wyrd & fae 03 - fever mist

by L. K. Rigel

  “Don’t doubt me, goblin. I have seen it.” Merlyn stopped and drank. More politely, he said, “I come to beg a favor of Maxim of the Blue Vale, the greatest of all goblins. But you must come to the human realm in order to bestow this favor.”

  Intriguing. “Now that statement is bursting with interesting assumptions and presumptions, wyrder.”

  “I try.” Merlyn’s eyes twinkled. “What do I assume and presume?”

  “You assume that I’m even a great goblin, let alone the greatest of all goblins. Vulsier is the one you want.”

  “Vulsier, pish-posh. You will be the greatest goblin. I have seen it. One day you’ll be king not only of the goblins but of all the Dumnos fae.”

  “King. Me.” For a moment Max lost the thread. His brain, and other parts, went straight to his mind’s picture of that thieving fairy. Now wouldn’t he just love to be her king, to see those blue eyes go green for him again, to hear that saucy, wind-chime voice call him my lord…

  “Yes, yes. All in good time,” Merlyn said.

  Max pulled back. Could this wyrder read thoughts? “You also assume that a favor from any fae is given for the asking—or without a return.”

  “Quite the contrary, Maxim. I expect to pay… and dearly.” The wyrder drank his stout and stared at the cold fireplace. For half a second, a reflection of flames flickered in his eyes. “So much for assumptions,” he said. “What are my presumptions?”

  “Hm.” There was something off about this whole thing. Something not right. Max said, “You presume that you’ll easily return to the mundane world. How do you intend to get out of fae?”

  “Not a problem. Technically, I’m not there… Here… There.”

  Merlyn raised a hand and pressed it against some kind of support Max couldn’t see, a wall or tree trunk. The wyrder wore but one ornament on that hand, a simple double ring, two bands entwined, one silver, one gold.

  “As I said, the wyrd have no power in the fae realm,” Max said. “And yet I feel great power coming off that ring.”

  “And as I said, I haven’t come to fae. I’m not actually there with you.”

  “I see you. You’re sitting in my rocking chair, drinking my stout from the tankard I handed you.”

  “It would appear so. This is my proxy spirit you see. It’s a spell of my own design. I’m delighted to see how well it works.”

  Max reached out to touch the human and felt something real enough, a kind of energy or power. He grasped at it, but it slipped away, nothing he could hold on to.

  “Give me your hand, young Maxim of the Blue Vale.” Merlyn stretched forth an insubstantial hand. “The time has come for your leap of faith.”

  There was not an instant’s hesitation. Young and open-minded—or young and foolish—he believed in himself, and he was ravenous to know… everything.

  Max couldn’t not take that hand.

  « Chapter 5 »

  Desire is the Fire

  THE FIRST THING THAT hit Max was the ocean air—cold, salty, alive—and the breezes accompanied by the pounding of waves on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs where he stood. He was in the human realm, beside a great tree that itself hummed with mystical power.

  This must be Igdrasil, the world tree of the Dumnos wyrd.

  Beyond the cliffs and Tintagos Bay was the Severn Sea, and on the horizon a mist churned and undulated, racing toward land like an ocean god’s team of water horses. The Dumnos mist, spoken of in the Blue Vale, was darker than he’d expected, quite out of keeping with what he’d heard. The mist did not appear benign.

  He turned to the sounds of shouting men and clanging swords and saw fields covered with tents and hundreds of warriors. Nearby a laughing crowd surrounded and cheered on two knights engaged in a demonstration of swordplay.

  To the north a castle at cliff’s edge flew the pennant of its occupant from the highest tower, indicating the lord was at home. The stronghold wasn’t under siege, judging by the festive camaraderie among the encamped knights, but its drawbridge was closed—a shocking withholding of hospitality on the part of the resident lord. Had human men no manners?

  “Come, Sir Goblin.” Merlyn indicated a carpet spread on the ground and a pile of soft-looking cushions. “Take some refreshment, and watch.”

  “Watch?” Max sniffed at the bestowed title.

