Myths and Magic

by Kevin Partner

  Jessie Hemlock grunted. “Well, it certainly beats havin’ her come with us. And besides, she don’t seem to have a sense of smell so she don’t mind.”

  “That Stinky Willy,” piped up Gramma, “‘ee knows the leatherin’ ‘e’ll get if he doesn’t see ‘er safe to that randy-view she was goin’ on about.”

  “Rendezvous,” Velicity sighed. “She’d told her squadron, whatever that might be, to await her at a specific location but she’d been delayed when handed over to General Odius.”

  Gramma nodded. “Well, I liked ‘er. A bit posh but alright in my book.”

  The old woman looked along the country lane which, being of Varman construction, was perfectly straight. “So ‘ow far behind ‘em d’you think we are now?”

  “Too far,” Jessie responded, “we won’t catch up with them now, not until they make a new camp, and I can’t see any way of getting our hands on the vessels if they’ve done that.”

  “I can’t see how we’d do it out in the open, either,” Velicity said. She'd lost her shoes in the bonfire rescue, and her dress was disintegrating as she walked, barefoot.

  Jessie chuckled. “Well, on the road, there’s always the chance of distractin’ them. That’s your speciality, of course, and while they was chasin’ you, we’d have a chance.”

  “Well, you can forget that, Jessie Hemlock. I’m keeping my mysteries mysterious from now on,” Velicity said, stamping her feet petulantly.

  “Not before time,” mumbled Jessie under her breath.

  But it was no use. Even baiting Velicity couldn’t mask the dread in her heart - although the fact that the young woman’s beauty seemed entirely undiminished by her dishevelment was extremely galling. The Faerie King was coming, sooner rather than later, and he’d be met on this side by his servant who now possessed three of the four remaining sources of magic. And here they were, three unarmed women, trudging along a country lane in pursuit of an army of tramps they wouldn’t catch until they conveniently pitched camp. It was all a bit pathetic. But it was also all they could do. Keep walking, keep resisting. Maybe get some revenge.

  #

  “At last, I do believe he’s coming, Bently.”

  The Faerie King peered at a moving figure in the magically enhanced field of view offered through the doughnut stone. “There, do you see?”

  Bently shuffled nervously forward. At moments like this, he wished he had the traditional hunchback, so he could keep his head protected from his master’s fickleness. The servant raised himself on tip-toes and squinted through half-opened eyes at the painfully bright, uncouthly green, landscape. Yes, there was a large figure stumbling across the countryside.

  “How do you know it’s him, master?” he asked, ducking out of swiping range.

  “Oh, Bently, Bently, Bently,” the king sighed, “you are a truly inferior creature without a trace of magic to you.”

  Bently nodded with enthusiasm. “Indeed, master.”

  “I know it’s him, my faithful servant. My certainty grows as he approaches. I can feel it in my fingers. I do believe, I can even feel it in my toes.”

  Unsure whether this was a good thing, Bently took a few steps back from the portal.

  “Shall I fetch the lady, master?”

  The man at the window smiled.

  “Oh yes, yes indeed. She must be here to see my plan fulfilled and her foolish webs proven vain.”

  Relieved to be excused from his master’s presence for a few moments, Bently headed for the door.

  “Oh, and inform my generals that it is time.”

  Bently shivered.

  #

  It wasn’t that the landscape was familiar, but something less rational that left Chortley convinced he was heading in the right direction. This was fortunate because there was little of his rational mind left, only enough to know that sanity was no more than a memory.

  He couldn’t even work out why it was so important for him to reach the hills and find this round stone, or why he was carrying this big stick. Or why he felt so damned hot when the weather was decidedly frosty. Or where his horse was. Despite all this uncertainty, the one thing he was sure of was that his labours would be over when he arrived at the stone circle.

