by S A Archer
Lugh discarded the jar of silver by the last corpse. His eyes burned from the dust that floated like motes upon the whims of the air when he left. Once outside, he shrugged off the protective gear, abandoning it with all that remained in the temple. He climbed into the passenger side of the truck that already idled, lingering only for him. “Make for the Ring of Kerry.”
Though the concern was evident in Willem’s demeanor, he spoke not. Keeping his thoughts private, he began to drive.
Chapter Three
During the drive, Lugh removed his blood-spattered shirt. Willem had procured water in clear plastic carafes for their journey, and Lugh splashed some on the burgundy blood stains that yet marred his flesh. Once satisfied that he’d fully cleansed the traces away, he used the somewhat clean backside of his shirt as a towel. He bathed his face of the soot, silver and perspiration and felt the better for it.
Without spare clothing, for it had not even occurred to Lugh to collect such mundane necessities, he consigned himself, for the time being, to endure the cooler temperatures clothed only from the waist down. Rarely had the Sidhe, whose aspect of magic was the sun, ever endured the chill of any season, but Lugh resisted all use of his personal magic since the replenishing flow from the Mounds had been severed. What magic he dared to spend drained his reserve, bringing the inevitable Fade ever nearer. Lugh flexed his fingers. Already they tingled, the first symptom of the fatal condition.
Leaving Willem to his animated critique of the questionable skills of the other operators in the opposing lane of vehicles, Lugh concentrated on reviewing several of the more pertinent journals. Danu possessed the inconvenient tendency to omit details. Rather than giving in depth instructions of the magicraft that one could have duplicated, the purpose of the notes had been merely to remind herself of particulars. Her writings, made during the period just before the creation of the Mounds, posed questions and concerns she’d faced at the time, but not if those actually manifested and, if so, how she handled the eventuality.
Nowhere in the journal did Danu enumerate the artifacts she used. What she did reveal was that the artifacts all should unite somehow, like fragments of a puzzle. The few artifacts they’d collected thus far appeared like ordinary things, just worn with time and use. No particular contour to them that implied they might combine. Nothing about the magicraft he should perform made sense. But then, so little made sense to him since the Mounds collapsed.
“There’s Sneem.” Willem departed from the cliff-hugging path to descend toward the hamlet nestled in a valley near the coast. The Scribe maneuvered the truck into a gap between other autos lined up along the boulevard and dispelled it back into silence.
In the mid-day hours, the human village boasted sparse but continuous activity. “I believe the vehicle shall go unmolested without a sentry set upon it in so peaceful a burg.”
“Not to worry. I shall guard it.” Willem smiled with pride before opening his jacket to reveal the pistol dangling out of the interior pocket.
“Do you even know how to use the pistol?” Lugh arched a speculative eyebrow.
“Not per se. I just collected it from outside the temple. The very sight of it might dissuade the faint of heart. If nothing else, I shall bash them in the head with it. It’s got a good weight to it.”
“I rather hope nothing in this rural place shall require bashing. The outpost isn’t far. I trust that Rehnquist will offer sanctuary. I shall return as swiftly as may be.” Lugh paused long enough to slip his long knife in the thigh pocket of his ‘cargo’ pants, as Willem called them, and then hastened toward the cliffs. With luck, all would be secure by evening.
Chapter Four
As the sun crested in the skies above the Ring of Kerry, Jonathan Wyndracer wheeled in deliberate circles, scanning his territory like a bird of prey. In dragon form, his wingspan extended more than a hundred feet, but his magic shielded him completely from view. The magic didn’t conceal his shadow, though, which chased him along the rough landscape far below.
Using the angle of his wings to provide lift, Jonathan sailed south toward Sneem. As he patrolled, movement along a ridge below snared his attention. Even at this distance, his sharp eyesight easily distinguished human from any other creature, and this creature skirting the rocky outcrop between the trees was most definitely fey. His magic might prevent the creature from seeing him dive bomb toward him, but the leathery beat of his wings as he swooped down betrayed his attack. The fey bolted, scrambling to gain the constricted path between the trees.
