Dreams and Shadows

by C. Robert Cargill

  “Ewan,” Yashar’s voice boomed.

  “Yeah?” said Ewan over his shoulder, refusing to take his eyes off Dietrich.

  “I got this.”

  Ewan stepped away. “They’re all yours.” He vanished, running off into the fog.

  Yashar unfolded his arms, pointing a single finger at Axel.

  Axel shook his head nervously, backing away. “No!” he cried. “It wasn’t me. It was him!” He pointed at Dietrich. “It wasn’t me!”

  “I know,” said Yashar. “You get off easy.” With a thought, he turned Axel inside out, the redcap’s innards splattering on the pavement with a wet slap. Yashar cocked his head at Dietrich.

  Dietrich eyed the pile of bone, muscle, and skin that was once his friend and then looked up at the djinn. Sneering, he spat angrily on the ground, cursing him. “Don’t keep me waiting,” he said. “Just do it.”

  Yashar flung himself at the redcap, grabbing him by his shirt with one hand, pummeling him mercilessly with the other. His huge fist pounded relentlessly into Dietrich, flesh and bone not slowing the beating for a moment. He picked him up off the ground, throwing him into a nearby brick wall, the redcap’s body flopping limp as a rag doll onto the ground below.

  Yashar was undeterred. He picked Dietrich up again, heaving him across the street, slamming him into another wall.

  Once more Dietrich hit the ground. What few remaining bones of his that weren’t completely shattered were merely broken. He tried to push himself up, but the bone in his forearm splintered, puncturing the skin. He cried out.

  Yashar slowly marched across the street, picking Dietrich up, throwing him one last time, putting him through a cinder-block wall. Blocks showered inward. Dietrich writhed on the floor, trapped beneath half a dozen blocks. With a single hand, Yashar palmed a cinder block, straddling the redcap.

  “You deserve far worse,” said Yashar, “but I don’t have the time.”

  The cinder block came down, bursting his head like a melon.

  Yashar took a deep breath. His flesh lost its golden sheen, returning to its native olive, terrible scars marring his once smooth skin. He shrank, tufts of thick black hair growing out of his head. Within seconds he was a somewhat disfigured mockery of his old self, brutalized and scarred, but whole.

  Colby stood behind him, eyeing the carnage. Yashar could feel him there but didn’t turn around.

  “Do you still hate me?”

  Colby shook his head. “Hate that strong is only worth carrying around with you if you aim to use it to kill a man. Otherwise, what are you keeping it for?”

  “And?” asked Yashar.

  “I don’t intend to kill you.”

  “I sold you out. I told them where Ewan was.”

  Colby nodded. “You can’t hold your breath underwater forever.”

  “No, you can’t.” Yashar stood up and turned around.

  Colby scrutinized him; Yashar was intact, but just barely. “Let’s go find Ewan.”

  SEVERAL REDCAPS HUDDLED together behind an imposing stone troll, cautiously moving up the street through an ever-thickening fog, their pikes extended, their faces full of fear. The troll was massive, carved from granite, with eyes of onyx, teeth made of jagged quartz, dragging an uprooted tree for a club, the sound of grinding stone echoing off the buildings around him as he moved. The fog grew thicker still. And it began to whisper awful things.

  The redcaps huddled closer, gripped their pikes tighter.

  The air grew colder. The world dimmed darker.

  “Just do it already,” one of the redcaps growled.

  The shadow materialized in the darkness. Snatched a redcap by its pike. Vanished into the murk.

  The redcap screamed as if his very flesh was being torn from his body.

  The troll swung its tree through the blackening mist, striking nothing. It bellowed a shrill, bitter boom that rattled windows, setting off car alarms blocks away.

  The screaming stopped. The bellow echoed into the distance, the patter of rain the only nearby sound. White knuckles clasped the two remaining pikes.

  A balled-up red knit cap and a pile of rent skin slopped on the pavement before them.

  The shadow emerged again, dragging another of the redcaps, hollering, off into the darkness.

  The last redcap flailed his pike, slashing repeatedly at the nothing surrounding him on all sides. The troll looked down at him, rockbound jaw dangling, onyx eyes wide with horror.

  The redcap grew uneasy, trying to puzzle out what the troll’s expression meant. Then he too was tugged away into the brume.

  The troll thrashed its tree, smacking the ground around it, its trunk audibly splintering, cracking. It cried out, confused, upset. He was alone and afraid in a dark morass, both hands tightly around his maul.

  Then the tree came alive, writhing, gnashing, clawing at the troll. He was wrestling a snake by its tail, fangs sinking into his stony flesh, breaking off chunks, spraying gravel.

  The troll tossed away the tree, cracking it in half against the corner of a nearby building.

  Bill the Shadow stepped from the fog, staring silently at the troll.

  The troll took one step back, rearing up, his arms stretched wide, ready to swat Bill between his hands.

  Bill slowly, politely, removed his hat, the shadows receding from his face. The troll stood in place, terrified by what he saw, eyes unable to break from Bill’s gaze.

  Breathing deep, Bill sucked the soul right out of his body, out through the troll’s mouth, into his own. The spirit held fast, howling, phantasmal hands clinging tight. But the pull was too great, Bill swallowing the troll whole, leaving its lifeless stone husk to shatter, instantly breaking apart into ten thousand tiny pieces.

