The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  “On a certain night when he led his troop against you, he discovered the existence of your friend, Ian. It was a shock. For he sensed this man was of the king and yet not the king. From that time on, he endeavored to capture him and finally did so yesterday on Slievemore.

  “Determined to understand the riddle, he brought his new prisoner to the King’s Cave. The moment the Summer King saw Ian, he became enraged.

  “‘You fool!” he shrieked. ‘You let them catch you! You are no use to me now!”

  “Your friend staggered back, looking pale and distressed, and said, ‘I … know … you.’

  “‘Of course you know me, idiot,’ the King said. ‘I am you.’

  “It was a strange exchange, all the stranger because Ruarc felt the link between the two, yet could also perceive the difference. His new captive vehemently denied the charge and begged to be taken away. Alas, too late, for the Summer King reached out for your friend and subsumed him.”

  Laurel’s face drained of blood. She felt faint.

  “He killed Ian?” she choked.

  “No. He claimed him. For Ian carried a part of the king sent into your world to set himself free. Reunited, they exist as one. While this must cause you pain, good may come of it. Your friend’s nature impressed Ruarc. He believes that Ian can conquer his kingly self and tame the fiery nature that has done so much wrong. He will help him do this.”

  Laurel struggled to understand what Laheen was saying. She recalled the battle between Ruarc and Ian outside the King’s Cave. No wonder it was so vicious. She had witnessed mortal combat between two ancient enemies. It made the eagle’s words all the more poignant and, just for a second, she forgot about the Midsummer Fire and Faerie, forgot even about Honor.

  “Are you saying Ruarc wants to save his enemy?”

  Laheen’s eyes shimmered with tears.

  “Before he fell into madness, Ruarc was the most noble of my children. He believes in redemption, for is it not his hope also?”

  “And mine too,” she said softly.

  After Laheen left, Laurel went to the main hall to deliver his news. A Council of War was in progress. Grace stood at the head table, looking over a map of the western seaboard that showed the islands of Achill, Clare, and Hy Brasil. With her commanders around her, she was issuing orders and debating strategy. They spoke in Irish together, but when Laurel arrived, they switched to English. She had just told them about their new allies, when the Fir-Fia-Caw arrived.

  In three troops of seven moving as one, they fanned out across the hall like birds in flight formation. Jet-black eyes rimmed with gold scanned the room with the fierce stare of the predator. Both male and female were garbed in dark battle-dress of leather jerkins, tight trews, and knee-high boots. Their long feathered mantles had a violet sheen. In place of the wide hats, glossy dreadlocks fell to their waists. And though they bore almost human form, dark-skinned and sharp-featured, their spirit was that of the raven: proud and solitary, cold and dangerous.

  As they approached the head table, they let out their battle cry—kra-a-w kra-a-w—and the harsh sound shattered the air. Though no one cowered, most did step back. A terror had come among them.

  Captain Ruarc strode forward. His right arm lay motionless at his side, bound in a splint, but the opposite hand rested on the hilt of a great sword. In a guttural voice, he called out the names of his kindred, the last of their kind, as they presented themselves to Grace. It was Aróc who commanded the Mná-Fia-Caw, the troop of seven sisters. Cádac was chief over the second troop of males, while Ruarc led the first; but the Captain of the Queen’s Guard and their eldest brother was also leader over all.

  When Ruarc turned to Laurel, his gaze was one of such unflinching ferocity she thought she might faint. Regardless of what Laheen had said, the captain’s face was still ravaged.

  “Awrrrcckk. Not enemies. You and I.”

  She suppressed a shiver of primal fear. He was truly terrifying. But though her instincts told her to flee, she stepped closer to him. She wanted to say words only he could hear.

  “I have also lost someone I loved … and failed to protect.”

  A shudder passed through him. The raw anguish in his eyes was painful to meet; but it was a mirror of her own. Both acknowledged that, and bowed to each other.

  Grace invited Ruarc to view the battle plan. Pleased with the reinforcements, she was happier still when he told her that the birds of Clan Egli would also join them. An auspicious addition to the company. Tactics were adjusted and a new plan drawn up.

