, Alvey said, “Whichever steed you ride, you shan’t fall off unless it is an error on your part. Your steed will not let you fall otherwise, even while flying.”

  “Flying?” The word came out of Iain’s mouth, strangled. “What kind of error do you mean? Like forgetting to hold on, yeah?”

  “If you doubt yourself, even for a moment, you are liable to slide off. Your mind will want to rebel against what you see, but you must remain calm.”

  As Alvey went over the various types of steeds he would be able to choose from, Iain half listened while he glanced around anxiously. Not seeing the person he was searching for, Iain said, “Er, I suppose Deirdre’s still having lessons with her father, isn’t she? I wanted to… I wanted her to see me off.”

  I wanted to tell her I won’t fail. Not when she’s depending on me succeeding.

  “Aye, she is still in lessons.”

  Sensing it was time to prepare to leave, the Noble faeries behind them growing restless and excited, hollering and laughing, Iain took a deep breath and turned back to his brother and the half elf.

  While he desperately wanted to hug his brother, when he turned to do so, James uncertainly held out his hand to shake instead, as he had done before. Iain supposed his little brother thought he was too grown-up for hugs.

  “Wish me good luck, yeah?” Iain said, shaking his hand.

  Slowly James reached up and untied the scarf from around his neck. Then, after instructing Iain to hold out his arm, James folded the colorful floral scarf into a strip and tied it around his brother’s wrist. “This has brought me a lot of good luck so far,” James said. “If you start to doubt yourself, just remember that I—um, just look at the scarf.”

  Holding up his hand and examining the scarf tied around his wrist, Iain smiled, feeling more confident already. “Thank you.”

  “When you get back”—James spoke up as Iain turned to leave—“you’ll tell me all about it, won’t you? It’s just—you’ll be one of the few humans to ever participate in the Wild Hunt.”

  “And you, James, will be one of the first to ever record it.”

  James beamed at him, and that was all Iain needed to see to keep walking toward the group of Noble faeries with his head held high.

  Past the bonfire and into the woods a little farther, the Noble faeries were gathering around their steeds—most of them already astride. There were deer—both stags and does—as well as a few horses. Iain’s mouth fell open at the sight of the animals all in the same place, how calm and focused they were, seemingly tame yet still retaining the wildness in their eyes. Roshan mounted a large white stag, and in the growing darkness of night, the flank of the creature looked like a pool of silver moonlight in the forest.

  Iain approached, going completely unnoticed by the faeries on their beasts as he slid through the crowd—a few of the animals and their riders jolted forward without warning, and Iain thought for a second that he might be trampled.

  As he went along, Iain felt something tug on his hair. Turning, he came face-to-face with a horse, whose neck was stretched out, lips raised and teeth exposed to nibble on his hair. The horse was black with splashes of white on its belly, with a long, wild, wavy mane and tail, with feather on its strong, muscular legs. He recognized the breed as an Irish cob. Laughing in surprise, Iain reached out and stroked the horse’s velvety nose.

  “Of course the least graceful animal here would pick me. But I’m not dignified either, yeah?” Iain said, smiling. The stallion nudged Iain’s hand with his nose, his lips and tongue going after the salt on his sweaty palm.

  The horse was unclaimed but already saddled with a beautifully crafted brown leather saddle and reins embossed with autumn leaves and acorns. After a few tries, Iain managed to mount the horse, and the moment he was situated comfortably, as if sensing his place in the ranking, the horse walked him down to near the end of the line. Nikias, dressed in deep blue with silver armor and atop a brown stag, passed him and glared at Iain.

  “A peasant’s weapon and a peasant’s horse…,” Nikias sneered. “What does that make you?”

  “A peasant, I’m guessing?” Iain grabbed his two-headed axe from his belt, brandishing it.

  The faery blinked, clearly not expecting his answer. “Well, yes. I suppose.” He went onward, shooting Iain one last look, clearly miffed he hadn’t managed to rile him up.

  As the animals moved forward to the barrier, Iain focused on the breathing, pulsing body of the animal under him and the impact of the animal’s strong steps on the ground.

