Poison Fairies - The Landfill War

by Luca Tarenzi

  Eventually, his attempts had started to pay dividends. His unique Glamour - something he'd kept more secret than anything else in the world since the day he had discovered it - stretched until it had felt external matter, and that matter reacted. He was lucky in that the rope used to tie him up was simple; fibers woven by Goblins, and not plastic or nylon.

  It was fragile. Vulnerable.

  Thaw flexed his wrists, trying to separate them. The straps tightened for a moment, then snapped. His hands were free.

  He moved them slowly, allowing the blood to flow again. His experiment worked!

  When they pulled him out of the hole, many hours later, he would be crippled by being so still and weak with hunger. Those who came would see his hands straight away and the broken rope. They'd ask what had happened, shrug their shoulders and tie him up again, dragging him to the execution platform.

  Now he knew he could do it. The key was to choose the right moment. It was all about timing.

  His speciality.

  Lying in the darkness, shivering from the cold of the earth and unable to stretch his arms or legs, Thaw smiled once more.

  Two-horns' tent was at the edge of the area inhabited by the tribe, on a mound of small bags stuffed with rubbish. It was a good location given what its owner did and lucky for Needleye as she could slip from one sheltered spot to the next without having to get too close to the other tents.

  She might have been lucky with the location, but the weather was against her as the sun bore down from high in the sky on the busy tribe, all of them within earshot. Hardly an ideal time for a secret mission.

  From her hiding place behind a packet of cigarettes, Needleye looked up at the mound. A long ladder made of toothpicks had been placed against it, allowing access to the top. The tent on top was low and cylindrical, about eight inches wide, with folding walls made of strips of wood and plastic. The roof was an old baseball cap with a hole in the middle added to allow the smoke out, although no fire was burning at that time. Needleye half-closed her eyes and listened. She couldn't hear any voices inside, but she was sure it wasn't empty.

  Two-horns lived there with an apprentice, a young Goblin whose name escaped Needleye. When she was a child, she'd heard that the tribe once had half-a-dozen sorcerers, each with their own acolytes. Different times. Everything was easier.

  Today, Two-horns was the only one left who was a serious practitioner of Gramarye, and he'd only found a single student because the ability to bend Glamour in unnatural directions was rare. It required great effort and suffering to learn the art, making it even less appealing.

  Needleye checked that she couldn't see anybody before she dashed across space between the cigarette packet and the base of the ladder, which was mercifully placed against the far side of the mound, away from the closest tents. The silence made her suspect Two-horns was deep in concentration, carefully listening to human communication, one of his key roles. The first thing Needleye needed to do was get rid of the apprentice.

  She pulled out her dagger and cut vertically through one of the bags that made up the mound. The rubbish inside was old and compact, giving off such a fetid odor than it was vile even for her, a child of the Landfill.

  She covered her nose and mouth with the sleeve on her left arm, forced herself to ignore the revulsion rising up from her stomach and pummeled the rubbish until she was sure she'd broken it up enough that she could climb into it. Then she kicked the ladder away, watching it fall to the ground with a thud.

  She waited a second, then dived into the rubbish and closed the cut plastic flaps of the bag. The smell penetrated deep into her lungs, like a foul gas, and made her eyes water. Inside there, she held her breath and listened.

  At the top of the mound, she immediately heard a series of curses followed by hurried steps. Then, the rustle of something sliding over the plastic - a rope, definitely - and a series of thuds, the footfall of someone climbing down bit by bit.

  Needleye opened her eyes and moved the plastic flaps a touch. A moment later, the apprentice came into view. He was a tall, lanky teenager, with a battered rat fur coat and pointed shoulders that sent a painful pang as they reminded her of Stylus.

  Cursing constantly, the boy bent down to examine the damage to the ladder, his back facing her.

  Needleye shot out of her hiding place and jumped on him with all her weight.

  The boy screamed, but stopped as soon as his belly hit the ground. Before he had time to breathe, Needleye grabbed his head between her hands and shoved it into the mud.

