by Vance, Ramy
“Furthermore, the myth of King Orfeo and the Elf King does not end there. It seems that the Elf King was so angered by King Orfeo’s insult—not that unkidnapping one’s wife should be taken as an insult—that he single-handedly attacked King Orfeo’s castle. Legend says he wiped out every last man, woman and child residing there before facing off against the human king. There was a great sword fight between them, and in the end, King Orfeo dispatched the Elf King with a mighty blow, felling the Elf King before dying from his own wounds.” Oighrig End swung an imaginary sword as he spoke.
“But alas,” Professor End continued after his little air battle had ended, “that is the legend. Most likely the Elf King was exhausted, perhaps wounded after having literally taken down a human army by himself, and King Orfeo was easy prey.” Oighrig looked around at the audience who, if they were enjoying this lecture, didn’t really make any indication one way or another.
Oighrig End, unfazed by their lack of reaction, smiled. “Again, this will all be in my next book. I do hope you will all purchase it. And tweet about it. Can’t have a successful book in this day and age without digital birds tweeting its praise.”
Festivities? I’d Rather Sleep
I was right about one thing: the rest of the talk did turn into a boring lecture about fae, myths and revisions. I did everything in my power not to fall asleep, and I was so not listening that I didn’t even realize when it was over.
Luckily, everyone stood up to shake Oighrig End’s hand, and I took it as my cue to do the same.
Orange jumped on the stage and said in his overexcited way, “OK, time to retire for a quick rest before dinner. See you all at eight. And a word of caution: seems the storm has gotten worse, so no going outside. We have enough food to survive for a fortnight, so stay indoors. Stay safe.”
I didn’t need to be told twice, and was already at the door before he said “eight.” I turned to see where Deirdre was—at the front, shaking Oighrig’s hand—and opting not to wait for her, I decided to go upstairs … but not before I saw Jack giving me one hell of a dirty look.
He probably saw how uninterested I was in the whole thing. Ignoring the giant, I went to my room.
↔
An hour later, Deirdre walked in my room and I could see the mixed look of adulation and grief. She had met her hero, and he had insulted her. What’s more, he had insulted her kind when he said that members of the UnSeelie Court were seasoned liars.
This is why you should never meet your heroes.
“Dinner is in a few minutes,” she said in a deflated voice.
“I know,” I said. “I think I’m going to sit this one out.”
She nodded, and instead of arguing with me as I expected, she turned toward the door.
“Deirdre,” I called after her.
She paused at my door’s threshold.
“Did you know the Elf King?”
She shook her head. “He ruled over one of the UnSeelie Court kingdoms, but not mine. Still, his story is well known, and although he was not my king, I would have gladly travelled to his lands to fight by his side, to aid him in conquering the mortal realms. That was how terrible the human’s crime was.”
“But you didn’t,” I said. “Why?”
“Because in the end, the dark elf was a wise king. He would not let his desire for revenge draw legions of fae into war. He faced his enemies alone … and perished.”
“Like Oighrig said—died by King Orfeo’s sword?”
“That is the human version of it, but we have a different story. One provided by Ankou himself.”
“Ankou?”
“He is our harbinger of death, bearing witness to the end of all fae.”
“Grim Reaper, fae style.”
Deirdre narrowed her eyes in confusion.
“Never mind,” I said. “Go on.”
“Ankou tells us that the Elf King killed them all and then walked into his own death rather than draw us into war. That is the story I have been told, at least.”
“Wise.”
“Indeed,” Deirdre said in a distant voice.
“You know that you are one of the best people I’ve ever met,” I said, out-of-blueish. “And I’ve met a few. Ate a few, too.”
Deirdre’s eyes widened in surprise before softening with a smile.
“He’s wrong, you know. Oighrig End. Wrong about you. You are not a liar, and I’ve never seen you play the victim. And if the other members of the UnSeelie Court are half of who you are, he’s wrong about them, too.”
Deirdre nodded, her gaze turning away from me in humility before she leapt (and I mean leapt) from my door’s threshold to where I was lying on my bed, giving me the biggest hug.
Thankfully it was a short one, because she was literally suffocating me. “I’ll bring you a plate of food,” she said before skipping out of the room.
Alone, I looked at the clock. Ten to eight, which sounded about right for a girl in the prime of her life to go to bed. I turned off the lights and waited for the quiet bliss of sleep.
If I had known what waited for me on the other side of the veil, I would have done everything in my power to stay awake.
Nightmares and Murders
I’ve been around for a long time and had my share of bone-shattering nightmares. On more than one occasion I’ve woken up in a sweat, absolutely positive that what I dreamed had actually happened. Thing is, if you’ve done all the bad that I have, nightmares are something you get used to.
So when my dream that night turned bad, I was kind of used to it.
The thing about nightmares is, they’re usually a distorted memory or some horrification of the future. Pepper in the incoherence usually associated with dreams and add a dash of heart-thumping certainty that it’s really happening and presto: a full-fledged nightmare.