  “See there.” Merlyn nodded. The castle drawbridge began to lower. “That’s Tintagos. Its walls are inviolate, warded by magic impenetrable by men or the magic of wyrd or fae. From this position of strength, Duke Gorlas imagines he’ll soon rule over all these men as king of Dumnos. Ah. His lady, Igraine, rides out now to meet him.”

  A procession of ladies on horseback rode through the gate, but Max’s attention went to the castle itself, his curiosity aroused, his competence challenged.

  Impenetrable by men or magic.

  “Just so,” Merlyn said, again with the irritating implication he’d read Max’s thoughts. “The northwest wall is built sheer to the cliffs. Tunnels run from the keep down to Tintagos Bay, allowing for constant restocking of supplies during a siege.”

  As the ladies progressed from the castle, each group of knights and squires they passed stopped all conversations and play to bow or nod.

  “Have some wine, Maxim,” Merlyn said.

  Max accepted a goblet and joined the wyrder on the carpet, but the view had been better standing.

  Merlyn withdrew a leather pouch from an interior pocket in his cloak and untied its strings. “Move back a little there, Maxim. And do not utter a sound until I give you leave.” He pulled a handful of dust from the pouch and tossed it into the air. “Utros! Utros! Utros!”

  The air between wyrder and goblin shimmered and distorted, giving the appearance of a distant mirage on a hot summer’s day. An apparition slowly took form and came into focus, two men in the midst of an intense exchange. The dark-haired man turned, and the blond man followed his gaze to a beautiful lady dismounting a horse, one of those who’d come from the castle.

  Max looked back to the camp. There the original scene unfolded in time with this close-up view.

  “Gorlas.” The woman in the apparition bowed to the dark-haired man. “As you commanded, my lord, I’ve brought meat for your meal and wine for your company.” She kept her eyes cast down, and her voice trembled, only slightly, with passion—not love, Max thought, but passionate hate.

  The dark mist had reached land, had hit the cliffs and crawled up and over, onto the fields. It entered the apparition like a character, as if it too had a part to play in the pantomime.

  “You may serve me, Igraine,” Gorlas said. “And my guest, Lord Utros, as well.”

  Utros. The name in Merlyn’s conjuration.

  Max examined the blond man with new interest but found nothing remarkable in his countenance. He was about thirty, healthy enough, strong and decent-looking, and with a confident swagger.

  Lady Igraine poured out the wine. The mist wafted about the hem of her skirt, though no one in the picture took notice. “My lord.” She spoke almost under her breath and handed Utros a goblet.

  Gorlas stiffened at the tenderness in his lady’s manner but acted as if he didn’t notice. Merlyn held up a hand to stop any inadvertent comment. Max understood: to speak would break the charm.

  Utros couldn’t take his eyes away from Lady Igraine, which gave Gorlas obvious pleasure.

  “You see why I have Tintagos warded,” Gorlas said. “My wife is the most beautiful woman in all the isles. Who wouldn’t want her?”

  Igraine blushed, and Utros looked as if his heart would burst. Yesterday, Max wouldn’t have recognized the expression, but today he empathized with the pain of the man’s desire.

  “Enough.” Merlyn waved his hands.

  The apparition decomposed and faded to nothing.

  “The lords of Dumnos are gathered here to form a campaign against Saxon invaders from the north,” Merlyn told Max. “After their victory, which I have foreseen, one of these lords
will be declared king, and there will be two generations of peace in the land.”

  “Then what do you need me for?” Max said.

  “The high gods have favored Gorlas, and prophesy does hold that his lady, Igraine, will be mother to a great and powerful king. Therefore Gorlas has refused hospitality to his fellow lords, terrified one will seduce his wife. At the same time, he parades her before them like a taunt.”

  Max was already disgusted with the ways of men. Their lack of manners was intolerable. He shouldn’t have come.

  “You saw the fever mist infect them. Igraine’s fever is for Utros, and his is for her. Gorlas won’t keep his woman, and he’ll never rule. The mist increased only his paranoid lust for power, which generally ends in losing power. Without a strong monarch, Dumnos will fall into chaos. I need your help to ensure that Utros becomes king of Dumnos and, more importantly that he father Igraine’s child, the great king to come.”