  The apprentice wriggled like a headless snake, kicking and splashing. For four interminable seconds, Needleye doubted she had the strength to hold him still.

  Then his limbs went limp, so Needleye rolled onto her back, gasping.

  Lying there, she pushed the boy's face out of the mud to ensure he didn't suffocate, then, after resting for a second, she got up and dragged him towards the cut bag. She patted him down, finding half-a-cockroach leg in his pocket - probably the type many Goblins chewed while doing something else - that she gulped down. She also took his dagger made of chipped stone that was so heavy and badly formed she grimaced. Still, a second weapon was always useful.

  She shoved the apprentice into the cut bag, hiding him as well as she could among the trash but unable to tie him up because there wasn’t anything for her to use.. She hoped that, if everything went to plan, she'd be long gone before he woke up and sounded the alarm.

  Needleye scampered up the mound, using the rope the apprentice had descended with, and soon reached the tent, which had been left open. She listened carefully again.

  Silence.

  She moved to the side of the entrance and, a dagger in each hand, peered inside. In the dim light she could see indistinct objects cluttering the floor; pushed against the wall and even stacked among the roof supports. The sole occupant sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor on a square piece of dirty grey foam mattress, eyes closed and hands resting on his lap.

  Two-horns was big and well-built, dressed in red and white checks that had once been part of a table cloth. His skin was the color of old bones and his face had something cow-like about it, with a big nose, tiny eyes and such a large chin it seemed almost to rest on his chest. The horns from which his name derived - almost definitely a sign of some ancient Sylph ancestry - were two rounded bumps on his forehead, just below his mass of disorderly auburn curls. The vibrant Glamour he exuded was so powerful that it reached almost to the edge of the tent; with a hint of hot plastic and the buzz of distant voices, buzzing, electronic sounds and other noises Needleye was unable to place.

  He was no longer a young Goblin, but he was certainly nowhere near old enough to be Needleye's grandfather, despite always having been a vaguely father-like figure to her. As a child, he'd often come to her father's tent, regularly picking her up in his arms, although she'd realized much later - really only as an adult - this was essentially to move her out of the way of the grown-ups. He would smile and tell stories of the Goddesses, the humans who lived outside of the Landfill, the fairy creatures of old, and the ancestors of the Moryans who were tall, majestic and radiated power. She used to listen to him intently, hanging on his every word without ever opening her mouth other than to smile. Then, he would use magic to mutate his Glamour and make his cloud become a thousand feathers that embraced and tickled Needleye until she burst out laughing, pulled his hair and grabbed his tiny horns.

  Now, she was there, before him, armed and furious.

  Her throat went dry. She clenched her fists, but didn't enter. Would the sorcerer sense she was there if she slipped inside? She hadn't the faintest idea because she'd never attained such a profound state of concentration.

  Like every Moryan, she also continually heard the thousands of fragmented messages that filled the Landfill, from radio and TV broadcasts, wireless signals and other electric fields. Fairy Glamour was incredibly sensitive to all invisible energy, but if one paid it too much attention one
ran the very real risk of becoming confused and exhausted. Patience, dedication, a special ear and, perhaps, a touch of Gramarye were needed to discern anything precise from that morass of sounds.

  It fell to those like Two-horns to spend some of their time monitoring the human conversations that wafted across the Landfill as such messages might provide warning of new trash arriving, the planned path of a grader, the impending flattening of a trash mound or other snippets that could save lives and avoid disasters.

  The seconds kept ticking. The sorcerer remained statuesque.

  Needleye pressed her lips tightly together and moved inside as stealthily as she could. Two-horns made no sign of noting her presence.

  She knelt beside him. She wondered how best to wake him. Should she shake him? She put away the stone dagger, but placed the other near his throat, without touching him, before carefully placing her free hand on his shoulder and whispering, "If you try to scream..."

  Two-horns' Glamour attacked her with whip-like speed without the sorcerer even batting an eyelid.