  The forest fell still and quiet in the moments before Roshan raised his staff, lit the end on fire with his magic, and sent an arc of orange flame into the sky. The Summer Prince took off into the night in an impossibly swift flash of fire. Iain barely had time to brace himself before his horse, and all the other steeds around him, raced after the prince.

  The wind was a torrent in Iain’s ears, his eyes watering from the force of it. Trees flashed by him in a blur, the light of Roshan’s fire the only steady thing he could focus on immediately ahead of him. Yet he did not feel like he would fall off, even as the wind railed against him. There was a cacophony of sound as all the animals raced through the forest beside and in front of him, faery voices shouting and whooping with glee.

  They were approaching the barrier where an opening formed, rimmed with blue flame, as Roshan went through on his stag. The cold night air outside the barrier hit them like a wave of winter as they thundered across the ground and out of the stone circle. When Roshan lowered his flaming torch to the earth, the frost melted from the heat and the dying grass sprouted back to life in a flash of green, spreading beneath them as they rode.

  This is fine. I’m fine. I’m all right. This isn’t so bad… so far.

  Over the wind, the baying of the Unseelie hounds sounded in the darkness, fiercer than ever. Hunkering low, tightening his legs against the horse’s sides, Iain kept one hand on the saddle while he brandished the ax in the other and clenched his teeth. The Wild Hunt thundered into the valley, not even kicking up dirt or rocks in their wake, toward the pack of black hounds that were darting like shadows in the distance.

  Around him, in a blur, the faeries took up arms, and Roshan sent an arc of flame toward the pack, taking out five or more of them with one powerful blow. Shadows and the bodies of the hounds passed by Iain’s horse in a dizzying flash before he could even think. An arrow went clean through one of the hound’s eyes, and it fell limp and turned to ash on the ground.

  Turning to see who had shot it, Iain gaped to see Cardea, dressed in midnight blue and silver with her long hair in a tight braid, astride a great brown bear, and her silver bow was pulled taut with another arrow. Iain laughed in amazement, unable to do anything else at the sight of someone riding a bear. Then, turning his gaze to the ground, Iain focused on the fight.

  One of the hounds lurched at Iain’s horse with a howl, teeth bared. Steeling himself, Iain loosened his foothold in one of the stirrups and, holding on to the saddle, slid sideways a little toward the ground. With a growl, he swung his axe and sliced through one hound and then another and another—hot blood spattered the horse’s hide and droplets landed on Iain’s face.

  Then, with one strike, he neatly beheaded another hound as it leaped up to bite his throat. The hound’s head flew behind him in the wind as he slashed with his axe in an arc. “Heads up!” Iain called in warning.

  Turning, he watched in detached horror as it soared over a few faeries’ heads and struck Nikias square in the chest with a sickening, mushy splat before bouncing off his forehead. The faery cried out in disgust, spat Unseelie hound blood from his mouth, and bared his teeth in a snarl toward Iain.

  To Iain’s surprise and wonderment, the rest of the Fae troop cheered and laughed, especially Cardea. Roshan twisted easily in his seat to beam at Iain, his voice clear and strong against the noise as he said, “My guest, Iain Callaghan, has inv
ented a fun new game for us!”

  “And he said ‘heads up!’” One of the faeries to his right chimed in. “How clever!”

  Pulling up around her brother on her bear, Cardea added with a musical, teasing chuckle, “Toss any more heads my way, and I shall guide them with the wind right to my brother!” Her bear roared as if in agreement. Nikias scowled and scolded her.

  Iain hid a smile, thinking the faeries were not so bad—they were actually quite likable. The hounds’ corpses were behind them now. Between Nikias with his sword, Cardea with her arrows, and Roshan with fire, the monsters were all wiped out.

  “We are coming upon the military encampment!” Roshan called as they galloped past a wide blue lake that glittered in the moonlight. The sight of the encampment, the scale of it, turned Iain’s blood icy. The thousands of military tents, hundreds of trucks, and a small army of tanks were darkened and still, sitting like beasts waiting in the forest. “We shall pass over them. I will sense any of Deirdre’s magic if it is there.”