  The Council of War was almost over. Time was growing short. In the few hours left before sunset, they had to invade Hy Brasil, capture the Summer King, and light the Midsummer Fire. Each had a part to play. Grace’s army was to fight the king’s forces while the birds built the pyre on Purple Mountain. It was the Fir-Fia-Caw’s task to take the king prisoner, and Laurel’s to bind him and make him light the fire. All knew the gamble. If any one of them failed to do his or her part, the day would be lost.

  A final pact was agreed. If they were successful and the Ring of the Sun was forged, the Summer King’s fate would be determined by the Fir-Fia-Caw. Exchanging looks with Ruarc, Laurel knew what that meant. It would be up to Ian whether or not he remained a prisoner.

  The Council was disbanding when a commotion broke out at the entrance to the hall. Two guards carried a small bundle between them that hissed and spat like a wild cat. All in red, his cap askew, the little man kicked his legs in the air.

  “Put me down, ye big bollockses!” the cluricaun was bellowing. “It’s a gross indignification! A thundering disgrace! I’m an Ambassador of Faerie! I should be treated with the respect due me station!”

  Grace’s men laughed and jeered. Though Laurel recognized the captive, she didn’t speak up.

  “We do not tolerate spies,” the pirate queen warned.

  “Roast him till he reveals where he keeps his poitín!” someone shouted. “Me throat is parched!”

  There were more roars of laughter. The cluricaun paled.

  “She knows who I am!” he screeched, looking at Laurel.

  Grace raised an eyebrow.

  Laurel glared at the little man.

  “Did you know Ian was the Summer King?”

  The cluricaun went limp between the guards. Legs dangling pathetically, he hung his head.

  “I did and I didn’t,” he confessed at last. “We suspected the blaggard had made a scáth—a shadow of himself sent into the Earthworld—but they’re not aisy to detect. Not like a changeling. And when the scáth mingles with the mortal soul, it becomes its own man, and might not act like a fairy at’all. We could never be sure, and by the time we were, you and him were an item. It seemed best to leave ye’s be.”

  Laurel frowned.

  “When I asked you about Ian, you said you knew nothing.”

  “Did I now?” said the cluricaun quickly. “I’m thinkin’ that isn’t so, girseach. Ye asked me if I knew what happened to him and if I’d seen him. And I didn’t and I hadn’t and that wasn’t a lie. I’m a divil for sins of omission, not commission.”

  He stumped her there. Lies were never the problem, but rather all the truths he failed to tell her.

  “You’re hopeless,” she said.

  The cluricaun managed an apologetic shrug in midair. Grace signed to her men to let him go and they dropped him on the floor. He picked himself up, straightened his clothes, and bowed to the sea queen.

  “Hail, Granuaile. I greet you on behalf of Midir, High King of Faerie. He thanks you for aiding she who furthers our cause. He sends word of warning that all the sea fairies of Ireland will join the boctogaí of the West to fight at the side of the Summer King. He is their liege-lord and they must follie him, even to their doom. On the High King’s order no other fairy troop will join the fray, either for or against, but all will hold vigil for the Midsummer Fire.”

  “He’s not coming?” Laurel burst out. “Not bringing troops? But this is Faerie’s
battle! How can he—”

  Grace cut her off.

  “The High King is wise. Faerie is to be strengthened by the Ring of the Sun, not riven by war. Long have the sea fairies been sundered from their kinfolk by fault of their king and the Doom of Clan Egli. For other fairy troops to join this battle would only widen the breach. Some might fight for them, others against, and strife would be everywhere.

  “Take this message to Midir. Granuaile sends greetings. Since our two races first met together, the rescue of Fairyland has been the charge of humanity. Today will be as it has always been.”

  The cluricaun bowed to her.

  “Our thanks, great lady. I do as you bid.”