Jonathan snatched the fey. His talons ripped gashes deep into the yielding flesh before he slammed the goblin bodily to the ground. Jonathan mercilessly stomped the small fey, feeling the last of his struggle before the still of death. As he shifted his weight, more fragile bones snapped. The fey, like this goblin, were delicate creatures. Easy to kill, but tricky to catch. Silently, Jonathan regarded the foliage and boulders about him. Sometimes the goblins traveled in packs, but if this one had companions, they either found cover or used their fey Glamour to camouflage themselves. Tendrils of smoke curled from his snout. Jonathan snarled a warning, not that the fey ever heeded his warnings.
Discarding the mutilated goblin, Jonathan rose once more into the air. Sneem awaited, only another few moments’ flight away. He continued his patrol until he reached the outskirts of the village.
As he descended his shape changed. Rather than the four taloned-feet of the dragon, it was a man’s booted feet that touched the ground. The wings shrunk as they retracted, reducing the wingspan to twelve feet. Those wings wrapped about his shoulders and, as his magic flexed to make him visible once more, the wings acquired the appearance of an ankle-length leather duster. His tail also reduced in length and girth so that when he wrapped it about his waist, it appeared as nothing more than a scarlet snakeskin belt. The clothing that reformed around his humanoid shape was real and no illusion. To the highly developed magicraft of the dragonkind, causing his clothing to disappear and reappear as he required for shapeshifting was a trifle thing. He smoothed back his thick black hair, the tips of his claws scratching lightly against his scalp. Magic disguised the claws, but he still had them, just as his irises still possessed the reptilian slit, though at the moment they appeared rounded like a human’s and the steely grey of gunmetal. The black dress shirt and slacks fit his muscular form. Though taller than most humans at seven feet high, Jonathan imagined that he passed well enough for one. The locals accepted him without an undue amount of staring, though much of that was the result of his frequent visits to the towns in his territory, to condition them to become accustomed to him.
To that end, he embarked upon his stroll through town, acknowledging those familiar to him with nods and the brief, meaningless greetings that humans favored in passing. As he approached the main street, along which the restaurants and shops were collected, he detected a distinctive scent.
Fey.
Picking out a fey from among the humans required no trick. He honestly had to wonder how humans failed to recognize the foreignness of the fey. This one in particular acted enough out of the ordinary that Jonathan had to chuckle. The fey was short, like a goblin, but the coloring and mannerisms were all wrong. Not even Glamour could have hidden a goblin’s skulking movements. From the looks of him, this fey wasn’t using any Glamour at all, just a cap and sunglasses to disguise his more distinctive features. In addition to his scent, the way the fey behaved sparked the dragon’s curiosity. As Jonathan approached, the unassuming fey patrolled around the truck a full three times, though he made a show of it being casual. Pretending to check the taillights. Then coming around to clean a side view mirror. Sitting for a couple seconds on the front bumper while he appeared to read the signs of the shops. Whistling to himself as he wandered around to the other side.
Jonathan sidled, unnoticed, next to the vehicle without even attempting ste
alth. He leaned back against the side of the delivery truck, just around the rear bumper. Arms crossed and long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he remained motionless, lying in wait.
When the fey strolled around the corner he was busy looking off down the road, watchful for danger at a distance and completely oblivious to the threat right in front of him. The fey tripped over Jonathan’s ankles.
The dragon snatched the little man by the upper arm, preventing him from stumbling or escaping. His voice dropped into the deep, gravelly timbre of the dragon, inhuman and dangerous. “You should be more careful, fey. Never know what might be lurking.”
The fey gaped up at him, utterly frozen with fright.
The snarl of his lips, as he smiled with predatory mirth, revealed his extremely long, extremely sharp fangs. Suddenly, Jonathan spun, switching positions with the fey. He knocked the little man back against the side of the truck with just enough force to drive the air from his lungs. The dragon loomed over him. “A long way from the Mounds, aren’t you?”
