Firestorm

by William Stacey

  "Maeve, where am I?"

  The satyr's smile froze, and she cocked her head to the side. Her ram horns seemed impossibly heavy for such a small frame, her neck too dainty to hold their weight. "Where? You're in Lord Lodin's tower in Wealsglad Vale, your new home."

  Lodin? Fear washed over her, turning her blood cold. Lodin had set the ambush at the troll village. The chamber seemed to darken. "My friends, are they ... are they still alive?"

  "Friends?" The satyr's mouth parted as a look of confusion swept over her features. "We're your friends now, sleepy-sleepy. And soon we'll be your subjects. It'll be wonderful, perfect, better than perfect, you'll see." A hint of fear flashed through the satyr's eyes. "Don't ... don't bring up other friends with him, okay? He doesn't like hearing about other people. It makes him unhappy, and he doesn't like being unhappy, doesn't like it if his guests aren't appreciative and focused only on him. It might make him angry. The spiderkynn delegate made him angry."

  "Maeve, how do you know English?"

  "I know English?" the satyr asked in surprise, her eyes somehow widening. "Oh, aren't I clever."

  Angie's skin tingled. There was magic at play here. She felt it all around her now, the air thick with its aura. Moisture ran down her spine. I have to get out of here. Tec, please don't be dead. I don't know what I'd do without you. Her fingers trailed over the dragon-mark on her palm, and a tingle spread up her arm. It was probably just her imagination.

  The satyr turned away and skipped back toward the door, displaying a bushy brown-and-white tail a foot long. "Let's go, sleepy-sleepy, let's go. Mustn't make him wait. No, no, no."

  "Maeve," Angie said, covering her breasts with her arm. "I can't go out like this ... without clothes."

  The satyr stared at her, a look of confusion on her features, and then her eyes flashed with understanding. "I forgot," she said in an excited voice, giving Angie another bright smile. "Silly, silly, Maeve. He said you'd want to wear something." The satyr lowered her voice to a deep rumble, her face twisting into a sneer. "‘Dress her as befits the queen that she is,’ he said." The satyr clopped to the armoire, opened its doors wide, exposing dozens of beautiful robes hanging inside. "If I were a queen, I’d wear this." Maeve removed a robe and held it up for Angie's approval. "Pretty, pretty." The robe was scarlet and looked to be little more than transparent cheesecloth, and very short, perfect for nymphs—or strippers.

  "Maeve, may I please have my own clothes, the clothes I was wearing?"

  The satyr's smile slipped. "Oh no. Those are gone. He said to burn them."

  "I can't wear that."

  Fear transfixed the satyr's features, and her posture stiffened. "He'll ... he'll be angry with me if you don't. Please, please don't make him angry. I only have the two legs." The satyr's wide ears trembled.

  She's terrified, Angie realized, quickly climbing out of the bed and taking the thin robe from her. "It's okay, Maeve. Don't worry. It will be fine, I'm sure." She inspected the thin wisp of material. "I don't suppose there's any underwear?"

  "Under what?"

  She sighed. "Never mind." Angie slipped her arms through the sleeve holes, pulled the robe around her, and tied its sash around her waist. A single full-length mirror in a masterfully carved dark wood frame sat next to the armoire, and she considered her reflection in it. It was almost more revealing than being naked. Her nipples poked through the sheer fabric, and the hem just covered her hips. If she moved too quickly, she'd expose herself. Char would love it. She cast a hopeful glance inside the armoire, but the other garments were just as revealing. The Fey thought nothing of nudity, finding human sensibilities endlessly amusing. "Are there shoes?" she asked the satyr. "Slippers even?"

  Maeve shook her head, her eyes narrowing in wonder that Angie would even ask. "You're not going for a march, sleepy-sleepy, you're going to present yourself to him."

  "Of course not." She sighed, running her fingers back through her rat's nest of hair, examining herself critically in the mirror. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breathing too fast. Calm down, Angie, she told herself. Calm down and keep your eyes open. Bide your time and look for a chance to escape. "I don't suppose I can have my sword back?"