  Chortley felt as though he must have been walking for hours but he had no memory of the time passing. The day was now bright but, being late in the year, the sun was never going to reach high in the sky, so he couldn’t tell how near noon it was. He just knew that his legs ached, and his bare feet were sore and stained brown (his shoes had disappeared when he’d forded the upper reaches of the Crapple). If he’d had any capacity for self-awareness left, he’d consider himself a pretty pathetic specimen indistinguishable from any common vagrant. But he didn’t, so he plodded on.

  And his plodding brought him, eventually, to a sight that was undeniably familiar. He was at the bottom of a dell and, looking up the slope ahead of him, he saw the two large standing stones guarding the entrance to the stone circle. Excitement coursed through Chortley’s veins, and his legs found renewed strength as he ran up the hill.

  He reached the top, breathless and feeling as though he might explode with the heat. And, as he stepped between the sarsens, he combusted.

  #

  Percy felt as though he’d landed on his hooves. After his escape from the madman, he’d made his way to a nice farm where he’d been housed in a clean barn with plenty of hay to munch on. And now he was out on a pleasant jaunt in the countryside. True, he was carrying two people, but neither was particularly heavy and, most importantly, both were tolerably sane. The weather was nice, the pace was comfortable, and he was in no hurry to return to his urban stable back in Crapplecreek.

  For his part, Bill wasn’t much of a rider, having never been able to afford a horse but this particular beast was a joy. Flem Hemlock had found it wandering across his fields, calm enough but covered in old, dried, sweat. He’d approached it carefully and, having seen the insignia of the Crapplecreek city garrison on its saddle, he found the horse a place in the barn while he considered what to do with it.

  Although unhappy at Bill and Brianna’s decision to head off to the stone circle, Flem was at least able to insist they went on horseback. Vokes had wanted to go with them, but the horse couldn’t carry three and, besides, Bill was in no mood to accommodate him.

  Right now, Bill’s arms were around Brianna’s tummy as she guided the animal towards the Cartwheel and, despite the numbness in his behind, he was, at that moment, content to stay exactly where he was. He could feel every movement of her body as the horse trotted along effortlessly and his nose delighted in the herby aroma of her hair, tied in a single bunch running down her shoulders. And the best bit of all was that she clearly didn’t mind, as his arms pulled her into a backwards hug, and, indeed, he’d felt her relax almost instantly, so now he was watching the landscape, watching the weather but, above all, watching her.

  They’d left the cultivated farmland behind them some time ago and had cantered onto the deserted downlands. The first indication that Chortley might have come this way was the burned-out shell of a shepherd’s hut. They’d seen the smoke from miles away, but there was no sign of Fitzmichael, alive or dead, when they arrived. They’d found the charred remnants of his boots in the Crapple, heading east, so they knew he’d gone that way but had no idea how far ahead he was.

  Bill started in surprise as Brianna shouted and brought the horse to a sudden stop.

  “Look!”

  She pointed at the grassy horizon where a line of low hills could be seen.

  And he saw it.

  “Fire!”

  There was the unmistakable orange flash of flames which seemed to be spreading sideways rather than in their more natural upward direction.

  “It’s him,” Brianna said, before kicking the horse into an instant gallop across the grass.

  #

  Humunculus watched Fitzmichael get up again. Although he’d never admit it out loud, he was nervous. He’d jus
t seen the boy shoot jets of fire from his arms in a most uncontrolled and alarming way. The lady, the boy's mother, had also been there, and she’d gasped in alarm so at least it wasn’t part of whatever plot she’d cooked up with her decrepit father.

  Fitzmichael looked exhausted, dirty and insane, his eyes bloodshot but determined. What did he think he was here to do? thought the Faerie King. He did have the staff this time so that part of the plan had worked, and he was of the right blood to perform the ritual, but the boy didn’t seem to know what needed to happen. There was a considerable part of the Faerie King’s personality that could only be described as craven, but it was currently overwhelmed by pride, and there was no way he’d show fear or indecisiveness in front of the mother and his servant, let alone the generals who waited in the shadows behind him.