But the dream I was having wasn’t a memory. At least, not mine. Nor did it portray some possible future. Rather, it was a vivid—what would you call it? A show, perhaps? Movie? I really don’t know—experience where I was an observer, watching everything unfold through someone else’s eyes.
It was like being in a video game.
If, that was, the video game involved the merciless slaughter of humans. And by humans, I don’t mean pixelated representations of humans on a screen.
I mean actual, red-blooded, air-breathing, opinion-spewing humans. I've been around enough dead bodies to know what death looks like, and this was the real deal.
And that’s where this strange nightmare started: Standing over six dead bodies, four soldiers dressed in armor appropriate to the era, a squire that couldn’t have been older than sixteen and a young woman who was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The bodies were mangled, and from the lacerations on their faces and the way their blood stained their clothing, they didn’t die well—or fast. This guy wasn’t just killing them … he was punishing them.
From the windows of his eyes, we stood on a moor with nothing in sight for miles. But then he turned around and I saw where we really were: outside an old castle, the surrounding area cleared so the guards could see enemies approaching from miles away.
A lot of good that did them. Judging by lack of shouting guards and ringing bells, it was clear that whomever lived in this castle had no idea an enemy was at their gate.
He examined the castle wall, giving me an opportunity to see it myself. From its stones and structure, I placed us somewhere in England, just after medieval times.
Without hesitation, he jumped on the wall and, using the tiny, uneven cavities and holes typical of old masonry work, he climbed the wall with the kind of speed I did not think possible for a vampire, and certainly not for a human.
Within seconds he had scaled the hundred-foot wall and climbed onto the curtain wall surrounding the castle. The two guards were taken completely by surprise, and had just enough time to let out squeals before blood-soaked hands that weren’t my own grabbed them and thrust their bodies against the stone
wall. I heard several cracks followed by agonized screams.
This creature—this monster—threw them against the wall hard enough that they would never walk again, but not hard enough to actually kill them. This, I sensed, was intentional. The just shy of actually killing them method was this monster’s way of truly punishing these soldiers, because they would either get help and end up cripples the rest of their lives, or they would bleed out on the stone floor.
Either way, their next few hours would be agony. Not that the owner of these eyes cared; he simply moved on, running down the lookout tower toward the doorway leading into the castle.
Three guards with longswords came into the stone hallway, and as soon as they saw him, they charged. Stupid. His hands, empty of weapons, were out in front of him, and as the first guard swung his sword, the creature ducked before lunging forward and throwing him into the other two guards.
All three were prone on the ground. The creature grabbed the ankles of two of them and flung them over the wall, their screams following them to their deaths. The third guard tried to run, and this killing monster picked up one of the discarded longswords and threw it into the fleeing guard’s back, impaling him against the wall.
The creature walked past the trapped, dying man without so much as a second glance, leaving him to groan and cry as his life slowly drained away.
Whatever this creature’s mission was, he no longer cared if anyone knew he was here.
And they knew. Alarm bells rang as guards cried out, “We’re under attack! We’re under attack!”
I knew the drill. Now that the alarms were sounded, the guards on duty would man their posts, ready for battle, while the remaining soldiers who were sleeping or off-duty would run into the armory, where several squires would be readying their armor and weapons. In a well-trained castle, it would take a matter of minutes to arm and ready the entire garrison.
The last place any attacker would want to be was in the armory, and that’s exactly where this killer went. The creature had purpose in his step—he knew the layout of the castle—and when he reached the armory, it was already half-full of soldiers preparing for war.
He walked in, and everything stopped: the clanging weapons, the shouting, the clamoring of leather straps. The room went silent as he entered, a hundred eyes on him.
Not a word was spoken until a soldier who still hadn’t put on his armor grabbed a halberd and charged. The poor fool. He was dead before he took two steps.
The killer pulled in his newest victim and crushed his skull between his hands. Then he spoke in a calm voice with an accent I hadn’t heard in centuries. “I will bestow upon you a gift your king failed to provide to me and my family. I shall give you a single minute. You may use that time to prepare for battle or pray to your god. I do not care. But do use your minute wisely, for it will be your last.”
He walked into the center of the room and stood perfectly still. I couldn’t see what most of the soldiers were doing, but from what I could hear, many took this man’s advice, saying their prayers like they might on their deathbeds.
I don’t know if a full minute passed or not. But when he deemed the minute to be over, he started killing. There must have been fifty men in that room, maybe more. And even with their overwhelming numbers, they didn’t stand a chance.
Bones snapped and flesh tore as he made his way through them, killing one after another after another. All while they screamed.
And screamed.
And just when I thought the horror would never stop, I was awoken by screams not from the world of nightmares, but this one.
Deirdre was screaming my name. I could hear her calling me, needing me, and I tried to force myself awake.
I struggled to move as my consciousness swam against the currents of my nightmare before finally breaking through the veil of sleep.