The fey managed to both nod and shake his head in a haphazard way, as if torn between agreeing and disagreeing and not at all sure what the right answer might be. If indeed any answer might save his life.
“Do you even know in whose territory you’re trespassing?”
The fey stammered, “Dr-drag-dragon.”
“Is that an observation, or an answer?” Jonathan leered hungrily. He curled his fingers around the fey’s lower jaw, his talons pressing into the skin, but not breaking it. “You will tell me who you are and why you are here, or I will eat you. If I don’t like what I hear, I will eat you. If you lie to me, I will know, and I will,” his grip tightened fractionally, “eat you.”
The fey opened his mouth and managed only a terrified squeak. At the threatening rumble of Jonathan’s growl, the fey began to blather as swiftly as he could articulate words. “I am Willem Phillip Brodie Mac ind Óclaich, former apprentice of Master Scribe Tiberius Laven Davort of the Illustrious Archives in Tír na nÓg. More recently, I was the Master Scribe to the All-Mother and Creatrix Danu, herself. The grand and magical realm of the fey, the Mounds, the Otherworld of legend and fact, home of the Tuatha de Dannan, has collapsed. I have pledged my loyalty and service to Lugh Samildanach, The Shining One of the Tuatha de Dannan, son of Cain, former and, most likely, future king of the Seelie Court, and Champion of the Sidhe. In him lies the fragile hope for the salvation of all the fey, and in following his command, I stand watch here until discharged of my duties or slain. For if I die today by the snap of your jaws or in six months by the agony of the Fade, I shall not fail in my oaths.” And with that, the Scribe jerked a pistol out of his jacket. He showed the dragon the profile of the gun, holding it out as if it were talisman that should, by its very presence, drive him back.
Jonathan snatched it away before the fey could figure out the proper manner to hold it. The fey sucked in a desperate lungful of air. Jonathan covered his mouth with his palm before Willem could commence with hysterical screaming. “You’re a Scribe?”
Willem nodded.
“Where is The Shining One?”
Willem pointed toward the cliffs to the east.
“Are there valuables in the truck?”
The Scribe gave a pained look and then nodded again.
“Now, you will do as I say, Scribe. You will get in your truck and you will leave.” Jonathan pointed toward the shortest route out of town, so the fey would know exactly what was expected of him. “Now.” Jonathan released him. “I will not tell you twice.”
Willem slid along the side of the truck, keeping his back flat against the sheet metal until he climbed into the cab. Jonathan remained on the street, staring after the truck as it drove off in the direction he’d indicated. He waited a minute longer, then stepped between two of the shops that had just a narrow walkway between them. Once he was certain he was out of view, Jonathan became invisible once more. His wings flapped open and then with a mighty beat they carried him off the ground. As he flew after the truck, his form morphed back into the dragon.
After the truck crested a hill and headed back into a valley, where it was hidden from the line of sight from the village, Jonathan swooped down. He snatched up the truck, balancing it beneath him by one claw. His invisibility covered the vehicle as he hoisted it into the air. A deep chuckle rumbled through him as he heard the muffled, terrified screams of the Scribe.
Chapter Five
The last time Lugh visited the outpost in Kerry County the Sidhe still led the battle to banish the wizards from Ireland. That had been in the range of a few hundred years past. Less than a thousand, to be certain. Measurement of time lost its meaning when time stretched eternally before him. Once in a great while someone would inquire as to Lugh’s age, and in truth he did not know. There had been a celebration in the year he reached a thousand, for he’d been king of the Seelie Court on the occasion. He’d had a moment of reflection when he’d judged that he’d surpassed two thousand and failed to notice it. If pressed for his age now his most accurate answer would be that he was fairly certain he was a few thousand shy of reaching ten thousand. The Scribe Willem probably could determine Lugh’s age with a moderate amount of research. What Lugh did know was that he’d been sired within the first millennia after the All-Mother created the Mounds.