  The fever mist. No better name for it. Could the fever mist have penetrated the Blue Vale? Max couldn’t stop thinking about that fairy. Her hair dashing off in every direction with no attempt at decorum. Her expressive brow doing nothing to subdue the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. That cute little—

  “Merlyn!” Utros, in the flesh and riding a roan stallion, halted at the edge of the carpet and jumped to the ground. “Merlyn, I would speak with you.”

  “Of course, your grace. How can I be of service?” Merlyn shot Max a sideways glance, and the goblin abandoned his cushion to the duke.

  “I must have her, Merlyn,” Utros said.

  “Her?”

  “Don’t play it coy, damn it. You promised I would be king, and you said Igraine would be my queen.”

  “I promised nothing!” The wyrder fairly hissed. “The sight spoke, not I! You will be king, Utros Pendragon. Not a promise. It’s a fact.”

  “And Igraine,” Utros said. “There can be no other woman with that name. Or if there is, it doesn’t matter. This is the one for me. I feel it in my… in my soul!”

  “Yes, in your soul, I’m sure.” Merlyn sighed. “You would, wouldn’t you? The gods will have their way.”

  “I must have her, wizard.”

  Merlyn winced at the epithet, but he bore the insult.

  “I must have her tonight, while the fire still burns in her eyes.” Utros finished his wine and slammed the goblet down. “Tonight, do you hear? Or I’ll go mad.”

  Merlyn and Max rose to their feet while Pendragon mounted his horse. Turning to go, he called over his shoulder. “Would you have a mad king?”

  “And so it has begun,” Merlyn said.

  “A man who penetrates the impenetrable deserves to be king.” Max watched the fool in love ride away. “But how will he achieve this?”

  “That’s where you’re wanted, Maxim,” Merlyn said. “You and I together will make it possible. The magics of wyrd and fae will combine to penetrate the impenetrable.”

  “I have nothing here in the human realm to work with,” Max said. “No tools, no raw materials.”

  “You have your skill, your magics,” Merlyn said. “I’ve prepared everything else.”

  He waved his cloak. The landscape changed, and they were in a different place, still in the human realm, a cave with a blasting forge, stoked and ready.

  “In a bloomery of my own design, I made this steel, an amalgam of Dumnos iron and carbon from Dumnos charcoal. I’ve imbued the metal with a special wyrd, also of my own design, for suppleness and strength.”

  “You want me to make you a sword.”

  “A great sword, one to cut through the mist of magics that have made Tintagos Castle Igraine’s living tomb. A sword to be sung of through all the ages to come.”

  “Just like that, cutler and engraver to your ironmaster.” Max snapped his fingers. How typical. “And completed by tonight, you say? For the fine weapon you imagine, the furniture alone would require six months—better, a year.”

  “Have no care there. Under a wyrd of my own design, while you work in this cave time floats, elastic to your needs, yet remains anchored to the mundane world.” Merlyn presented the steel for the blade. “Only the few last steps remain. The final rendition by Maxim, goblin of the Blue Vale.”

  Max accepted the unformed iron, seeing in his mind the blade that wanted to emerge, the signs and symbols that would decorate guard and pommel. Yes… He saw a bright-cut dragon etched on the blade. Yes…

  The wyrder’s eyes gleamed. “I have seen it, Maxim. In all the realms, your name will never be forgotten.”

  « Chapter 6 »

  Mistcutter

  MAX WAITED WITH Merlyn outside the warded castle walls. The wyrder paced back and forth, the sword in his arms, watching the northern road for his duke.

  The goblin felt sick at heart. The song of his future greatness had been so sweet, so easy to hear and believe. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  While he’d worked in Merlyn’s cave, everything had seemed so right. By the time he was etching the twisting dragon onto the blade, he had attained a profound state of grace. His whole body had vibrated with joy and purpose. In his soul, Brother Sun and Sister Moon were with him, encouraging him, even cheering him on. It had been a sacred act of devotion to create the instrument.

  When the sword was finished, he’d achieved a new level of mastery and a new understanding. He saw the world through different eyes: This sword wasn’t a mere sword. It was a blade of the high gods.

  But all that bliss now fell away. The weapon had barely left his hands when the first hint of regret crept over him. This was confusing, and the confusion made him angry. Why regret such a beautiful object, the best thing he’d ever created?