  He stepped forward to the window and called. Fitzmichael spun around as if he’d been struck, looking for the source of the sound. The Faerie King called again.

  “Come, my boy, I’m over here,” he said, using his most charming voice, “and your mother is here too, waiting for you.”

  At the mention of his mother, Fitzmichael turned to face the doughnut stone, as if she was some sort of compass guiding him towards her. The woman herself was quietly sobbing beside the Faerie King, but he was so focused on this moment, the culmination of the efforts of four decades, that he neglected even to strike her.

  Fitzmichael was approaching the portal, his eyes unfocused and his hands out in front of him as if he were groping in the dark for something he couldn’t quite see. In one hand he held the all-important staff and the Faerie King watched it waving around as Chortley stumbled closer.

  And then Fitzmichael became aware of the man within the stone. The Faerie King watched as his saviour’s pupils contracted, he stood up straight and still, waiting.

  “Now, pass the staff to me, my clever boy, and your mother will come and greet you.”

  The Faerie King’s gaze followed the staff as it swung, wobbling, through the air, and struck the side of the doughnut stone, causing Fitzmichael to overbalance and come crashing to the ground.

  “Fool!” snarled the King.

  Regaining control in an instant, he called to the boy again.

  “Come now, you are nearly at your journey’s end. Get up and pass me the staff.”

  Fitzmichael’s head appeared on the edge of the portal as he dragged himself to his feet. He acted as if the staff was incredibly heavy and used both hands to lift it to vertical in front of the doughnut stone before, after a moment’s hesitation, he let it drop.

  This time, it fell into the hole. But nothing happened - both halves of the staff remained firmly in the Brightworld, beyond the reach of the Faerie King who turned with anger on the boy’s mother.

  “Get him to do it right or I kill you both now!” he barked.

  Tears running down her pretty face, the woman came to the portal and looked down at her son, who was kneeling. He looked as though he was suffering from a fever and she could see that his hands were livid with fresh burns, and yet he was shivering.

  “Son,” she said. The shivering stopped and, slowly, the young man looked up with red, wet eyes. She couldn’t tell whether the expression he wore was fear, rage or pure madness but the task had to be completed now, one way or another.

  “My son, you must pass the staff through the hole in the stone,” she said, not sure if he could hear her or whether, if he could, he was able to understand her. “Do this, son, and your labours will be over, and we may be reunited.”

  Now she knew what she saw in his face, and it was her turn to be frightened. He hauled himself to his feet, using the staff as a prop then swayed a little as if he was lightheaded. Without saying a word or making a sound, he lifted the staff and, with seeming effort, he thrust it at her.

  She leapt back as the wood passed through from one world to another. There was no sign that anything had changed, and yet she knew that the portal was now open as the staff was pulled back by her son into the Brightworld and he collapsed onto the grass at the foot of the doughnut stone.

  The Faerie King gave a demented laugh and stepped through the portal.

  #

  “Oh, bugger,” Gramma said, standing and sniffing at the air.

  Jessie Hemlock shook her head. “We’re too late, it’s open.”

  The three women had all stopped, quite suddenly, as they sensed a change in the world.

  “Well, if the portal’s open and he’s coming through, I intend to face him with my powers,” Velicity said.

  Gramma nodded. “Aye, me too. That Faerie King, ‘e’ll get the leatherin’ of ‘is life if I gets me ‘ands on that vessel.”

  “Well, if we’re going to do something, we’d better do it quick,” Jessie said. “The Lord of the Tramps up ahead is headin’ for the Cartwheel, as sure as apples is apples, which means he plans to hand over the vessels to the King. And if that happens…”

  The women shivered as they each pondered that eventuality.

  #

  A few miles away, Brianna pulled Percy to a halt and half turned to Bill.

  “Did you feel that?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t doing anything!” protested Bill without thinking.

  Brianna rolled her eyes. “Something’s happened - over at the Cartwheel.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Call it feminine intuition if you like,” Brianna said. “Or maybe I’m just imagining the worst possible thing that could happen and assuming it has. But something’s going on up there.”