I sat up in a jolt, my nightmare already fading away with unnatural speed. Not that I had time to think about that; what I had heard in my dreams was actually happening.
Deirdre was screaming.
I flung the sheets off and ran into her room where Oighrig End lay on her bed, dead.
End of Part 1
Part II
Intermission
Oighrig End has sufficiently primed the needy changeling.
It’s easy to bag an UnSeelie brat. Just talk about how evil their kind is, how their people were responsible for much of the evil that now exists in the mortal realm. Make them self-conscious, make them feel bad about themselves, and then swoop in with a smile and an “I understand,” or “They’re wrong,” and presto: panties on the floor, and Oighrig End heaving atop them like a lion on a cheese grater. Go me with my Lysistrata jokes.
And this particular changeling—Deirdre, was it?—is exceptionally beautiful, he thought as he pranced around his room, preparing for tonight’s festivities. A shave, a shower and some scent of lilac, the preferred fragrance of the fae. I might even have her more than once. After all, I am stuck in this place for three days. And my only alternatives are the human and the halfling.
The human was cute, but alas, humans lacked the vigorous pace he had grown accustomed to. Then there was the matter of the halfling. She was pretty, but she was also blind, and Oighrig End liked to look his mounts in the eyes when his, ahem … end drew near.
He had just picked up a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphosis—the book was a vital part of his seduction game—when his head started to spin. “Too much sipping of heavy dessert wine,” he muttered to himself as he sat down on his bed. “Just a moment’s rest to recharge the batteries, then downstairs to the changeling’s room for further sips on her blissful teats.”
“You always had a way with words,” a voice said from the corner of the room.
Oighrig had thought he was alone, so when someone spoke, he leapt in fright. Literally. Onto his bed. “Who … who’s there?” he said, scanning the room and seeing no one.
“An old friend.”
Oighrig looked from side to side, desperate to see who it was.
“Come now. I know it has been a long, long time since we last met, but surely you haven’t forgotten my voice?”
“Or mine,” a second voice said.
“I … I …” Oighrig stammered.
“Why not?” the first voice said. “What is it you used to say? ‘There is so much more than is known in this world, or any other.’ ”
“So much more,” echoed a third, deeper voice.
“I often thought you should have dedicated your life to figuring out why the gods left. After all, surely one of your revised myths must give a clue as to that mystery.”
But Oighrig End was too terrified to answer. Instead he just whimpered, “Mercy.”
“But then again,” the voice said, “perhaps some mysteries have no answer.”
“Mercy,” he repeated as the world continued to blur. He knew he was not sleepy because of the wine, but because of poison. “Mercy … please.”
“Some mysteries may never be solved, but that does not mean they cannot be avenged.”
“Mercy, please,” Oighrig said one last time as the world spun and darkness enveloped him.
“Mercy?” the voice said. “I’m afraid that died in me centuries ago.”
Accusations, Much?
Deirdre’s screams didn’t just draw me in. Within moments, Orange and Remi had appeared, both in nightgowns. The rest had yet to make their way to the room (with the exception of the abatwas—Snap, Crackle and Pop—who, for all I knew, stood in the room somewhere, camouflaged by the old Persian carpet and their tiny size).
“What happened, Deirdre?” I asked, trying to get her attention.
She didn’t look at me, her gaze fixed on Oighrig End. “I … I … don’t know. He asked if I was interested in a nightcap. I told him my hair did not need such sleep aids, and he laughed, saying he meant a drink so that we could continue our conversation. I agreed, and he said he would come to my room in an hour. I decided to use that time to s
hower and prepare my questions for our continued conversation. When I emerged from the bathroom, I saw him here. Dead.”
“A likely story,” Orange said, “changeling.” He spat that last word as if it were sour milk.
“Hold on a second,” I said, stepping between Orange and Deirdre. “She would never—”
“Never what?” Remi said. “Kill, maim, destroy? I don’t know how well-versed you are in the ways of the UnSeelie Court, but of all the gods’ creations, few are as vicious as changelings.”
“That’s nice, coming from a human soldier.” I turned on my heels to take that sanctimonious human head on. “I’m fairly sure if we took an honest look at capacities for destruction, your kind would take the proverbial, blood-soaked cake.”
“ ‘Your kind’?” Remi said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Soldiers, warriors … Canadian Armed Forces,” I growled. “Besides, how do we know it wasn’t you? You were quite aggressive in your questioning.”
“How dare you? Remi LaChance is one of the gentlest—”
“Thank you, Orange, but please. This is one fight I’m determined to have on my own,” Remi said, extending a placating hand to Orange. Then, looking down at me, he clenched his gloved hands. “Young lady, do not confuse curiosity with aggression. I would no more hurt Oighrig End than—”
“Pick up a gun? Fight in a war? Given that you are, by your own proclamation, a seasoned soldier, I find it hard to accept the ‘conscientious objector’ defense. Besides, why are you wearing gloves? Didn’t want to leave behind fingerprints?”
