by Vox Day
The vampire lord met his eyes—it was a bold one indeed—as if to take his measure. Robin held that cold undead gaze until the Raustravian was forced to look away. The vampire was too young to recall the terrors of the Wild Hunt, but it was of an age to have likely heard tales from the generation that survived them, and such was the fear that Herne and his companions had instilled into the Twice-Fallen that tales of its horrors and other faery cruelties had percolated not only down through generations of Twice-Fallen, but into mortal myth as well.
“You bear grim tidings, demon.” Vashya looked as if it would have sighed, were it still able. “And I fear that your service will cost us dear, but come inside and let us discuss these matters privately. If there is to be war among the Fallen, I would know when, and why.”
Now it was Robin’s turn to raise his eyebrows. The vampire bared its fangs in a bitter smile of resignation. “I am not without skill when it comes to reading minds myself, demon. But, no, your thoughts are sealed to me. It is only that I cannot imagine another reason for you to seek my aid. You must be desperate indeed, to seek help among my kind.”
Chapter 9
A Moment’s Peace
So did the faerie knight himself abeare,
and stouped off his head from shame to shield
No shame to stoupe, ones head more high to reare,
and much to gaine, a litle for to yield;
—Edmund Spenser, The Fairie Queene
The afternoon breeze was peaceful, and carried with it the rich natural scents of the mature forest, mixed in with the perfume of the nearby lilac blossoms. The tall oak tree, now denuded of its two smaller companions, stood in solitary majesty as it soaked in the glorious warmth of the afternoon sun.
Time passed. The scent of lilac waxed strong for an hour or two, then diminished again as the wind shifted its direction. Squirrels frolicked nearby, but none dared approach him despite the promise of acorns. It was clear that the lord of the forest had warned of him, for even the birds were hesitant to light upon his branches. This grieved him, but only a little, for he had far deeper wounds to bear, far more egregious affronts upon which to reflect. The sky grew red, then purple, as the sun began to set.
It was a pity he could not stay here for a while, thought Oberon as the cool evening air ruffled pleasantly through his leaves, which were green with just a tinge of gold around the edges hinting at autumn’s approach. The Weald was a tranquil place, picturesque, an ideal place for one to indulge in the narcissistic luxury of reflection. But for him, reflection was no quiet path leading inner peace; instead, it achieved quite the opposite effect.
Gloriana had shared generously of her wisdom, and yet his knowledge was infuriatingly incomplete. She could not share what she did not know, and she did not know what he most yearned to learn. The usurper, who was he? Had he a name? It was not unheard of for angels to descend into madness; especially in the days after the Awakening, even some of the great had succumbed to mind-killing despair and self-loathing. But the power of such mad ones inevitably waned; it did not wax into sceptre, crown and throne.
And yet, perhaps it was possible. He pondered long upon two of the Shadow Sarim, the greatest of the Fallen, who, in his opinion, were not entirely sane. Moloch’s nihilistic appetite for destruction gave even Lucere pause from time to time, and the once-brilliant tactical genius of Sammael, Hell’s marshal, had long ago disappeared in the morass of his overpowering hatred for his Divine counterpart, Michael. Could it be that one of them had stolen his realm from him? No, it seemed unlikely. For one thing, Albion was not a principality either would covet, and for another, if it were Moloch who had usurped his throne, there should have been far, far less of Albion and her mortals remaining by this point. No, he could rule out Moloch, that much was certain.
He studiously avoided thinking of his Queen. He did not dare so much as think her name to himself. Fortunately, Gloriana had likewise avoided Titania, though more likely out of wisdom and survival instinct, not cowardice like him, and so even with the potion he knew little more of her. He could not bear to think of her betrayal; just the thought was like the assassin’s knife entering his side again, only this time the freezing blade pierced his heart. How had he failed her, that she should abandon him so? He longed to run his hands through that thick crimson mane, to kiss those impossibly full lips, to feel that white, graceful neck in his hands and snap—no! A red wave of overwhelming hatred—for his conflicted desires, for her treacherous beauty, for his disloyal subjects, for the mysterious usurper, for the wasted years, for a thousand thousand regrets and failures—washed over him suddenly, and nearly carried his consciousness away on a tide of desolation.