  The Council of War had come to a close. The plans were drawn. The time was nigh. Laurel glanced out the narrow window at the westering sun. Soon the Midsummer Fire must be lit. But first, a great battle. She felt the shudder in every part of her. Terrible things would happen before her mission was fulfilled. And how much worse would it be, if she failed!

  ate in the day of Midsummer’s Eve, a mighty armada set sail for Hy Brasil. Like a flock of white birds, the galleys and caravels flew over the waves, sheets swelling in the wind, bows rising through the spray. Each vessel carried a full complement of men, not only Grace’s sailors and pirates, but troops of warriors loyal to the O’Malleys. At the prow of the flagship stood the sea queen herself, cloak billowing behind her. Overhead flew squadrons of birds, shadowing the fleet like a mass of storm clouds. The susurrus of wings was like the sea below, surging with sound. Leading the birds were the ragged forms of the Fir-Fia-Caw, moving in formation across the sky. The great black wings beat in unison. The eyes flashed like lightning. At the head of the vanguard flew Ruarc, dark and terrifying.

  Laurel looked up as he passed by. He flew toward the last battle with his ancient enemy. Would this day see the two redeemed?

  Like the pirate queen, Laurel was dressed in battle-clothes of leather and mail, with a green cloak wrapped around her. She bore a shield emblazoned with a golden eagle; but where Grace bristled with weapons, Laurel had only a short sword and a dagger at her hip. Her chief weapon was the feather clasped to her belt.

  Nervous and edgy, she was surprised to sense the same tension among the men.

  “If you’re all ghosts,” she said to Grace, “doesn’t that mean you can’t die in this battle?”

  The sea queen snorted.

  “Would that were so, my foreign girleen. What a glorious game it would be! Alas, the truth is not as pleasant. Being otherworldy all, neither side has immunity from the other. We may harm and be harmed, even unto death.”

  The truth hit Laurel like a blow.

  “What will happen if you die today?”

  “Who can plumb that mystery?” The pirate queen shrugged. “I do not fear death. I have faced it already.” She grinned broadly. “And it didn’t kill me.”

  The gallows humor was lost on Laurel. She didn’t feel like laughing. There was one last question she had to ask.

  “Can I die here?”

  Grace was not a woman who minced her words.

  “You can. And those of Clan Egli, both the Fir-Fia-Caw and the birds. For we have entered the Perilous Realm and not all who do may return.”

  Laurel could feel her stomach churning. That meant the battle was real, not a fantasy. Many would die today, and so might she. She wished with all her heart it was only a dream. She wanted to wake up.

  As the fleet approached the shores of Hy Brasil, they were confronted by a formidable sight. Their enemy ranged along the coastline behind a wall of shields and a forest of spears. Like a shadow cast behind, the ranks in the back were a host of fell creatures. Ever skilled at war, the Summer King had called a hosting, not only of his own people, but also of foul things that dwelled in the nether regions of Faerie. Goblins, demons, red-eyed pookas, bogles, giants, hags, and glashans all swelled his forces. Creeping from the depths of nightmares, they looked the true enemy, grimacing and evil. They were what one expected to fight. But they were only the rearguard.

  Laurel’s heart ached as she viewed the front lines. In golden mail and glimmering with light stood the boctogaí, the sea fairies of Ireland, commanded to fight by their bellicose king. It was like warring with angels. Yet what made them beautiful, also made them terrible. For they were as cold and indifferent as the drowning waves of the ocean, ready to kill without mercy or remorse.

  Surveying the vast numbers, Laurel blenched. This was a far bigger army than they were prepared for.

  The onset was fierce and sudden. A rain of burning arrows lacerated the air, striking the ships as they anchored. White sails burst into flame. The fleet responded immediately. Cannon lobbed missiles at the shore. Sand and earth exploded. The front lines broke.

  The slaughter had begun.

  The sea queen and her commanders were shouting orders. From every vessel, small boats dropped like spiders into the water to land the troops. As men splashed ashore, the battle was joined.

  Laurel watched, appalled, as the tapestry of war unfolded. Clouds of arrows whistled overhead. Swords flashed. Spears skewered. Axes rose and fell as if hewing trees. The din itself was a shock, an uproar of howls, screams, and battle cries. She tried to tell herself it was only a dream turned briefly to nightmare. But the shrieks of pain were real, and patches of red bloomed everywhere. It was as if the heart of the island had been pierced and its blood was flowing.

  Grace signaled to Laurel to follow her. Their boat waited to take them to the battle.

