Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

  Her features were unnaturally lovely, still and cold. The fingers of one hand played idly with the globe while the fingers of the other danced casually, seemingly restlessly, in the air.

  Standing to one side, watching, was a tallish, broad-chested man dressed all in black. He was as mercenary by his look and his rig – a thing of broad belts of metal-studded black leather crossing his shoulders and girdling his hips. A broadsword was strapped to his back, a saber hung in the scabbard at his side.

  A Northman straddled a chair backwards, his broad arms resting across the back. An axe graced his back.

  Sitting at another place at the table was a slender dark blonde man with a sharpish, clever face, who played idly with a knife, spinning it, point down, in the once glossy tabletop. Now that top was scarred, burned and littered with holes.

  Delaville.

  Now they knew from where the information on his own movements, his coming and goings had come. A member of Oryan’s Privy Council, Delaville would have known everything.

  How had they turned him?

  To judge by his clothes and jewelry, Delaville had betrayed a man who considered him a friend for gold.

  “Nothing,” a voice growled, quite literally, from the darkness. “My people tracked them to the Forest and no farther. We’ve lost the scent.”

  From those shadows stalked another figure, the speaker, and everything in Morgan cried out in horror, in denial…

  Some claimed Haerold himself bore some slight resemblance to a wolf. His features were long like Oryan’s, but more lupine, his eyes hazel where Oryan’s were a deep brown, Haerold’s cheeks more hollow…

  But this…thing…

  “What the hell is that?” Jacob hissed.

  Its face, too, was long, its broad nose more like a muzzle and tipped dark. The hollows beneath its cheekbones were deep and shadowed, its heavy beard, moustache, hair and eyebrows thick, black, silver-streaked and wrong. The creature’s chest was deep, strong, rounded and powerfully muscled. Its arms were sinewy, the waist and hips unnaturally lean. It had strong hands, and claws where fingernails should have been. The thing’s legs canted at an unnatural angle, so he stalked forward as much as stepped into the light. His eyes were as golden and feral as a wolf’s, but no honest wolf would have called this thing cousin.

  Morgan shuddered instinctively in revulsion.

  The creature looked to the others and finally to Haerold.

  “Nor can I find them,” the wizard said, her voice deep, low, her tone irritated. “Something blocks me, a brightness. I hadn’t thought Oryan had that much magic.”

  Haerold threw his wine cup violently at the nearest wall. It shattered, spraying dark red wine to dribble down the stone wall.

  “He doesn’t, or he didn’t. He’s found himself a wizard, somehow, to aid him,” Haerold snapped. “And when I find who that one is they will regret the very day they were born.”

  “How long until we leave this place?” the mercenary demanded. “My men grow bored, restless.”

  The city offered them little now, they’d plundered what they could, the rest had burned and most of the people had fled, those that could.

  Restlessly, Haerold paced. “The city is secure, it’s time to secure the countryside. Put the city to the torch. Burn it. We move in three days time…”

  “Yes,” the wolf-man hissed, with satisfaction.

  A breeze blew past Morgan and Jacob as the guard opened the door for a messenger.

  Below the creature’s nose lifted, scenting the air as the sorceress suddenly straightened, pressing a catch on her pendant so it opened into two half domes – like and unlike the little bowl Kyri had given to Oryan – and passed her hand over it as Kyri had.

  Morgan eyed it warily.

  It was a scrying bowl.

  “We have company,” the woman said, urgently, “someone watches.”

  She swung to her feet, looking around.

  The wolf man snarled as its muzzle lifted to catch their scent. It spun on its heels, moving fast, faster than many men on those unnatural legs.

  Jacob didn’t need a signal, he turned and raced for the door with Morgan close behind him.

  They both felt a certain measure of relief when the door to the hidden passageways closed behind them, but neither stopped, Jacob scrambling ahead.

  “Turn left,” Morgan called, his voice low. “Left. We can’t go the way we came, the whole castle will be alerted.”

  Jacob’s hand met emptiness on his left; he skidded into the turn, his body slamming against the wall.

  “What the hell was that thing?” he demanded.

  Nothing in Morgan’s experience explained it. He’d never heard of such a thing.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  All he knew was that it hunted them.

  They descended through the darkness, feeling their way with their racing feet as best they could, occasionally stumbling – but not on a stair, more like a ramp. They scrambled and slipped on the damp, moldy stones to another level as they raced through the dark, narrow, claustrophobic space, barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast.

  A muffled howl of frustration, rage, fury and hunger, sounded distantly.

  Jacob fetched up against a wall but Morgan was on his heels.

  Dead end.

  “They haven’t found the entrance yet,” Morgan said, as he sought for the catch.

  A blast of air suddenly rushed past them and they heard a growl echo from the stone.

  Another unearthly howl shrieked out, but this through the hollow walls, to send a chill down their spines.

  Now they had.

  “Not good, Morgan,” Jacob said. “Not good.”

  The catch released abruptly, and spilled them both into the noisome moat.

  Morgan blessed it even as he charged down it with Jacob on his heels. He hoped the stench would cover their scent, their tracks.

  From out of the night he heard the baying, the call of those creatures to each other.