And then he was clean. The grime of uncertainty and self-contempt was washed away, leaving little more behind than an iron will of angry purpose. He waited, without impatience, content now to reflect calmly upon the beauty of the Weald and the quiet strength of the earth that sustained it. Be the tree, Puck had said, and in doing so had spoken with the true wisdom of the fool.
His roots burrowed deep into the soil as he bonded with the land that once was his and, in time, would be again. His leaves soaked in the sunshine and rustled gently in the breeze as the sweetness of the forest’s rich breath restored him. He let his mind flow outward; in the same moment, he smelled a mouse through the curious nose of a half-grown fox cub, hopped with a fat robin towards a dark patch that promised a worm-laden soil and soared high above the treetops with a sharp-eyed falcon. For the first time in eight hundred years, the Faery King smiled.
The sun had long since disappeared below the treetops, and the first nocturnal predators were beginning to make their presence known with ghostly calls and cries when a strangely-shaped figure descended from the moonless sky and landed not too far from where a giant oak towered incongruously over a lilac tree. Once upon the ground, however, the shadow divided into two distinct individuals.
“It would be a lot easier if you lot could actually transform into bats,” complained Robin as he massaged his aching arms. “Or at the very least, walk shadow.”
Vashya did not respond. It merely brushed at its suit, as if doing so could restore the dignity it had lost by this ignominious form of transportation. It was quite clear that being carried like an unwieldy piece of luggage was something that the vampire lord would prefer to forget as quickly as possible.
“I imagine there must be some Twice-fallen who can, but perhaps they’re more like werebats than true vampires. Of course, a were-vampire bat would still drink blood, so perhaps that’s where the confusion lies—”
“Would you please be so kind as to give the subject a rest,” said Vashya, gritting his gleaming ivory teeth. “I am beginning to regret my decision already.”
Robin grinned at it, amused by the vampire’s wounded pride. “Only because you’ve never had Herne on your tail. Believe me, Fangs, putting up with a little indignity is better than being run down by hellhounds.”
“Please do not call me that.”
“Of course, Lord Vashya, my… what’s that?”
He nearly swallowed his tongue along with his apology as a dozen or more trees surrounding them unexpectedly transformed into tall, spear-wielding warriors. Nor were the spears tipped with harmless mortal metal; they were crackling with silvery angelfire.
Robin put up his hands and glanced at his companion, whose wide eyes belied his seeming composure. “The hellhounds are looking increasingly attractive, my lord demon,” the vampire murmured, and Robin did not find it hard to see his point of view.
“What is this,” Robin snarled at the most powerfully muscled of the dryads. “I am in service to the one you guard. Do you think to keep me from him?”
“Lord Beowaesc told us to expect two angels, not one of these!” The dryad waved his flaming spear tip just under the vampire’s nose. “You may pass, but leave this bloodsucking worm here with us.”
“Fools!” Robin slapped the spear down and caused his form to swell, un
til he towered over the dryads like an ominous thunderhead, ready to rain lightning. “You know naught of what you speak. Begone, lest I give you to it, that it might not drink blood, but the fire of petty forest imps instead!”
The bold dryad and two of his companions actually fell down as they backed away from him, so strong was their desire to escape his threatened fury. They fled, quickly and silently, back into the depths of the forest. No doubt running straight to Beowaesc, of course, but that mattered little now. His only concern was to get Oberon to a place of safe refuge. Then, and only then, could they spare a thought for the morrow.
Now, if I can only remember where that tree is. He moved swiftly forward, leaving the vampire to stumble along behind him in his city shoes. The sweet scent of lilac drew him on, until moments later, he stood before the arboreal form of his king. One second, they stood beneath the midnight shadow of the oak, and the very next, the tree was gone. Oberon, to his surprise, did not look vexed at his delay, indeed, he seemed almost at peace as he rebuked his servant.