  Laurel felt her courage desert her. Every part of her was shaking. She felt sick. She was not like the pirate queen reared to pillage and plunder. Growing up in a quiet neighborhood in a small town, she knew nothing of war. As her legs buckled under her, she gripped the gunwale to hold herself up.

  “I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I want to go home.”

  Her eyes were already filling with tears when her glance strayed eastward, beyond the fleet. There a shaft of sunlight danced on the waves and a spiral of mist rose up from the foam. Out of the mist rode the White Lady upon her pale horse. Laurel heard the words whispered in the deep of her mind.

  Death is not the enemy. Light the fire.

  Now it coursed through her, singing in her veins, the truth she had struggled with throughout her mission. Even if she died today she would live again, she would live forever. She was immortal.

  “Are you ready?” Grace roared from the boat.

  “I am!” she shouted back.

  The moment Laurel set foot on Hy Brasil, she was assailed on all sides. The enemy had been waiting for her. She raised her shield and gripped her sword. For Honor. The onslaught was a blur of chaos and noise. Blows thudded on her shield. Shouts rang in her ears. In the press of battle, bodies bashed against her and it was all she could do to keep on her feet. The clash of metal shattered the air. Arrows whined overhead.

  Despite her newfound courage, Laurel slipped quickly into shock. She was sluggish and slow to react. Luckily Grace shadowed her, parrying the strokes that would have killed her. The rest she fought off herself as she gained momentum. Soon she, too, was caught up in the madness.

  The horror was unrelenting. Her shield arm grew numb from the force of constant blows. Her clothes were soaked in sweat. Her sword dripped blood. She could hear herself grunting as she hacked and slew. The imperative to stay alive had become an imperative to kill.

  Even as the battle raged around her, Laurel’s glance strayed to the sky above. The sun was sinking in the West. Time was also an enemy they had to fight.

  Then the inevitable happened. She was separated from Grace. Tripping over a fallen body, she nearly lost her balance. As she struggled to right herself she lowered her shield, exposing her side. A goblin leaped toward her, screeching, his spear aimed to strike. She raised her arm. Too late.

  It all happened in slow motion. Laurel saw the horrible creature rushing at her, saw the deadly point of his spear. Then she watched, with
a strange detachment, as another point protruded from his chest. He was skewered on a javelin. And even as the goblin was tossed into the air, she faced the one who had saved her. There stood the Master Riddler in shining mail, laughing out loud. Before she could react, he grabbed her roughly and flung her aside.

  Laurel hit the ground with a cry of pain. But when she scrambled to her feet, she saw that he had thrown her out of harm’s way.

  Like a great wave rushing to shore, his troop surged against the O’Malley lines. Tall, splendid, and lethal, they were masters of Bruíon Amhra, the Wonderful Strife, the deadly game of Faerie war. And in voices beautiful and terrible, they sang like the sea as they swept all before them.

  The battle had taken a turn for the worse. Everywhere Laurel looked, the sea fairies were wreaking havoc on their foe. Grace’s army was being driven back to the sea.

  Then the Fir-Fia-Caw dropped out of the sky.

  Wings battering, beaks slashing, they drove a wedge between the armies where they could land. Swiftly, silently, each changed into warrior shape to form a phalanx. With two scimitars apiece, they spun their blades like propellors. Now they marched forward, grim-faced and deadly, cutting a great swathe through the enemy ranks. Their captain was the only one to wield a lone weapon, his shattered arm bound to his side; but his aim was unerring and he struck more blows than all of his kin.

  Even in the fog of war, Laurel saw how the boctogaí reacted to the Fir-Fia-Caw. The joyous charge of the sea fairies wavered and broke. There were looks of shame and guilt. Some fell back, unwilling to engage. Those who had stayed to fight did so without enthusiasm. The clash itself was disorienting to witness. Terrifying creatures fought against bright beings, but it was the dark ones who stood for what was right, while those who looked like angels were defending evil.

  Grace’s men were heartened by the Fir-Fia-Caw assault. With a clamor of horns and trumpets, their soldiers regrouped. It was time to gain ground, to advance on Purple Mountain. Swelling forward, they fell upon the enemy, broke, reformed, then charged again. Each onslaught cost them dearly; but every time they stopped, they were farther ahead, moving in increments like the incoming tide.