He paused on a ridge, scanning the steep hillside upon which he perched and the identical one across the valley. To the best of his recollection, he was heading in the proper general direction. If he risked teleportation he could instantly appear within the entrance of the outpost, but the expenditure of magic was too severe. Time was an equally precious commodity that the Fade stole from him moment by moment, spurring him to travel more openly than he preferred. The hunter in him disliked the wind blowing constantly at his back, carrying his scent before him to alert what may lurk in the trees and rocky outcrops. The rough landscape was ideal for the wolf-kin, or werewolves as they’d more recently dubbed themselves. They were vicious, possessed unnatural speed, and hunted in packs that could overwhelm and rend a lone Sidhe before he could mount a defense.
And even as he thought this, a stillness descended over Lugh that only came in the presence of a predator. The wind mocked him, altering course to taunt him with the hint of something foul and then stealing it away once more.
As Lugh reached for the long knife the hiss of an arrow’s flight slashed the air. In the second he detected it Lugh dodged, but not knowing from whence it came he failed to escape.
The arrow drove into the vulnerable hollow at the back of his right knee. His strength and stability failed as the agony exploded through his leg. Lugh kicked to the side with his left leg, scrambling for cover. He heard other arrows bounce off of the stones, missing him. Malicious, high-pitched laugher echoed about him. As his attackers encircled him, Lugh caught a strong whiff of their foulness.
Goblins.
They would besiege him in short order and with the fullness of their number, however many there were in this hunting party. Once goblins stumbled upon effective ambush techniques they employed them mercilessly. The debilitating wound rendered Lugh unable to stand, much less evade. Removing the arrow would cause more damage. He didn’t attempt to teleport, knowing the effort was futile. The searing torment was unmistakable. Silver. That metal defeated his magic the instant it touched his body, and with it embedded beneath the skin it would begin to slowly poison him. The goblins fashioned burrs into their arrowheads that easily broke off so that even if he managed to rip the arrow out, the silver would remain and his magic would still be lost to him.
Lugh struggled to prop himself against an outcrop. With his wounded leg tucked behind him, he prepared to defend himself with the long knife. Very likely, it would not be enough.
The goblins assailed him in a rush. Only four feet tall and spindly, a singl
e goblin was fragile and easy to dispatch. A few dozen of the swift, determined little beasts, with their sharp teeth, claws, and rough hewn weapons, washed toward Lugh in a tide of leathery, green skin and jabbering laughter.
Though Lugh prepared to slash and punch anything within reach, the goblins scrambling like lizards along the sharp incline above him flung a net over him. This was no thin-gauged netting like might be used for fishing, but a heavy, twisted rope weave meant to bring down prey with size and strength. The blade of his long knife stabbed through the netting where it tangled, allowing the goblins to wrench it away from him. Even as they dragged him from the rock, they chanted, “Sidhe, Sidhe,” between giddy grunts and evil giggles.
With the crippling leg wound, the effective snarl of the net, and the sheer number of assailants, there was no chance of escape. The goblins of the Mounds would have slain him there, stabbing him through the netting until he ceased to struggle and then rending his body until it was unrecognizable. This band was determined to capture him instead. With no magic and no physical way to defend himself, there was nothing he could do to thwart them from abducting him.
A roar resounded so loud and so near that it made the very ground quake, causing Lugh to cover his sensitive ears and wince against the power of it. The goblins discarded Lugh in their scramble to escape. Even as he struggled to free himself from the snare of the net, he witnessed a dragon slaughtering the entire hunting party, stomping and chomping his way through them all. “Rotten, little vermin fey!” The dragon’s voice growled the words like stones grinding together. Smoke curled from the dragon’s nostrils and from between his sharp teeth. A fire dragon. Not the mist dragon Lugh sought. “And you,” the dragon caught the netting with one of his fore-talons and hoisted Lugh up to dangle before him, “are trespassing, Sidhe.”
