Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

  Settled around a brazier one night, mugs of wine in hand, they talked of Gwenifer to her son, telling the same stories they’d told on another night.

  On other nights they simply told tall tales until everyone laughed. Especially Detrick. Reunited with Gaia, he seemed lighter than he had.

  It rained on Haerold’s troops from the day after Kyri and Gawain had called it down on them, a cold steady drizzle that soaked everyone and everything and it continued to rain until they were mired, slogging through mud.

  It did successfully slow their advance.

  Messengers from Porter, Finn and the others indicated that there had been some desertions.

  The day finally came when they had to leave, though, if they were to reach their chosen ground before Haerold.

  Forming up before their individual troops, with Oryan, Gawain and Morgan at the lead, they rode out.

  It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the air with a little of the bite of autumn. It would be cool, a little brisk and dry with all the dampness redirected south. Already, though, Kyri and Gawain had released the clouds. More came in from the west though, toward them, high thin cirrus clouds and cooler temperatures. Just as Morgan had wanted.

  They reached the spot before nightfall and set up camp.

  At the end of the day, with the tents set up Oryan dismissed his personal staff to do as they pleased, fight or stand aside. Most joined the army, taking their places around a fire somewhere, knowing that every hand with a sword was needed. Oryan couldn’t help but sigh. Only faithful Geoffrey remained at his side, a sword on his round hip.

  Morgan stood with Kyri on the rise, his arms around her shoulders, her head turned slightly toward him, his cheek brushing her hair. It had grown almost all the way out again.

  In the far distance they could see Haerold’s fires.

  “I love you,” Morgan said quietly.

  Her hands curled around his arms. “I love you, too.”

  They walked back to their tent, stopping to greet friends.

  Galan was helping to direct the Healers, both the Fairy who would heal with magic and those of the Kingdom with their bandages and potions. Where they could, both Fairy and men would do what they could to aid the wounded, if they could.

  “My Kyri,” Galan said quietly.

  Their fingers touched, lightly, as Morgan offered his hand to the Fairy Healer.

  Galan nodded slowly and took it. “My friend.”

  Taking a breath, Morgan nodded in return, a salute of sorts.

  Porter and Finn had brought their people back to fight beside them.

  Before first light all of the rebels would move their people into the woods. Detrick’s people would be on the opposite ridge. Morgan and Kyri made a point of finding Deandra.

  Like a shadow, Caleb followed them both.

  Oryan was outside his tent, Gawain with him. Detrick came in before heading out to the left flank, Gaia at his side, the usually merry fairy uncharacteristically quiet.

  His face thoughtful, Patraic offered his hand to Kyri as he arrived and she took it. Their eyes met as their hands tightened.

  The Ambassador came to them, looked to Morgan and Oryan.

  “Our people will be here in the late morning. Where do you want them?”

  By then, it was likely that any aid would be welcome.

  “Have them hit the flank they face as soon as they arrive,” Oryan said, with a glance at Morgan.

  If it wasn’t already over.

  Dark eyes grim, the man nodded. “Good luck to you all.”

  Outside the tent Morgan looked at Kyri in the torchlight.

  Their eyes met, his crystal blue to her aquamarine.

  From out of the darkness his horse came at her silent call, pacing steadily. He vaulted up into the saddle and offered a hand to her. She took it and he swung her up into the saddle behind him. Her arms reached around him, closed around his waist as she laid her head against his back.

  Neither spoke, neither needed to.

  Setting his heels to the horse, Morgan sent it leaping into the darkness. A Fairy light appeared, racing ahead of them to light the way, darting between the trees, searching for a private space for them.

  Kyri slid her hands beneath Morgan’s shirt, frantic to touch him, his skin. She skimmed them over his abdomen, up to the curved muscles of his chest, pressing, caressing, taking in the warmth of him, the solidness. The life of him.

  The moonlight painted the clearing with brilliant silver light.