  Maeve stared at her in confusion for a moment, as if she were trying to understand what Angie was asking. Then her face lit up in a beaming smile, and she hopped in place, her hooves clumping again. "Yes, yes, yes. He said you'd want it, and I forgot. Silly, silly, Maeve." She skipped over to a heavy wooden footlocker near the bed, raised its lid, and pulled Nightfall and its belt free, handing the weapon to Angie.

  Angie only hesitated a moment, disbelief coursing through her. I have to walk about half-naked and can't even have shoes, but they'll give me my hexed side-sword? She quickly belted the weapon to her waist, the familiar weight of the side-sword more reassuring than any amount of clothing could have been. Then she saw metal shining in the footlocker, and her heart skipped a beat when she realized it was her family's watch. She snatched it out of the box, strapping it to her wrist.

  "Such a pretty bracelet," Maeve cooed.

  "Maeve, there was a necklace as well, a glass rose."

  The satyr watched her in confusion then shook her head, smiling. "Just the sword and pretty bracelet, sleepy-sleepy."

  Damn! She was vulnerable without that necklace. But she had been sleeping earlier, and the lamia hadn't attacked her. Was she safe here, in another realm? She took several deep breaths. "Okay then. Let's go see Lodin."

  Maeve gasped, both hands flying to her mouth. "Don't ... don't use his name. Call him my Lord Hunt Master or Forest King. Never his name."

  Angie bit her upper lip and nodded. Maeve, seemingly unable to resist being in a happy mood, grinned enthusiastically once more and, taking Angie by the hand, pulled her along to the door and then out into a stone hallway lit by torches in wall sconces.

  Never letting go of Angie’s hand, Maeve led her through the black stone passageways of Lodin's tower and then down a long flight of twisting circular stairs. Through window slits, Angie saw a red night sky, thick forests, and a garden constructed of long, twisting rows of hedges to form a maze.

  The twisting circular stairs seemed to go forever, but Angie and Maeve eventually reached the bottom of the tower and stepped out into the lower level, passing through a series of deserted chambers and hallways. Torches flickered against the marble walls and pillars, casting shadows that seemed to move. Heavy embroidered tapestries hung from the walls like curtains, and beautifully constructed wooden furniture sat against the walls.

  Angie came to a jarring stop, pulling Maeve to a halt. Hanging on the wall was a painting of her. There was no mistaking the resemblance. She wore camouflaged fatigues and rode one of the Mares of Diomedes, the silver horse Lampon the Shining. She stared open-eyed at Maeve. "How…"

  "He painted it himself. You should be honored." With that simple explanation, Maeve pulled her along.

  They entered a massive hall dominated by a long firepit with glowing red coals. Here, for the first time, Angie saw other servants. Sprites, nymphs, and elves bustled through the hall, cleaning and tending to duties, stoking the coals, baking. Most of the Fey were nude, making Angie appreciate what little clothing she did have. The servants dropped to their knees, lowering their heads. Me, she realized. They’re bowing to me. A wooden platform at the far end of the hall contained an ornate golden throne. A pair of trolls were carrying a slightly smaller golden throne, carefully placing it beside the larger one.

  "What's going on, Maeve?"

  "They ... we all love you, sleepy-sleepy—I mean, Your Majesty. Everyone loves you and wants you to know that." This time Maeve didn't meet Angela's eyes but hurriedly pulled her along through the hall, leaving the servants behind, their heads still lowered. "We'll love you forever and ever and ever."

  Maeve led her to an entrance way, a massive set of wooden double doors that led outside. Each door was at least ten feet high, a foot thick, and banded in iron with triangular s
pikes protruding. A pair of ram-horned ogden in gleaming black plate-mail armor stood on either side of the entrance holding long-hafted axes, the sharp heads gleaming in the torchlight. As the satyr and Angie approached, the two guards snapped to attention. Each ogden must have weighed three hundred pounds and could have cut a man in half with a single swing of one of those gargantuan axes. Angie stared at the huge guards. There’s zero chance of fighting these things with a side-sword, but even barefoot, I bet I could outrun them.

