A Host of Furious Fancies

by Mercedes Lackey

  He went first to Toni, who was drinking soup from a wooden cup. She smiled when she saw him, though her dark eyes were shadowed by recent pain.

  “Ria was asking after you, warrior,” Eric told her, smiling as he knelt beside her. “I told her you would be with her soon.”

  “The healers say I may leave the High House at sunset,” Toni told him proudly. “And I will stand with her at the war-fire tonight.”

  “And ride with her to victory on the morrow,” Eric said, feigning a confidence he did not feel. Toni was Ria’s charioteer, and such brave warriors, who rode into battle unprotected by bull’s-hide shield, faced greater peril even than the foot spearmen.

  Suddenly the air was filled with music, and Toni’s face lit with pleasure. “Ah, Bard, see—the Lady comes!”

  Eric got to his feet, turning toward the dais of limewashed stone that stood at the north end of the High House. A light as bright as the sun shone there, and as it faded, the form of Aerete the Golden was revealed.

  She wore a white gown woven of Underhill magic, and her long golden hair was garlanded with blue flowers that shone as brightly as the stars in the night sky. Their perfume filled the High House, mingling with the scent of peat smoke and healing herbs. She was more beautiful than any woman of the Folk, tall and supernaturally fair, and her long graceful ears proclaimed her Otherworldly lineage plain for all to see. Since before Time began, Aerete had been their Lady, guarding and guiding them, protecting them from the dark spirits of glade and pool. She had taught them the arts of music and poetry, of healing and metalworking, protecting women in childbed and sending game to the hunters’ nets. She was Aerete, and they were her people.

  Eric knelt in reverence, as did Paul and José. Aerete moved slowly among the wounded, pausing to caress a bowed head or bring ease to a painful wound. At last She came to where Eric knelt, and he shuddered with pleasure at the touch of Her hand. All he asked from life was to serve Her, who was so wise and just.

  Again that moment of discordant music. But when he looked up into Her sky-colored eyes, the pang of unease faded.

  “Bard,” She said, and Her voice was a melody. “Walk with Me, and tell Me how goes the day.”

  Jesus. Kayla made a rude noise of disgust. She didn’t know who the blonde elf-bimbo was, but the way Eric was looking at her made Kayla want to puke. He was practically drooling.

  She aimed a hearty kick at his backside, but though she felt it jar through her as she connected, he didn’t react.

  None of them reacted. Not Eric, not Ria, not José or Paul. Even Hosea hadn’t noticed her, no matter what she did.

  It was creepy. One moment they’d been in Hell’s Own Kitchen, with Aerune about to eat them all for breakfast, and the next minute . . . here, in some kind of place that looked like a cross between a retro Braveheart and Merlin: The Lost Years. The whole Quest For Fire look had been amusing for about five minutes—who’d’a thought José was so buff under all those workshirts?—but the whole body paint and loincloths thing got old real fast. Everything looked real, felt real, smelled real—but her friends couldn’t see or hear her. She wasn’t even a ghost.

  What had Aerune done to them? Was this real—whatever “real” meant, when used in the same sentence with “Underhill”? And if Aerune was behind this, shouldn’t there be more dead people around? Shouldn’t they be dead?

  Helpless, angry, and far more frightened than she was willing to admit, Kayla trailed after Eric and the elf-lady. Everybody was talking like an episode of Masterpiece Theater—as if they’d forgotten all their usual words. Hosea’d even lost his homefolks accent, and Kayla would have been willing to bet good money this morning that wasn’t possible.

  And Eric . . . ! Eric didn’t grovel, which was what his conversation with this “Aerete”-bimbo sounded like to Kayla. It was like they’d all been replaced by pod people. And if they had, why wasn’t she included?

  Were they dead? Was she dead? And if not, could I just wake up and go home? Please?

  She trailed farther and farther behind Eric and Aerete, not having the stomach to listen to them. If Eric was groveling, then Aerete was talking to him like he was the family dog—kindly enough, but not as if she was particularly impressed by his intelligence.

  Kayla passed the hut where she’d seen Hosea before, but he wasn’t there. Probably off making daisy chains or something.