  Morgan was off the horse, dragging Kyri down into his arms.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist as he took handfuls of her shift at her back and ripped it free, as desperate to touch her as she was to touch him. His shirt followed, buttons flying as she tore it open, her mouth hot on his chest. Then her skin was beneath his hands and his was beneath hers, his hands racing over her, crushing her to him.

  They made love fiercely, there was no gentleness, just passion and a frantic, desperate need to connect one last time.

  Kyri collapsed, her body draped over and around him, her wings fluttering down around them to cover them both as Morgan curled one hand around her head to hold it close.

  Morgan wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her there.

  Kyri pressed her lips to his throat, felt his pulse hammer against them at a speed to match hers, her love for him nearly painful in its intensity.

  Neither spoke the words. It wasn’t necessary, it sang between them, it was there in the tightness of the arms with which they held each other, in the pressure of their hands.

  Morgan brushed his cheek over her hair as Kyri pressed hers against the hard muscles of his chest.

  After a while, they rose and this time Morgan pulled her up in front of him, her head against his chest as they rode back to their tent.

  Curled among the pillows from her aerie, they made love once more, quietly, gently and fell asleep still tangled tightly around each other.

  Chapter Sixty Eight

  The morning dawned partly cloudy but crisp and clear with a hint of fog that was already clearing. It was the perfect weather for battle, cool and comfortable, just as he’d asked. Morgan had their troops in place, the three levies in the center and their cavalry on their wings. Kyri’s people waited in ranks behind them to take flight.

  Oryan, wearing his crown and colors, rode across the front of the crest.

  Behind him, Haerold’s forces approached steadily. By any estimates, they would have to kill at least two of the enemy for every one of theirs, if not more.

  Oryan sat straight in his saddle before his troops, flanked by Morgan and Kyri on one side and Gawain on the other, looking every inch the King he was.

  “Your choices have already been made,” Oryan said, his voice carrying clearly. “You know what you fight for, for freedom, for your families. You chose to support me in this fight. I have only to thank you for what you are about to do and pray that you all survive. For those who have already given their lives, for my beloved Gwenifer and for those some of you have loved and lost, I give thanks. We fight for them here and for all those who cannot. Good luck and I hope to see you all on the other side.”

  Haerold’s forces marched steadily up to the base of the valley.

  As one, the four of them rode to the crest.

  Oryan looked to each of them and then held his hand out to Morgan.

  Morgan took it.

  “My friend.”

  Morgan looked into the eyes of this man he respected and honored, his friend, both holding on hard. His breath caught, his heart tight.

  “Stay alive,” Oryan said, intensely.

  Morgan nodded.

  After a moment they released.

  “Kyri,” Oryan said, looking to her. “I’ve never truly thanked you for your aid that night, or the sacrifices you’ve made for this Kingdom of ours.”

  He held his hand out to her.

  She took it.

  “It is ours,” she said, her
aquamarine eyes even, her hair streaming in the wind like a flag, “All of ours. We fight for what is right.”

  Down in the valley, Haerold’s troops massed, filling the mouth of it, closing, closing.

  Morgan glanced at Kyri. Her face was set and pale, but her eyes were sure and steady.

  If there was a moment when he wished her away somewhere safe then he knew there was also a moment when her heart wanted to cry out to him for fear of losing him, but she straightened and smiled.

  A small smile touched his mouth and he reached a hand to her. She reached hers back. Their fingers touched.

  Below, there was a shout and Haerold’s forces charged, his foot soldiers racing toward them.

  So, Haerold had decided to take the fight to them and attack, his greater numbers giving him the advantage.

  There was no more time. It would be now.

  Reaching for his sword, Oryan faced down the slope.

  Morgan turned. “Wait, let them run, let them run.”

  A breathless silence fell as they watched Haerold’s forces charge up the slope, starting to labor…the momentum slowing…

  “Wait,” Morgan said. “Let them reach the rise.”

  Their legs would be growing heavier with every step.

  “Wait, wait... now!”