  The night was warm and moist, with the smell of flowers and grass hanging in the air. There were more ogden guards patrolling, some with axes, others with polearms. She turned and stared up at the tower. The tower was black, seeming to leech the light around it. Its summit rose high above her, a hundred feet or more. The outer grounds were meticulously landscaped, with gardens and small copses of trees. In the distance, a tall black stone wall ran across the terrain, no doubt surrounding the tower. A half dozen centaurs loped along the wall, lances in hand. A single pack of centaurs had lived in the Fresno Enclave, skittish and shy. They had always avoided her, but she had watched them outrun the old zoo's gazelles. Ogden she might outrun but never centaurs.

  "How many Fey live here?" she asked Maeve as the satyr pulled her toward the maze she had seen from the tower.

  "Here in Wealsglad Vale? Several hundred—guards and servants mostly—but there are often dignitaries from all corners of the Hollows that come to pay their respects or swear loyalty. And hostages. He keeps hostages just to make sure others don’t break promises. He doesn't like it when they break promises. No, no, no. He doesn't like it at all." The satyr shivered.

  A large moth, its wingtips at least a foot across, fluttered toward Angie's face, and she spun away, raising her hands over her face, but the moth veered away. Maeve giggled. "Silly, silly. No time to play."

  Maeve pulled Angie to the hedge maze. She saw no entrance. The vines and leaves were so thickly wound together they might as well have been bricks. Maeve gripped her ram horns, wrapping her fists around the tips, and closed her eyes. Angie felt the flow of magic, and the vines and bushes trembled and then withdrew, opening to expose a three-foot gateway. "Stay close with me," Maeve said, letting go of her horns.

  They entered the maze. Behind them, the vines slid back into position, once again forming an impenetrable barrier. Maeve led Angie through the maze. Sometimes she took turns seemingly at random; other times she used her magic to open another path. Was there an actual path through the maze, or did one need magic? She suspected that without Maeve, she'd never find her way out.

  They came out of the narrow corridors of the maze, stepping into a woodland clearing filled with hundreds of Fey. This must be the heart of the maze.

  The Fey stood about a small hill, atop which towered a single massive oak tree. Torches burned in iron braziers, bathing the assembled Fey in an orange glow. Dozens of the large white moths danced above the flames. The air smelled of animal musk and exotic flowers. Maeve pulled Angie closer to the hill, and at their approach, the Fey whispered among themselves in excitement and then dropped to their knees, once more bowing to Angie. A path lined with small black stones led up the hill. Angie's heart pounded as Maeve led her through the crowd and up the path, keenly aware of hundreds of Fey eyes upon her.

  Maeve encouraged her with a smile. "He awaits." Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Remember. Don’t make him angry."

  At the top of the hill, against the trunk of the oak tree, a blond man lounged in a large wooden chair covered with furs. Lodin, Angie realized. This must be Lord Lodin, the master of the Fey Hunt, the ruler of the Hollows. When she came closer and saw him clearly, a shiver coursed through her as if she had just been dunked in ice-cold water, and she froze in mid-step. It was the same sensation she had felt the first time she had seen him. There was a connection … some arcane force between them. She remained in place, her gaze locked on his. It was like staring at the sun, a golden god of a man.

  He sat with one powerful leg crossed over the other, his elbow resting on his thigh, his chin propped up by his palm. He was a huge, powerful, beautiful man, almost painfully handsome. He wore a gleaming black crown set with red rubies the size of her palm but little else, not even a loincloth over his impressive yet flaccid penis. Like all Fey, he was utterly unconcerned about his nudity, but Angie forced her eyes to his face. His skin was smooth, golden brown, and seemed to shine as if he were coated in oils. When he looked on Angie, his smile flashed like fire.

  He slid from the chair, seeming to glide across the ground, moving faster than she would have thought possible. She felt helpless before him, barely aware as Maeve let go of her hand and dropped to a knee. His long blond hair hung past his shoulders like spun gold, matching his strange golden eyes, eyes that seemed to know everything about her. He was clean-shaven, with thin blond eyebrows and a narrow nose. Angie trembled as Lodin loomed over her. His lips parted, and his expression reminded her of a starving wolf. Somehow, she felt like she was the naked one—and more than a bit aroused, she realized, her skin flushing.