  Iain was so focused on the task at hand that his mind had ignored the “pass over” part, so he was momentarily stunned as Roshan’s stag lifted off the ground in a graceful jump and did not come down. Iain held his legs tight to his horse, putting his ax away so he could grab the horse’s mane for support, and focused on the flame of Roshan’s Fire Magic as his horse followed into the open sky.

  Panic filled him for one horrifying moment, but before Iain could doubt himself, the amulet shone like a reflection under the water, cool and soothing. Calm washed over him, and he straightened in the saddle.

  “That’s it—that’s the truck where they keep the machine!” Iain called out, pointing to the largest truck in the center of the cluster of vehicles with the odd metal doors below them, looking like a toy from this distance.

  Roshan directed the Wild Hunt to ride directly over it. Iain held his breath, waiting for the Summer Prince to announce what he sensed inside, what they would do about it, and how they would stop the Iron Guard. Instead, they kept going, gliding beyond the encampment completely and over the trees.

  “Roshan—” Iain’s heart sank.

  “I sensed no trace of Deirdre’s magic in that truck nor in the machine inside.” The faery prince turned to look at Iain, his fire-like gaze burning through him.

  “I did not sense anything either, my prince!” Nikias called. “The human was clearly mistaken with his information, if not lying. It sounded like a child’s tale to begin with. The notions of a mere boy.”

  But there was no suspicion in Roshan’s look—at least not toward Iain. The Summer Prince looked at him, offering an encouraging smile, saying, “But our hunt is not over this night! There are more monsters to slay before the dawn. We ride onward!”

  Iain adjusted to flying, though there were moments when brief panic rattled through him. They passed close over a farm, and the faeries hollered with excitement, pointing to sheep in pens like it was the neatest thing they’d ever seen.

  The Irish cob let out a high whinny that nearly stopped Iain’s heart in alarm, and while he gave it a pat on the neck, unsure what it meant, all the other horses in the hunt vocalized in unison. As they passed like a shadow over the barn, there was a chorus of faint whinnying cries.

  Cardea laughed. “The humans’ horses want to race with us!” With a flourish, the faery sent a gust of wind through the barn, and the fences and all the gates in the stalls opened with a bang. Five horses raced from the barn in a wild frenzy, chasing the Wild Hunt as they burst into the field.

  All the faeries laughed. One of them was holding a stolen sheep under his large green arm he had spirited away from the pasture. As the lights came on in the farmhouse and confused human figures spilled out into the yard, Iain called out, “Sorry about that!”

  That only made the faeries laugh harder. One of them said, “Did you hear the human? He apologized! Sorry the horses are having the best night of their lives? What a silly notion!”

  Then Roshan waved his staff in a circle, creating a ring of fire ahead of them, wide enough for the whole hunt to fit through. The moment Iain passed through the ring, the scenery changed—and his senses shuddered, his body jolting. The wind changed direction, the air smelled of salt, and they were suddenly flying over a deep blue ocean, craggy cliffs, and the deepest green land Iain had ever seen.

  He recognized the scenery only from photographs—Philip Prance’s photographs he had taken on holiday. They were in Ireland. They had shifted through space.

  Darkness clouded his vision for a second—he hadn’t taken a breath in a while. Iain filled his lungs, gasping, and held on tighter. Iain’s head cleared as he took deep breaths of the fresh night air, and he grabbed his axe from his belt. They were heading toward a dark, tall, lumbering figure in the distance. A Fachan. He was heading toward a sleeping town and was oblivious of what was coming. And he was holding something in his hands—

  When the whistling sound of the chains spinning reached Iain’s ears, the sound he still heard in his nightmares along with Philip Prance’s groans of agony, it was soon blotted out by the sound of his own heart pounding in his skull as doubt gripped him.

  Iain slid backward. The wind now railed against him. He was falling off his horse, and he was going to be trampled, and there would be no one to blame but his own weakness. The amulet glowed against his chest, but it did not still his racing heart.

  Roshan looked at him, eyes bright and steady.