  Oryan’s sword came down and with a great roar, the levies were released. With one last glance to Kyri, to Oryan and Gawain, Morgan went with them, in the heart of them, Caleb at his side.

  Kyri leaped off her horse as the last of them passed her and sprinted for the sky, wings catching and taking her up.

  “Now!” she shouted and in a great rush of sound the Fair took wing, rising up, filling the air with a rainbow of sparkling gossamer wings.

  It was an incredible sight. Oryan watched them lift into the air in awe and wonder.

  Reaching altitude, Kyri drew her bow, nocked an arrow and dove, spiraling down, swooping over the front lines, firing on the wing.

  There was a whirring, Haerold’s archers…

  From the still air came a blast of wind, Kyri’s magic drove the arrows back.

  As one, her people dove behind her to strafe Haerold’s troops even as the Oryan’s pikemen stopped and braced their pikes. The Fair let fly a shower of arrows amidst the screams and shouts, as Oryan’s archers did the same and the two armies came together with a crash of steel and flesh that echoed from the hills. Screams rang out. Thin sunlight flashed from swords, there were shouts and cries, bodies slammed against each other and blood flew.

  In the midst of it all, shouting orders and encouragement, Morgan rode.

  The Fairy horse Kyri had given him danced and spun beneath him, responding to every shift of his knees, lashing out with feet and teeth, with Caleb ever at his left, guarding his flank.

  Seeing a gap, Morgan shouted, spurred his horse to close it, a dozen of their soldiers racing to help.

  Oryan watched mayhem become a horribly beautiful and deadly dance, with the Fairy spinning and diving above, their wings glittering in the pale light. Horses raced along the sides, manes and tails streaming, the archers mounted on them drawing and firing, while the swordsman hacked and slashed. There were screams and shrieks, pain and rage, the ring and crash of steel on steel. He saw a horse go down, its rider tumbling almost gracefully to his death. In the center of the bedlam the first line had fallen, but others had filled their places and were fighting on.

  Morgan’s fair head was unmistakable in the thick of it, a beacon for the troops.

  The Fairy were like falcons or hawks and sometimes larks in the air, twisting and spinning in the sky. To his grief he saw a wizard’s fireball take one, the body tumbling down into the fray, while others were battered by blasts of wind.

  Kyri felt the death and shrieked in rage and fury.

  A longbow arrow skimmed close but she rolled. Solon came in past her like a falcon and took the archer who threatened his Queen.

  With every bank and turn, every dive, Kyri looked for Morgan out of the corner of her eyes…as Morgan did, with half an eye on the sky.

  “Hold, just hold,” Morgan shouted, as the cavalry burst out of the trees on both sides, sending a jolt through Haerold’s forces.

  Too busy to be weary, Morgan was astonished to realize that the morning had passed. They had made it through the morning…and they were still fighting, diminished, but still in it.

  Racing along Haerold’s flanks, arrows flying, the shock of the cavalry attack stunned Haerold’s troops there for a moment, giving Oryan’s foot soldiers a chance to wreak their own mayhem before the horsemen broke off, galloping up and around the hill to come around for another strafing run again. The flanks turned to defend themselves.

  The line wavered, but held.

  Still, they weren’t driving them back…and then there was a great shout from Oryan’s troops as the Caerdonian Cavalry burst over a hill to the west and crashed into Haerold’s right flank.

  Now there were signs of wavering, the line shifting on that side.

  Morgan saw a fireball take another Fairy from the sky.

  Her long dark hair streaming behind her, Gaia spun down.

  His heart wrenched.

  From the hill Detrick watched, horrified, shouting out his grief and pain, pounding his fist impotently against a tree in rage and helpless fury. But he held for the signal. He could do nothing for her, his Gaia, he was too far away.

  To the left Morgan could see young Jordan of Dorset, tall and gangly, charge, shouting, driving his people to push, holding the line as pressure came against him. He’d lost almost a third of his people but his thin young face was implacable and so were theirs. The enemy had lost more than they had.