“You took your time, Puck.”
“Gloriana was gone—there were signs of a struggle. We had to come up with an alternative.”
“I see. And why have you come with this unusual… companion?”
“I have found a place for you where the Mad One’s Eyes will never think to look.”
“With the children of the Twice-Fallen?”
“With a few of them, yes.” Robin glanced at Vashya, who was staring at Oberon with a doubtful expression on its fine-featured face.
“You spoke of a mighty prince, who could protect us from the Wild Hunt,” the vampire said. “Yet, he needs to hide among us, for fear of his enemies?”
For the first time, Oberon took direct notice of the vampire. He snorted contemptuously.
“Not for fear, vampire, but for time.”
He reached out with his hand, and the vampire flew suddenly up into the air as if jerked by a mighty string. For a moment, it hung suspended above the treetops, its limbs dancing and flailing about, directed by an unseen puppeteer. An equally invisible flute softly piped a silly circus air. Then the marionette’s master seemed to abandon it, for it plunged, spread-eagled, directly towards the jagged top of a broken pine tree.
At the very last moment, its fall was halted, with the sharp wood barely piercing the undead flesh covering its unbeating heart. Then, with a violent backwards flip, the vampire flew away from the tree and was brought back to the ground on its feet, exactly where it had been before. But it did not stand there long. The monster’s mouth worked soundlessly once or twice, before it crumbled to the ground in a faint.
“I see your powers are returning, majesty,” remarked Robin, as neutrally as possible.
“Mmm, yes, it is good to touch the land again. Though it may be decades before my powers return in full, I am greatly restored. Do you think me unwise, Puck? You have changed, I fear. There once was a time when such a sight would have set you to laughing until the tears ran down your face.”
“Times have changed, my King. As have I.”
“I mourn to see it. But you may trust me in this. I have known these creatures far longer than you, and they are more beast than angel, they are less than mortals, even. They obey only what they fear. This one was wary at my weakness and would have doubtless contemplated treachery, but now, you see, it will do so no more.”
Robin nodded slowly. Perhaps the years had enervated him, or at least drained him of his humor. And certainly Oberon’s brutality had taught the vampire a real lesson, for as Vashya struggled to its feet, it regarded the Faery King with a servile respect bordering on awe.
“Go now, Puck,” ordered the King. “Find Gloriana’s servant and do what you can to assist her. Her loyalty must be rewarded. Then find Herne; he will be raising his pack, I am sure. I shall go to this place of refuge, and when you are ready to find me, place your mark above the painting at Burlington House and wait there. I will send for you.”
“The painting? How am I to know which one?”
“You will know it.”
“As you say. And if you want to find me?”
“Then I will do so. Now go, my boy, and quickly. Beowaesc comes, and I do not think he is pleased. Best you begone before I set him straight. He will be embarrassed enough without witnesses.”
Robin bowed, then unfurled his wings and leaped towards the sky. The lights of London were to his right while to his left was only shadow as he sped towards Oxford faster than any mortal aircraft. In a matter of minutes, he reached Cowley House, and after taking a moment to ensure that the spellward had not been renewed, he plunged through the roof into Gloriana’s quarters. But as before, it was empty, devoid of life and unlife alike. There was no sign that Lahalissa had ever even come here.
The sound of deep-voiced laughter behind him caused him to spin around. Entering through the door was an over-muscled wingless monster with four arms. He had to stoop to enter, so tall was he, and even so he barely fit through the frame. His skin was slate grey, his head was somewhat taurine and his curved horns pointed forward, but the most frightening thing about him was the symbol branded on his chest—four linked circles from which sprouted two upside-down triangles. The sign of the Mad One.
Robin backed away from the massive demon warrior and drew his dagger. It was a poor counter for the two massive cleavers that the mutant Kesh’Adai wore at his side, but he had no other weapon save his wit. The warrior smiled, revealing four long yellow fangs, and pointed at the blade.