  He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it, his lips hot, not warm—hot. A shiver of desire coursed through her, and she swayed in place.

  "Welcome, Angela Ritter," he said in a deep, sonorous voice. "Welcome to the Court of the Hunt Master, King of the Hollows. Welcome to my home. Welcome to your home. I have been waiting for you for an eternity, or so it seems."

  His golden eyes were like large, beautiful pools that she could fall into. His red lips parted, and she wanted nothing more than to kiss them. Then, as if from far away, she heard the voice of the Shade King, almost a whisper: BEWARE.

  Fey magic, Angie realized. She gave her head a shake and yanked her hand free, seeing the flash of anger in his golden eyes. She stepped back a pace and rested a hand atop Nightfall's hilt.

  "Why have you kidnapped me?" she demanded, certain that she had been moments away from throwing herself at this man. But she had grown up around Char and recognized the magic affecting her—Fey charm, the same filthy magic trick Aernyx had used on her in her dream—and she was tired of being played. She forced herself to ignore the sensations coursing through her body; they were a trick not real.

  No matter how perfect this man was.

  "Be calm, Angela," he said, placing his large, warm hands atop her shoulders. She suppressed a shiver of delight at his touch. "You are a guest, not a prisoner. We have too much between us."

  "Where are my friends?"

  "Gone. Back to their own realm. I had no interest in them, nor in Ephix Lamia, despite her treason. The day will come when I punish her for her betrayal but not yet. I care not a whit about that dark, dreary realm in which she hides—other than for the blessing that brought you to me. But—" he paused, his eyes narrowing into angry slits. "She has hidden you from me for too many years now. Her and her druid sister. That is a crime I can never forgive."

  "I had a necklace. I need it. It ... keeps me safe."

  He shook his head. "You no longer need that trinket. Nothing can harm you in my realm, not even in your dreams. I will protect you now."

  "Why? Why me? I ... sense something about you, but I can't explain it."

  He laughed, his smile that of an angel, and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in against him. If she had been turned on before, she practically melted now, an all-too familiar warmth spreading through her.

  "I felt it, too, Angela," he said as he guided her to his high wooden chair and set her atop it, stepping back and nodding in appreciation. "That is where you belong, on a throne. The moment you entered the Hollows, I felt your presence and understood the deception that kept you from me. Those two traitors, Chararah Succubus and Ephix Lamia, hid you for years." He turned to face the assembled Fey. "See? Did I not tell you she'd make such a queen?"

  The Fey cheered, their cries washing over Angie. She stared in confusion, her pulse throbbing in her skull. "Tell me what's going on?" Her voice broke a
s her emotions surged.

  "The connection you feel, Angela Ritter," Lodin told her, "is like to like, the same way stars cluster into constellations."

  "I don't understand."

  "You will." He spun away and raised his voice. "Bring forth the traitor."

  The crowd parted, an angry murmur rising from it as two ogden guards approached, hauling a green-skinned figure between them, a troll. Iron chains hung between the troll’s ankles and wrists: Garaka Dun, Angie realized, the troll chieftain who had helped them escape Coronado Island. The guards threw the troll to land on his belly in front of Lodin. Other ogden guards shoved more chained trolls forward, females and children, at least a dozen of them, their eyes glazed with fear.

  Lodin stepped closer, stopping before the prostrated troll. "Beg for my mercy, chieftain of the Binyakka tribe. You do not deserve it, but I am in a giving mood."

  The troll chieftain raised his head and glared balefully at Lodin. Dried blood coated the side of his head. "I ... will not beg, master of nothing. I go to my ancestors with my honor intact. In death, I will be free of your tyranny, and someday, so will my people."

  "Such hubris," said Lodin sadly. "Such a waste of bravery. You could have been a warlord, a leader of your people."

  "I am a leader of my people."

  "No, you are an example." Lodin dropped to a knee and placed his palms on either side of the troll's head. Garaka Dun's eyes widened, and his body stiffened. A wail of anguish rose from the troll prisoners.