  Rolling in mid-air to change her angle, Kyri saw Patraic, hard-pressed and dove, Dorien at her side, to drive them back with arrow after arrow.

  Startled, Patraic looked up and saluted his thanks, shouting at his people to close up.

  All along the line their forces were pushing and Haerold’s line was wavering. It was the tipping point and they’d reached the rise. A final push and the line would break.

  “Kyri,” Morgan shouted, “now!”

  Shooting up into the air she fired a Fairy light high up into the sky, a sudden burst of crystalline brilliance. Oryan signaled as well and the rebels poured over the hills into the fray, screaming defiance, their ululating cries wailing above the sounds of battle.

  Detrick plowed through, sword hacking and flying, grief spurring him, his people sharing it. As flighty as she’d seemed, flirtatious Gaia had guarded them fiercely…

  And he’d loved her.

  Above them, the sun was lowering. The battle had been going on for most of the day, but they were winning.

  To Oryan’s astonishment, they were winning, they were pushing them back. For a moment, he almost couldn’t believe it.

  More of the rebels poured over the hills, as the Fairy danced, dodged and darted in the air, fireballs flashing around them.

  The sword caught Patraic under the ribs by surprise, the sudden piercing pain, the gush of warm blood. He looked down at it in dismay and sorrow, knowing it was a mortal wound. He wished he could have seen his wife, his children, one more time. And then he was falling. Even as he did, though, he saw the King raise his sword and set spurs to his horse….

  Shifting, Haerold’s line trembled, a line of them falling before Fairy arrows as the rebels pushed them back. The Caerdonians spurred into another charge, hammering into Haerold’s flank, which was weakening.

  The line shifted…wavered…

  Oryan saw the moment come, the moment when the tide turned.

  With a shout, he spurred his horse forward, Gawain at his side, calling to his people, exhorting them, his guard of Marshals charging with him. The army saw him and knew the moment had come. With a roar, they went with him.

  Morgan watched the enemy fall back and his heart lifted.

  The arrow hit him square in the chest.

  It was like
being punched, a sudden hard blow that took his breath away. Shockingly.

  For a moment he could only look at the shaft buried in his chest, unable to take a breath, his mouth tightening.

  He lifted his eyes, looking up into the sky.

  To Kyri.

  Morgan had no trouble finding her, her gossamer wings sparkled, her golden hair shone in the thin light, swirling around her as she turned in mid-flight, so graceful, so beautiful. His Kyri. His heart ached with more than the pain of the arrow. Gods, how he loved her.

  He stiffened as the pain hit.

  Stunned, Oryan could only stare in horror as Morgan suddenly went still.

  Then, he saw it, the stain spreading.

  For a moment the truth of it just didn’t penetrate. It couldn’t.

  Not Morgan.

  It was disaster.

  The shock hit Kyri like a physical blow, like an arrow to her own breast and she spun in the air, all her world constricting to Morgan and only Morgan – and the bolt sticking out of his chest, darkness spreading over his shirt, over his broad, strong chest.

  Her heart seemed to freeze.

  The scream that tore out of her echoed against the sky…

  “Morgan!”

  Galan, Dorien, a dozen other Fairy turned in horror…

  Kyri wasn’t even aware of the cry as she folded her wings and dove.

  Like a falcon, she shot downwards, her hair streaming behind her, her wings sparkling so it seemed she left a glittering trail of sparks behind her as she fell like a meteor, streaking through the sky and then her wings snapped open with a crack that echoed across the battlefield.

  She caught Morgan as he fell from the saddle.

  “Morgan,” she whispered, her heart breaking and then the cry tore from her again. “Morgan!”

  For a moment it seemed as if the world had suddenly gone utterly still and silent save only for the sound of the wind blowing, as Kyri dropped to the ground between the two forces, Morgan in her arms. All that she heard was the faint ringing of the horse’s tack as it turned away...

  Her eyes were only on Morgan, only on the pain there and the love in his blue eyes.