“Put it away, traitor. Even if you sheathe it in your own throat, it will not save you from the punishment that is your due.”
“Come take it, if you dare!”
It was a lame retort, even to Robin’s ears, but he had little choice except to fight. He might flee, but he doubted he could outdistance the vast wingspan of his foe and he had no wish to perish with a cleaver in the back. But when he took another step backward, his movement was stopped unexpectedly by something large and hard. The black flame dagger fell to the ground, useless, as someone very strong pinned his arms to his sides in a crushing grip.
“As you say,” whispered the second Kesh’Adai, breathing foully in his ear.
Chapter 10
Violently, It Changes
Get up, come on, get down with the sickness
open up your hate, and let it flow into me
Get up, come on, get down with the sickness…
Madness is the gift that has been given to me
—Disturbed, (“Down With the Sickness”)
The Mad One’s court was surprisingly normal, all things considered, thought Robin as he was marched through the corridors of the fortress. He was not bound by spellfire or mindleash, indeed, they might well have left him his two blades for all the good they would have done him. He was surrounded by a small troop of four-armed Kesh’Adai, seven in all, each of whom surpassed him by a good half-meter and one hundred fifty kilos apiece. If they were not cruel, neither were they merciful—when he tried dawdling once, the two flanking him simply grabbed his arms, lifted him off his feet and continued their inexorable journey towards the heart of the fortress.
After a few minutes of this, they put him down again, without ever bothering once to comment. It was really quite a persuasive demonstration, in its own simple way. Robin took their point, and did not again attempt to slow them down.
The leader came to a halt as they reached a large door embossed with the Mad One’s sign, which matched the brand on the grey-skinned chests of his guards. He turned around to address Robin, folding his lower set of arms beneath his huge pectorals as he jabbed a clawed finger perilously close to Robin’s eye.
“Be still until you are spoken to. Answer any questions asked, and tell the truth. He knows if you lie. And if he decides to destroy you, get on your knees and thank him for his mercy. He can do worse than that, I swear to you.”
One of the other guards grunted in affirmation. Despite the underground chill a
nd his astral state, Robin suddenly felt very, very cold. He was immortal, but there were things that immortals could experience that were, for a time, hard to differentiate from mortal death. If your spirit was shattered and distributed across the planes, it could take centuries, if not millennia, to become whole again. And if what the Kesh’Adae said were true, the Mad One had managed to come up with an unpleasant alternative to that.
The leader seemed to be waiting for a response, so Robin nodded. Satisfied, the giant demon turned around and placed his palm on the door. There was a brilliant flash of purple light, and the door swung slowly open to reveal the Mad One’s throne room.
It was beautiful, a vast spherical glade that magically appeared to be open to the sky. No, the magic was greater than that, for somehow, impossibly, it was truly outside. Robin could feel the wind on his face and feel grass beneath his bare feet. Despite himself, Robin was impressed; for all that they were beyond physical things such as Euclidean space, after spending the past few millennia on Earth, most of the Fallen were as uncomfortable with non-Euclidean reality as mortals. It was not so much a room as it was a woodland paradise, an idyllic Olympian bower. Strange trees ringed the glade, with thick trunks and gnarled limbs constructing a leafy green wall of sorts circling what appeared to be, of all things, a very large mushroom.
But no conventional woodland paradise he’d ever seen featured twenty or more giant battledemons with skeletal wing joints that projected three feet above their shoulders even at rest. If they did include angelic ladies-in-waiting, they were usually portrayed with significantly more in the way of garments than wore the naked Succubi, who lounged about the foot of the throne clad in nothing but their sleek blue skins, their white pupil-less eyes taking in the newcomer’s arrival with what appeared to be total indifference. And no painting Robin had ever seen showed two demonesses wreathed in flaming chains, cast to the side of the throne-like toadstool as little more than an afterthought.