  :Kayla . . . :

  She stopped with a gasp. Someone was calling her from inside the hut—a faint voice, almost a whisper—but when she went in, there wasn’t anyone there, just a bunch of bearskins and the harp Hosea’d been working on before, sitting on top of the pile.

  :Kayla!:

  It was the harp.

  “Okay, the harp is talking to me.”

  :It’s Jeanette.: The harp sounded impatient. :Can you hear me? Kayla, this isn’t real.:

  “News flash,” the young Healer muttered, going over to pick up the harp. When she touched it, she almost dropped it—it was warm, and seemed to vibrate faintly in Kayla’s hands. “So it isn’t real. I got that. So what is it?”

  :I don’t know. I think Aerune’s dreaming. They don’t sleep, you know, but they dream sometimes while they’re awake. And he’s caught the others up in his dream.:

  Elves dreamt awake, she meant. But somehow the humans had gotten caught in it.

  “So why not you or me?” Kayla asked.

  :I’m dead:, the harp whispered, and Kayla could swear the thing sounded smug about it. :And I don’t know. Maybe you can fix whatever he does to you before it affects you.:

  Wonderful. “What do I do? We have to get out of here,” Kayla announced, hating the fear she heard in her own voice.

  :Follow Aerete. Maybe she’ll lead you to Aerune and you can find out what’s going on. Maybe you can wake the others up . . . :

  The harp’s whispering speech stopped. Kayla stared at it for a long moment, then set it down gently and ran out of the hut, looking around wildly. Aerete and Eric were standing a few yards away, talking. She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, the way a mother might kiss a small child. Then he turned back toward the village, and she walked on.

  Kayla hesitated, unsure about which of the two to follow, then shrugged. Might as well take Jeanette’s advice. How could she be in worse trouble than she was now? She sprinted after Aerete.

  If she’d hoped Aerete would be able to see her, Kayla’s hopes were quickly dashed. The woman walked on as if she were alone, though Kayla was beside her close enough to touch her dress. The elf-woman’s destination seemed to be a ring of standing stones that stood on the crest of a low hill. They weren’t all that impressive by Stonehenge standards—the tallest of them came up only to Kayla’s shoulder—but if you had to find them, dig them up, and hump them up to the top of the hill with muscle power alone, she guessed they represented a considerable effort. The hill was taller than it looked, too. By the time they reached the top, Kayla was panting, though her companion showed no sign of strain.

  Aerete walked into the ring of stones and vanished.

  For a moment Kayla stood watching, unable to decide what to do; then, muttering curses, she followed.

  There was the eye-blink transition she’d gotten used to going through the Gates. She was in a hall. It was like the one back in the village—round with a round firepit in the middle—but everything here was of finer construction, as though someone had taken the other and improved upon it. Eric says the elves can’t create things, only change them. So I guess if this is the Bronze Age, they’ve got to be Bronze Age elves. The walls here were of polished golden oak, and the torches set in the walls in golden brackets burned with a clear smokeless flame. Where the dais had been back at the High House was a block of polished white marble draped with bright silks, and on it were two chairs—Roman, by the look of them—and a table with a goblet and decanter on it.

  Aerune was sitting in one of the chairs.

  Kayla shrank back with a hiss of dismay, but he d
idn’t seem to see her. He was looking at Aerete. Kayla studied him. Aerune looked different than the dark monster she had faced twice before. He wore a golden crown around his forehead, and was dressed in tunic, leggings, and boots in shades of green and gray.

  Aerete walked forward until she stood at the foot of the dais, and knelt. Aerune sprang to his feet to raise her up.

  “Aerete, my heart—you must never kneel to me!”

  “But I would ask for your help, Lord Aerune,” Aerete said, and there was real pain in her voice for the first time.

  Guess she can drop the Lady of the Manor act here.

  “Anything—you know you have my heart, Aerete. What can you ask for that I would not give you?” Aerune told her passionately.

  “Kindness for my people, Lord Aerune.”