  “What the hell is that?” Jacob demanded.

  With a sigh, Morgan said, “Reinforcements. Run, Jake.”

  They ran.

  All they had to do was make it to where the now dry moat met the river and before the river spilled into the sea. If they could make it to the water… Somehow he doubted that those things swam well.

  How Morgan sensed it he didn’t know, but he ducked instinctively as something passed above his head close enough to ruffle his hair, even as a claw raked at his shoulder.

  With a whine of furious frustration the thing turned in midair to plant its feet on the opposite bank, its haunches bunched to spring…

  Desperately, Morgan pulled his sword even as a bolt of silver shot across in front of him.

  Fairy… and not just any Fairy…iridescent wings glittered, golden hair streamed behind her in the uncertain light.

  Kyriay.

  The wolf-thing snapped at her, a claw raked out even as Morgan drove his sword through the thing beneath its arm, piercing heart, blood and bone…

  Kyriay turned in mid-air, nearly laying over on her wings in an incredible feat of flying, to send an arrow behind her into the one who leaped for Jacob.

  Then she was gone into the night.

  Jacob turned, his sword flashed and took the head from the thing.

  Morgan had his own hands full. The wolf-thing impaled beneath his sword still fought, shrieked, howled as Morgan drove his sword deeper into flesh, muscle and bone, both hands on the hilt to ram it through, as it arched, writhed. Its clawed hands and feet scrabbled.

  He rammed his weight down on the sword.

  It convulsed, thrashing, and died.

  Wrenching his sword free, neither he nor Jacob paused as another howl echoed from within the castle and others rose to answer it throughout the city.

  They scrambled over the bodies and down the moat, the pair of them falling helter-skelter into the Arvon River to be swept into the sea beyond.

  Mo
rgan stroked, hard, through the water, seeking Jacob’s collar, shirt, anything – Jacob couldn’t swim – and found it, pulled.

  They burst to the surface, the lights and lanterns of the docks close.

  He would kill her when he saw her for taking such a risk.

  Chapter Seven

  With Caernarvon far behind them and all signs of pursuit fallen away, Morgan took the risk of setting camp. At last, he could find out what his people had learned.

  And how high a price they’d paid for it.

  Outside of swallowing some seawater, Jacob was fine.

  As for the others…

  A quick scan confirmed that only Walter was missing.

  No one had seen or heard from him.

  There’d been no sign, he simply hadn’t arrived at the rendezvous.

  If he could have, Morgan knew Walter would have. So he’d been either killed or captured. Morgan’s contact in Caernarvon would get a message to Morgan one way or another and he would have to decide then what to do about it and how to do it.

  Everyone else had made it, largely alive and unharmed.

  “Report,” he said.

  Mercenaries, conscripts and Northmen made up Haerold’s army. No surprise. The estimates and numbers came at him. Delaville’s men. Not as many as Delaville should have been able to raise as his levies, so some had stayed loyal to their King, but enough had not.

  None of the others had seen these wolf-like men, but, added to the magic, they explained much about how the castle had fallen so quickly. Most men would have been ill-equipped to deal with anything like them. As it had been, it had been close even for Morgan and Jacob and they were both trained fighters.

  And if Kyri hadn’t been there…?

  Those things were definitely deadly fast.

  Next time Morgan would be better prepared for them.

  If they were to face them again he had to be faster, they all did.

  With thanks, he sent his people to their bedrolls, save for the sentries.

  He took no chances, remembering what that thing had said about losing Oryan’s scent. They’d tracked them as far as the Great Forest.

  In the distance, dawn glimmered on the horizon. None of them would get much sleep this night. It would hardly be the first time. Or the last, perhaps, for a long time to come, now.

  He needed to talk with Oryan, to tell him about Delaville. To do that he needed to call Kyri. Anger still burned in him at the risk she’d taken.

  Had she been out of her mind?

  From his bedroll, Jacob studied his old friend worriedly.

  Morgan was every bit as exhausted as he was but something was clearly eating at him and had been since that last bit in that stinking, horrific moat…

  He’d been too busy ducking the leap of the first thing and then something brilliant had whooshed past, even as another had leaped at him, he’d swung and the thing was dead.

  Morgan, though, was smoldering.

  At a guess, Kyriay the Fairy Queen had been playing guardian angel, Jacob thought with a smile.

  And Morgan was pissed because someone was watching over them.

  For himself, Jacob didn’t mind so much, it was good to know there was someone who watched their backs from above. Morgan was the pigheaded one. Not that Jacob wanted to get used to it, that could be a dangerous practice. It took away your edge.

  “Go to sleep, Jake,” Morgan said, with more force than intended, aware of Jacob’s eyes on him.

  Exhausted, Jacob nodded. It was Morgan’s business.

  Pacing, his gut churning, Morgan waved off the sentry as he walked beneath the cover of the trees and sent out the call….picturing Kyri. Lovely Kyriay of the golden hair. Calling her, specifically. After all, he knew all too well she was near. His anger spiked.

  It was far too easy to see her in his mind. Far too easy. His body tightened at the thought.

  Would she answer, though, or would another come? Could she know or sense how very angry he was?