  That look—Philip looked at me the same way, like he believed in me. Roshan believes in me, and Deirdre believed in me. If I fail, Deirdre will suffer for it. Iain grabbed hold of the front of the saddle with a shout, his fingers numb but strong, and hoisted himself back up, breathing hard. I have to do this!

  The Irish Fachan swung a flail club with many smaller chains and spikes on the end instead of one great chain. Iain brandished his axe, braced and ready to strike. Roshan produced a burst of flame, striking the monster right in his large, unblinking eye while Cardea sent out a powerful gust, sending the chains crashing out of the monster’s grip and to the ground.

  As Iain neared, he stood in the stirrups of the saddle with a calm resolve, placing one foot on the horse’s back, then bellowed, “Lady Cardea, I need a lift, if you don’t mind!”

  The faeries tittered with excitement around him. Nodding, Cardea sent a gust of wind toward him, just strong enough, and Iain leaped into it just as they approached the Fachan.

  He soared up to the giant’s scorched head and delivered his axe right into the creature’s skull with a crack as the blade sliced through it and into the monster’s brain. Iain landed with his feet on the creature’s chest, driving the blade deeper until the burned red eye rolled back. The monster was dead, and it was falling backward with Iain still attached, his axe embedded. He braced himself to fall.

  “Let go of your weapon and jump!” Cardea called.

  Iain did as he was told without doubt, and in a whirl of wind, he floated back to his horse just as the Wild Hunt caught up and raced by. He grabbed the saddle, one foot in the stirrup, and sat astride just as the wind died and let him go.

  “Come forth, Iain Callaghan!” Roshan called, speeding up as they headed toward the ground. “Let us lead the next chase!”

  Though it took Iain a moment to process what the prince had said, his horse obediently picked up the pace, and as they reached the ground, the horse galloped to catch up with the white stag until Iain and Roshan were riding side by side.

  “You have proven yourself well,” the Summer Prince assured him as they slowed their pace. “Your mount knows this to be true better than you.”

  Iain straightened in his seat, uncovering a fresh wave of energy. He almost did not want the night to end. They were not riding too much longer before Roshan said, “Since you have proven yourself, you will choose our next destination on the hunt.”

  Facing forward, his eyes narrowing with determination in the face of the wind, Iain said, “We’ll go back
to the military encampment.” When Roshan looked ready to protest, Iain insisted firmly, “There was something hiding the magic from your senses, or we just weren’t looking for the right thing. I know it. That magic is there.”

  Roshan’s stag picked up speed as the prince sent another arc of flame into the air to create a portal. With Iain’s horse following at the same pace, they were already back in the Lake District before Iain glanced behind him and realized they were alone.

  “Roshan—” Iain said uncertainly.

  The Summer Prince waved his hand, beaming. “I did not want Nikias following us. No doubt he would disapprove of our mission. If you find the proof you need, both our endeavors shall pay off!”

  “I’m not too fond of him either, but wouldn’t it be a bad idea to enter enemy territory without the leader of the Eniad?” Iain asked but was ultimately ignored as Roshan sped off faster with a whoop of laughter.

  The military encampment was visible through the line of trees ahead of them as they touched down and slowed. The camp was sheltered in a large, wide clearing with a mountain and a lake flanking them, providing the perfect cover. Trucks, tanks, and tents were lined up all along the area, stretching out of sight, and some trucks drove in and out of the area, dropping supplies or soldiers off. They were preparing for war.

  Roshan frowned as they neared. “All I sense is iron. ’Tis everywhere.”

  “Maybe the iron is masking the magic,” Iain said. “If I could get closer—”

  “I will send an Earth spirit to search for us,” Roshan said with a snap of his fingers. A bearlike creature with owl feathers and a beak lumbered into the forest toward them, appearing right as the prince summoned him. It was the size of a juvenile black bear, with the piercing orange gaze of a bird of prey.

  Iain blinked, gaping at the creature and then at Roshan, before recovering. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous for a faery to go in there?” His chest tightened as he remembered. “You heard what happened to Deirdre, and she’s incredibly powerful.” Gripping the reins, Iain’s thoughts turned to General Callaghan. Could he be masking the magic?