  “Then let’s move!” Bill said.

  Brianna twisted in the saddle so she was looking directly into his eyes.

  “In which direction?”

  “Up to the Cartwheel!”

  “Are you sure?” Brianna asked. “There’s no telling what we might find, and if the king is loose, we don’t stand a chance.”

  Bill thought for a moment, caught between a desperate need to get to the stones and his fear. And then he realised; it wasn’t fear for himself, this time, that was paralysing him.

  In a flash, he grabbed Brianna’s shoulders and shoved her from the horse’s back. She landed in the soft grass with a grunt but, by the time she got to her feet all she saw was Percy’s disappearing backside as Bill steered him erratically across the downs.

  Chapter 27

  The Faerie King stepped through the portal and into the Brightworld. Shielding his eyes, he was barely aware of the body lying prone in the grass and instead, after a moment, he turned back to the circular stone and beckoned. Bently climbed through next, his eyes cast down, and handed his master a pair of goggles with lenses of dark glass.

  “Ah, that’s better,” the King said. “Now this world looks rather more welcoming, more like home. Thank you, Bently. Now, my dear, you next.”

  The woman stepped across. For a moment, she stood in the bright sunlight, her hands over her face, but after shaking her head as if waking from a dream, she crossed the grass and knelt by her son, squinting and weeping.

  “You know, when I first met you,” said the king, looking down at her, “you were full of laughter and beautiful beyond compare. Now look at you; a snivelling, grovelling old woman. Whatever happened?”

  The woman, who’d been cradling her unconscious son, looked up at the king with pure hate.

  “What happened?” she snarled. “You happened!”

  She leapt at him but, with a lazy gesture of dismissal, he flung her across the stone circle and through the monoliths at its entrance to land just over the lip of the hill. Her son landed beside her, tossed across the grass like a leaf in the wind, the staff still clasped in his senseless hands.

  “There now,” said the Faerie King. He turned to Bently who was quivering at his side and said, in a gentle voice. “Ask my generals to join me, would you, my faithful servant.”

  There was an emphasis on the penultimate word that Bently wasn’t entirely comfortable with, but he nodded before turning
and heading back through the portal again with relief.

  “I suspect my soldiers will be in the mood for a little hunt,” the king said loud enough to ensure his voice carried out of the stone circle. With a chuckle, he sat on the grass beside the circular stone and waited for the fun to begin.

  The woman moaned as she rolled over onto her front and raised herself onto her knees. Every part of her ached, and her legs felt as though they’d been stripped bare. But still she crawled over to her son who was lying inert on his back with his face pointing skywards but his eyes shut. She felt the heat in his cheeks, her hands moistened by the sweat pouring from him. He was breathing, just.

  “Oh, my son. What have I done to bring you to this end?” she cried, burying her face in his chest and rocking back and forth.

  “Mother?”

  “Son!” she shouted, raising her head and looking into his eyes, but they were still shut.

  “Mother, I’m here,” the voice repeated, and she realised the sound was coming from behind her, so she turned and looked up.

  #

  “Mother?” Bill said. He was certain it was her, not least because she’d called Fitzmichael “son”. She looked small, almost frail, hunched over Chortley and her eyes were filled with fear as she gazed up. And then she recognised him.

  “Wayland? Is it you?” she said, her face full of terrified hope.

  Bill shook his head. “My name’s Bill, William.”

  She stood and embraced him. “Your true name is Wayland, my good boy. Your father would never call you by it, he said it wasn’t natural, but you are Wayland.”

  Pulling away from her embrace, Bill dropped to the grass beside Chortley.

  “What can we do for him?” he said. “He took my magic, but it’s killing him.”

  Astria knelt down next to him.

  “He must give it up willingly, or it’ll tear him apart,” she said, “but he can’t even speak, and we must hurry, for the king hasn’t forgotten us.”