  Kayla saw him wince, as if Aerete had touched on a sore point. “They are not worthy of your love, my heart. Creatures of mud who return to the mud in the wink of an eye. How can we, who are formed of the stuff of stars, care for such as they?” There was pleading in his voice, as though it was an old argument he knew he couldn’t win.

  “I had hoped your love for me had softened your heart, my lord Aerune,” Aerete said softly. She settled into the chair he offered her, and Aerune hurried to pour her a cup of wine.

  “Have I not avoided their villages at your request? No longer does my Hunt ride among them. I take neither their children nor their maidens for my sport, all because you have asked it of me. Tell me what troubles you,” Aerune begged, leaning toward her.

  He really loves her, Kayla realized, impressed. She knew that Aerune was old even as the Sidhe reckoned years, and that what she was seeing now had happened a long time ago, if it had ever happened at all, but right now Aerune seemed a lot like the bangers she’d known back in East L.A.—proud, touchy, desperately in love and afraid of looking stupid.

  He seemed very young, somehow. Young, and vulnerable.

  “They die,” Aerete said sorrowfully. “They die and I can do nothing to save them. Strangers from across the water invade their lands, and harry them far worse than you ever did, Aerune. Many die, and I am powerless to save them. I have gone to the chief of the Eastmen and asked for peace. The Isle of the Blessed is wide, and surely there is room for all to live there in peace. But he does not know our kind, and there is a strangeness about these Eastmen. My magic has no power to soften his heart.”

  “Let me rip it from his chest, and you will find it soft enough, Bright Lady,” Aerune said. Aerete sighed and turned her face away, bowing her head.

  “They live so short a time—must we take even their brief span of years from them? I want peace, Aerune, not more death.”

  Aerune sighed and shook his head—unwilling to say anything that would hurt her, but certain he was right, Kayla could tell.

  “The mortalkind are not like us, Aerete. Their lives burn as hot and bright—and brief—as the fires they kindle upon the hills in spring, and their hearts seethe with emotions so raw and ardent that to feel one tenth of their passion would destroy any of Danu’s Firstborn. Their lives are too short for them to value life; they spend their hatreds thoughtlessly, welcoming the death they have not the wit to understand. And so I tell you plainly—the only comfort your folk may find is in death. And the only peace you can find for your mortal pets is in the death of their enemies.”

  Aerete bowed her head. “I know you would never lie to me. But is it the only way to save them? I had hoped for another answer.”

  “Would you bring them Underhill and dare Oberon’s wrath for your disobedience?” Aerune asked. “Or fly for sanctuary to the Dark and put yourself and them at the mercy of Queen Morrigan? The halls of the Dark Court are not for such as you, my love. I have walked them. I know.”

  “Then must they die?” Aerete asked, and Kayla saw tears glittering in her eyes. “Must they all die?”

  “They must fight against the Eastmen, and live as best they may,” Aerune answered. “Only with the death of their enemies can they live as you hope them to.”

  Aerete rose to her feet, her face sad. “I thank you for your wise counsel, Lord Aerune. I must go now. They face their enemy in battle on the morrow, and I would not deny them what comfort I may give them in the little time that remains.”

  “Will you come to me again?” Aerune asked her eagerly, reaching for her hand. She clung to him a moment, as if drawing strength from his touch, then pulled away.

  “When the battle is done. When they are safe, Lord Aerune, I will come to you again.”

  This is bad, Kayla thought. For all Aerune’s fancy talk about not having human feelings, she could tell he loved Aerete with all his heart. I’ve got to warn him that she’s gonna die tomorrow—

  But suddenly Aerune’s hall was gone. Kayla stood upon a hillside overlooking a wide valley through which a shallow stream meandered. It was early morning, and she shivered with cold even with the protection of her mail tunic. Mist still covered the ground, and the sun hovered just above the horizon. Below her, on the hill, she could see the warriors of the village gathered in battle array—chariots at the front, pikemen behind. She saw Ria and Toni in one of the chariots, Eric standing beside them with a flute in his hand, his hair garlanded with flowers. Hosea, Paul, and José were at the back, among the spear carriers. There were too many people here to count, but less than a hundred, Kayla thought. More like one of those SCA events Elizabet took me to in L.A. than a real army.