  Still. Something was wrong in the transaction. Though he had yet to lay a hold on why, he felt used—and vaguely guilty. As if he’d committed a sin he couldn’t explain. What sin? Against whom?

  He heard the pounding of hooves on the road, and then two riders, the duke and his squire, approached on horseback. Utros dismounted and came at Merlyn. The wyrder raised the sword toward heaven, and Max sensed its power surge and radiate from the hilt in overlapping pulses of energy. What had he done?

  “Are the wards broken?” the duke said. “The armies are in position to attack the Saxons before dawn’s light. I must return to camp before I’m missed.

  “There is time,” Merlyn said. “But if you are to win your fair lady and become king of the realm, you must break the wards yourself.” Merlyn passed the sword to Utros, but before letting go he said, “When you’re king, I’ll come for my payment.”

  “Yes, yes, Merlyn. Whatever you desire.”

  Utros balanced the weapon then swung it in a figure eight from side to side.

  “The power in this blade is extraordinary. If anything can dispatch the wards on Tintagos Castle, it is this weapon. Ah, Merlyn! I feel I could cut through the very mist.”

  “Then have at it, Lord Utros Pendragon.”

  Utros swung the weapon over his head and thrust it toward the castle. “Igraine!”

  A wave of nausea passed through Max. What have I done? If only he could go back a day and never answer the pounding at his door.

  He watched, helpless, as Utros wielded the sword not against any mortal foe, but to cut through all the magics protecting Tintagos. Pendragon roared, drunk on unearned power as each charm broke and every spell fell away.

  With the sound of protesting wood and hardware, the drawbridge lowered. The castle lay open. Utros cried, “The wards have no more strength to resist Mistcutter than the foam has against salt!”

  Somewhere, Max heard the high gods weeping.

  The atmosphere about the castle shimmered in one final holy convulsion, and Utros charged forward into the keep, sword in hand.

  Max ran at Merlyn and grabbed the wyrder by his gray cloak. “Who set them?”

  Anguish mixed with his fury and self-loathing. Whatever the answer, Max could only blame himself. He should have asked before agreeing to make the s
word. It didn’t matter now, but he had to know.

  “Who set the wards, wizard?” Yes, Max. Compound the ignominy with name-calling.

  “The high gods!” Merlyn squeaked. “Brother Sun and Sister Moon set the wards.”

  “No.” Max let the wyrder go and took a step back. “It can’t be.”

  He moved away, reeling. No. It made no sense. He was sure the high gods had been with him when he forged and formed Mistcutter. What dark magics were these?

  What have I done?

  Max followed Utros into the keep. The man in a fever ran unmolested past the smithy, the cobbler’s stand, and into the castle proper. In the great hall, he pointed Mistcutter at a passing steward. “Take me to Lady Igraine.”

  It wasn’t necessary.

  “My lord.”

  The lady stood on the landing above Utros. She looked down on the duke at the foot of the stone stairs, her face a study of shock and wonder and… was that hope?

  “Is my husband dead?” Igraine’s hand hovered over her heart. Part of her robe fell away, revealing a lovely bare shoulder, but she seemed unaware of it. “Gorlas must be dead, else the wards would hold.”

  “My lady, you’re free.” Utros bounded up the steps and pulled Igraine to him with one arm, still holding on to the sword. He kissed her savagely.

  “If Gorlas is dead, I’m bound to him no longer.”

  “Aye, and when we’re together, the gods will sing.”

  Utros hoisted Igraine over his shoulder. She laughed, giddy. A besieged prisoner who’d been restored to life. Laughter echoed through the great hall, fading as Utros Pendragon carried his treasure up to a welcoming bed where he would enjoy and possess her.

  The servants and retainers on the stairs and in the hall exchanged unsure glances, each looking to another for a lead.

  “All will be well. All will be right.”

  Merlyn entered the hall and spread his arms in benediction. He stopped at the foot of the stairs with a generous smile for every soul, giving the reassuring appearance of knowing what was happening, with the implication that no one’s world was about to change. Collective relief rolled in a wave through the hall, and the servants went about their routines.