  He heard the whisper of wings…and looked up as she appeared out of the night.

  “The answer to that would be yes,” a voice, light and musical, said softly, amused.

  Kyri dropped out of the darkness, her brilliant eyes watched him warily but with that characteristic Fairy air of curiosity and amusement. Her gossamer wings arched around her, framing her. Each time Morgan saw her, her ethereal beauty destroyed him. She seemed so delicate, impossible, perfect. She was so lovely, her curves sweet and rounded. The thin shift drifted over her skin, her body, leaving her shapely legs bare.

  It was too easy to remember blood on her.

  Her feet touched the earth and her chin lifted rebelliously even as his mouth tightened in response, her body straightening in reaction to his anger.

  Morgan wanted to grab her and shake her.

  Her aqua eyes narrowed, her lips curving a little, almost as if daring him to try.

  “Do not, Morgan,” Kyri warned.

  Kyri had watched over them all night, had seen the anger reflected in the tightness of Morgan’s shoulders.

  Let him be angry. She didn’t answer to him.

  “Stop reading my mind,” Morgan snapped.

  Her hands fisted on her hips, her expression tight and furious. “I’m not. I don’t have to, you’re shouting so loud in there.”

  Part of him couldn’t ignore how very beautiful she was when she was angry, her eyes turning a stormy blue green.

  “Someone has to shout,” he said, jaw tight with the urge not to do so literally, “to get you to listen. What the hell did you think you were doing? Do you have any idea what you were risking? You could’ve been killed.”

  Defiantly, she looked at him.

  “So could you. What? Are you the only one to take risks, my Lord High Marshal Morgan? Have you forgotten my folk have fought yours since time began? I’m well able to take care of myself. I did what needed to be done. We can’t lose you, Morgan. Oryan can’t lose you. Not so soon. However recklessly you spend yourself. I don’t need to remind you that Haerold sent men that night against me and mine as well, this isn’t just your war. It’s not just your people who fight here, who depend on you, but mine as well.”

  “You’re too important to risk like that,” Morgan exploded.

  “And you aren’t?” she shot back. “Who then will replace you, Morgan? Not me.”

  “We can’t lose you, Kyri,” he said.

  She was the only one who knew where both Oryan and Gawain were or would be. She had a magical tag to Gawain and her people were helping guard Oryan.

  When he was out in the field with his Marshals defending the people from Haerold’s forces and organizing the resistance, he was far too vulnerable to capture. What he didn’t know he couldn’t tell. So he could never know where Oryan was without the aid of Kyri and her people. More mobile with her wings, Kyri was therefore less vulnerable on that front.

  To risk herself that way…

  Letting out a gusty sigh, she said, “This I know. No more than we can lose you, our most able general.” She paused. “Our only general.”

  Those incredible eyes looked at him evenly.

  It didn’t help that she was right.

  Kyri looked at him and took a calming breath.

  “Morgan, I will not apologize, nor will I say I won’t do so again. I must do what I think is right, for myself and my people as you do for you and yours. We didn’t choose this, but it’s for us to deal with. Both of us.”

  The Gods had chosen her, named her Queen, whatever her heart and mind. She would do as she must.

  Looking at her, Morgan had to laugh. “In other words, you’re conceding nothing.”

  She grinned, unrepentant. “Exactly.”

  “You’re impossible,” he said, both amused and exasperated.

  With a small shrug, she said, “I’m Queen of the Fairy.” She eyed him, lifted a delicate, perfectly arched brow. “And you’re the only man who’s ever shouted at me…and lived to tell the t
ale.”

  He should smile more often, Kyri thought, it changed his face, softened it.

  Even in these times, it was necessary to smile now and again.

  In fact, in times like these, it was more than necessary. She resolved to find a way to make him smile or laugh at every opportunity. And after all, she was Fairy, it was no more than her nature.

  Morgan laughed. “I can’t promise not to do it again.”

  At the echo of her own words that mischievous smile curved Kyri’s lips and brightened her eyes.

  “Ah, well, then we understand each other perfectly.”

  Morgan chuckled and let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Some of the tension he’d been carrying melted away.

  “We need to talk to Oryan,” Morgan said.

  She nodded. “I agree. He’s still in transit. Head west, one of my people will find you.”

  Although Kyri hadn’t seen the thing that had attacked Morgan well – the shadows had hidden it as it was designed – she hadn’t failed to notice the menace of the thing.

  Light slender fingers brushed over Morgan’s arm.

  “Have a care, my Lord Morgan,” she said, her voice worried.

  Her concern touched him.

  Her wings spread. Silvery starlight glistened and sparkled on them. The thin silk thing she wore moved lightly against and over her body, swirled around her lovely legs as her wings lifted her into the air.

  In spite of his weariness, of all that had happened, his body responded.

  Why couldn’t she wear robes as the wizard Queen had, thick and more concealing? he thought in exasperation, deliberately loudly.

  He thought he heard her laughter high above him. The soft sweet sound drifted on the breeze, brilliant, heartening. In his mind was the image of her lush and lovely body, but in his heart he heard the sound of her laughter sparkling on the air.