  And across the valley, five times their number. The enemy wore armor, not painted skins, and she could see strong wooden shields and spear tips glittering with metal.

  They’re gonna get creamed!

  There was a shimmer and a flash of light, and suddenly Aerete was there beside Eric. She was mounted bareback upon a white elvensteed, dressed now in the fashion of her people, wearing nothing more than the white doeskin loincloth and short red-dyed leather cape that her lady warriors wore into battle. Painted runes gleamed on her skin, as blue and bright as neon, and her hair was braided and feathered as theirs was. She obviously meant to ride into battle with her warriors, to ensure their victory by fighting beside them. Was she that brave—or did she not know what the iron spears the enemy carried could do against elven magic?

  “No! Don’t do it!” Kayla shouted, running down the hill toward the war host.

  But before she could reach them, a horn blew from somewhere in the ranks of the villagers, answered by a deeper horn from the other side of the valley. A cheer went up, and the chariots began to roll down the hill. As the enemy saw the host begin to move, they began to howl, beating their swords against their wooden shields with a sound like distant thunder, surging forward to meet their foes.

  Kayla barely reached the bottom of the hill—too late to stop the charge—when the first bright agony lanced through her as one of the spears found its mark. She had one brief moment to realize that coming to a battle was probably a pretty stupid thing for a Healer to do.

  She concentrated on her shields, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to stand where she was, willing herself not to feel. In moments the orderliness of both armies had dissolved, and there was only a mob of men and women armed with swords and spears trying to kill each other. Aerete was in the forefront of the charge, as visible as if God was shining his own spotlight on her, and even in the brightening day Kayla could see the flashes of blue fire as she struck at the enemy with her levin-bolts. Kayla felt every strike, every sword-blow, that either army landed, but distantly, as if the pain were being felt by someone else. Shunt it aside, Elizabet had told her. Be the rock in the stream, unharmed by the water’s flow.

  Kayla was glad to be so far away that she could not see what was happening clearly. What she could hear was bad enough—the screams of people and horses, the dull thick sound of metal hitting meat. She held her breath, crying without knowing it, digging her fingers into the palms of her hands. What could possibly be worth this much pain? Couldn’t they see—couldn’t they fe
el—what they were doing to each other?

  For a while it seemed as if Aerete’s presence would be enough to gain victory for her folk. Despite their superior weapons and numbers, the enemy had little taste for facing one of the Sidhe upon the battlefield, and stayed away from her as much as possible, allowing the spearhead of Aerete’s warriors to plunge deep into the shield line. But Kayla knew how this story ended.

  She didn’t see who threw the spear. She only saw the moment when Aerete’s white horse plunged sideways, the moment when its shining rider fell to earth. There were groans and cries of dismay from Aerete’s folk; Kayla watched through tear-blurred eyes as they clustered around, trying to save her. But the blow delivered by the spearhead of Cold Iron was mortal.

  Suddenly the sky darkened, as if there were about to be a thunderstorm, though a moment before the sky had been clear. Cold winds whipped up, driving black clouds before them, covering the sky. Aerune appeared, standing where Aerete had fallen. He knelt beside her and saw that she was dead, then rose to his feet with a howl of despair that could be heard above every other sound upon the battlefield.

  And then he began to kill.

  Kayla watched in horrified fascination, unable to look away. He must know now that the weapons the enemy carried could kill him, but it didn’t seem to matter to him. None of them touched him or the creatures he summoned to aid him—black wolves the size of ponies, ravens bigger than the biggest eagle ever hatched. It was like watching something out of a horror movie, like watching a harvester move over a field of standing grain. Aerune moved across the field, his sword spinning in his hand, and every time it struck an enemy died.

  The Eastmen would have fled or surrendered, but Aerune did not let them. His creatures harried them from behind, keeping them on the battlefield, herding the invaders toward Aerune’s sword as the storm he had summoned gathered and finally broke, the rain turning the blood-soaked battlefield to a sea of red mud. In the end, the Eastmen were fighting one another to stay away from him, killing nearly as many of their own in their frantic attempts as Aerune did.