  For a split second, Needleye felt his cloud like a solid beam aimed straight at her brain. Then she became engulfed in noise, unable to see or hear anything else.

  "...The garbage men called moments ago, saying this morning's trash..."

  "...But it was my wife's idea, her and her bloody flower vases...."

  "...He's a complete asshole! You were so right, I should never have told him..."

  Needleye staggered backwards, dropping the dagger and holding her head.

  "...No, I'm the one who's leaving him. I'm gonna leave him right now, the dickhead! By sms...."

  "...I realize the truck is late, but someone needs to stay and open the gate and I..."

  "...In sector two. Repeat, in sector two..."

  The human voices had become so loud it felt like her ears were being attacked, ten times louder than she'd ever heard them. She tried, but was unable to block them out and close herself off in her Glamour, as she'd done for as long as she could remember.

  "...But of course, it's all my bloody fault because I let the dog in and it broke the bloody vases..."

  "...Where are you? Tell me right now where you are...."

  Needleye was kneeling, holding the sides of her head with her mouth open, but completely silent, when she felt the air move and forced herself to open her eyes.

  Two-horns had stood up. His outline was blurry, like looking through rippled water. But she should feel his Glamour, almost see it. His cloud seemed to be bent like a funnel, collecting the radio waves to channel them at her, like a machine gun of cellular messages that was shattering her mind.

  "...Are you still free tonight? If you want, we still have time to book..."

  "...Right, I've sent the sms. Now it's his fucking turn to cry! His turn to cry..."

  Needleye tried to stand, but fell forward, ending up face down on the floor.

  She forced herself to keep her eyes open. Two-horns moved backwards and was getting something from a pile of objects, something long and dark....

  A nail.

  It was about one inch long. The sorcerer took the nail by the tip and waved it about like a bat.

  Needleye looked at the rusty head, realizing that a single blow to her skull could knock her out. She tried desperately to get up again, but the radio waves drove her down.

  Two-horns' bare feet moved slowly towards her. She tensed her muscles and concentrated on using every last drop of strength she possessed. An idea. Something that might work. Or not.

  She sensed more than saw the sorcerer had raised the nail above her.

  She lunged forward, driving her teeth into one of his bare ankles.

  Two-horns screamed, dropping the nail to the ground next to her. Needleye bit harder and then pulled her head back with what power she could muster. Two-horns lost his balance, falling onto his back.

  Needleye jumped on top of him as he writhed with pain and drew her dagger, pushing it against the clothes covering his ribs.

  "Stop!"

  Two-horns opened his cow-like eyes and the volume of the voices grew even higher.

  Needleye pushed the blade forward until she felt it pierce flesh and fabric. "I swear I'll drive this right into your heart! Stop!"

  The voices faded instantly, as though Two-horns had turned down the volume knob.

  Needleye pressed the blade a touch harder and the sorcerer groaned. The voices faded further, become background humdrum before disappearing completely. The ensuing silence seemed deafening.

  Needleye took three deep breaths and held the blade with both hands, trying to make sure she didn't shake. The room seemed as black as India ink.

  Beneath her, Two-horns caught his breath to say something, but she tightened her grip on the dagger. "Don't breathe. Don't say a word unless I tell you to."

  The sorcerer closed his mouth, swallowed hard and nodded slightly.

  Needleye gathered up her remaining strength and concentrated. "I have often seen you communicating with the Lake Sirens. During executions and sometimes to trade. Can you speak to them when you want?"

  Two-horns blinked his eyes and didn't open his mouth.

  "Answer me."

  "No." The sorcerer's voice was hoarse. "Only at official events, or when the king orders me. He has forbidden any private contact."

  Needleye screwed up her mouth a touch. It was exactly the sort of thing her brother would ban.

  "I meant, can you communicate with them when you want?"

  Two-horns paused, then nodded.

  "Does it require Gramarye?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you transfer it? Like normal Glamour?"

  The sorcerer said nothing again, merely blinking a little, drawing Needleye's attention to his eyes, two dark, shiny spheres framed by his yellowish skin. She breathed in deeply, filling her noise with the scent of his Glamour. As a child, this smell had been so reassuring, often accompanied by the self-same Glamour tickling her and making her laugh, but now it was filled with tension and fear, tinged with a hint of rotten lemon. A sense of dizziness began to descend on her.

  She focused only on the sense of frustration, exhaustion and rage that seemed to be physically pressing on her chest and she pushed them out in her cloud so Two-horns would feel it too.

  "Do you think I'm messing around? Do you think I'm just here for fun? Really?"

  Even more color seemed to drain from Two-horns as he nodded. "Yes. It can be transferred."

  "Do it." Needleye briefly closed her eyes. How long could she keep going before she collapsed? "Prepare your witchcraft and pass it to me. Can you?"

  Two-horns took in two long breaths. "It's far harder than you seem to think. They, the Sirens....they're not like us. You can't approach them like people. The danger is enormous. It's much more risky than you imagine. And if your brother got wind of your plans..."

  "My brother is not here now." Needleye pushed her dagger a little harder, causing Two-horns to let out a grimacing sound. "I am here and so is this hefty piece of stone that hardly cuts but weighs a ton. It's not much of a weapon, but I could plunge it deep into your chest if I put all my weight behind it. Right now, I'm so tired and hungry that I could pass out at any time. Falling on top of you and the dagger."

  Two-horns trembled a touch, but his Glamour took on a new smell, pungent but sweet, a bit like fresh dew. It took Needleye a moment or two to work out the odor was filled with worry.

  Deep, sincere and confused anxiety. For her.

  "Why are you doing this, my child?" Two-horns asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "You’re heading into a web of trouble, you realize that? Why?"

  It was Needleye's turn to swallow hard, seeking her own voice. "To save someone's life."

  "You can't stand against your brother. Listen to me, please... Don't do anything else stupid. You can't beat him."

  I can't? Needleye frowned. I can't…

  She shook her head and then looked straight at the sorce
rer. "The Gramarye to speak to the Sirens. Now."

  Two-horns breathed out slowly, nodded and closed his eyes.

  "If I even think you are doing something strange," hissed Needleye, "I'll plunge my dagger into you so hard that I'll split you in two." She hoped her voice sounded more assured to him than it did to her.

  Two-horns didn't say a word, seeming not to have heard her. He kept his eyes closed, concentrating, and his Glamour soon changed again.

  Needleye felt it all around her, was almost able to taste it. It seemed like something was mutating, as if a sour smell was mixing itself into something sweet. It was like a word being repeated again and again until it was no longer recognizable and had lost all its original meaning.

  She had to suppress her desire to run from such unnatural change, forcing herself to remain still until Two-horns opened his eyes and nodded it was done.

  Needleye nodded back. "Pass me your hand."

  Two-horns raised his hand wearily and Needleye took it, without ever moving her other hand from the dagger. She lifted the sorcerer's wrist right up to her mouth and bit down hard.

  Two-horns pulled away, but didn't make a sound. Needleye let the blood fill her mouth and then swallowed it all, in a single gulp, ingesting the bewitched Glamour. She felt the same unnatural feeling that had pervaded her body a little earlier, but this time the intensity was ratcheted up, swirling around her head and reverberating through her Glamour.

  Needleye dropped the sorcerer's arm, but otherwise she didn't move until the sensation began to die down.

  "How long will it last?" she asked in a croaky voice.

  "It's hard to say."

  "Give me your best guess."

  "A few hours, definitely no more."

  That was all she needed.

  Needleye looked around. "Do you have any supplies in here?"

  Two-horns nodded.

  "Where? Show me with your head."

  He did.

  Needleye braced herself for the last, painful effort of this part of her plan. "I'm really sorry. Truly sorry. It is nothing against you." Weak, empty words...and she hated herself for them. "I'm sorry for everything."