  Bill looked at the carnage around him—blood and skin and stone—smiled wryly, and slowly returned his hat to his head before vanishing once more into the mists.

  OLD SCRAPS TORE wildly through the streets atop Gossamer. Though the golden retriever was clearly spooked by the chaos surrounding him, he obeyed unwaveringly. Gossamer was a family dog—a good dog, Gossamer had assured Scraps—that had gotten out through a hole in the fence chasing something he’d never smelled before. He lost his way and couldn’t remember his route home, so he walked the streets, hungry, for days until Old Scraps had found him. Old Scraps offered him a deal: if Gossamer would let Scraps ride him, he would show him the way home.

  So the two worked in tandem, riding up and down the sidewalks, slicing the hamstrings of any Sidhe they neared. Gossamer was fast, but tired, and it would be hours before Old Scraps sobered up. Both hoped that everything would be over soon.

  From the looks of it, it was.

  The Sidhe had fallen back, rallying together, unleashing flight after flight of arrows into the sky. The angels had taken to the ground, but weren’t as quick or lithe as the Sidhe who attacked them from afar, slicing chunks out of the weak spots in their armor. Though determined, the angels were being battered into weariness, a few dropping from too many cursed arrows, a few more dropping from too much whiskey.

  Bertrand still stood, his sword dripping, his armor sprayed with a light coating of fairy blood. A redcap charged him from behind the Sidhe ranks, his pike low, his speed incredible. The angel sidestepped, putting his sword through the chest of the creature, severing its upper body from its lower. One half of the redcap hit the ground a second after the other.

  Before he could celebrate, Bertrand caught an arrow in the eye, falling to the ground, desperately trying to pull it out. The Sidhe raced to put their swords into him.

  Old Scraps spurred Gossamer on, the two charging as fast as they could toward the gathering remains of the Sidhe, hoping to buy Bertrand time to get to his feet.

  “One more pass, Goss,” said Old Scraps, “and then we’re going home to sleep this off.”

  The
arrows missed Gossamer entirely, several catching Scraps directly in the chest. His rosy cheeks and nose went white. Gossamer sprinted around the corner of a building, finally coming to a stop. The wily old cluricaun looked down at the three arrows sticking out of him, swearing. He couldn’t feel them, but he knew it was bad. His head felt fuzzy, the world tipping slightly on its side. Slowly he slid off Gossamer, slamming into the pavement. Everything grew blurry.

  If I survive this, he thought, I am going to wake up with the worst hangover of all time. And then he died.

  Gossamer sniffed him, nuzzling him with his nose, trying to rouse him. He barked sharply. Then he barked again, nuzzling him once more. Old Scraps wouldn’t wake up. Bark! Bark bark! No response.

  Gossamer licked the cluricaun’s face, but still he would not wake. The dog lay down in the rain-soaked street beside him, letting out a deep sigh. Now he would never find his way home.

  KNOCKS STAGGERED TO his feet, massaging his chest, wheezing for breath. Colby hadn’t just knocked the wind out of him, he’d bruised his lungs, broken a rib. There was very little time left. The second wave of fairies would swarm over the town shortly, making easy work of the remaining angels. He needed to find Ewan before then, before someone else robbed him of the pleasure.

  And then he appeared.

  Ewan walked slowly, determined, toward the changeling, his pike held firmly in his hand.

  Knocks smiled. This is happening. It’s really happening.

  Ewan stopped ten steps short of Knocks, propping the pike up heroically next to him. The two locked gazes. Neither man blinked.

  Ewan drew breath to speak, but Knocks shook his head, waving a finger.

  “I know,” said Knocks. “I know. Let’s not spoil this with bullshit. The time for talk is over.”

  The two stared at each other. Their muscles tensed, jaws clenched. Anger swelled in their guts. Ewan was the first to move, with Knocks charging him the hair of a second later.

  Ewan swung his pike. Knocks ducked, the blade barely missing him.

  Knocks threw an uppercut, catching Ewan directly under the chin. Ewan reeled backward, stunned. He recovered, swinging his pike wildly, trying to buy himself a little more time to clear his head.

  Knocks sidestepped another swing, jabbing at Ewan, missing by inches.

  Ewan kneed Knocks in the stomach, doubling him over, punched him clean in the back of the head.

  Knocks reached up, grabbing the pike, punching Ewan repeatedly with his bloody stump; it hurt like hell, Knocks gritting through it, hitting him over and over—the rag beginning to swell, soaked with blood.

  Ewan tried to protect his face, struggling with both hands to keep his grip of the pike. Writhing, he tried to avoid the blows, but Knocks kept landing them.

  Knocks let go of the pike, and reached up, snatching the cap right off Ewan’s head.

  Ewan swung again, but he was too close, connecting with only the shaft, not the blade. Weakened without his cap, Ewan let go with one hand, swiping for it, missing.

  Knocks tossed the cap behind him, then reached for the pike, wresting it out of Ewan’s grip. He swung the blunt end into Ewan’s gut, doubling him over, then, bringing the blunt end upward again, smashed him in the face.

  Ewan was knocked upright. He staggered back a step, fuzzy from the hit.

  The pike swung one last time, this time crossing Ewan’s stomach, cutting deep into the flesh, tearing through his innards.

  Ewan’s jaw dropped, both hands clutching the wound. He fell to his knees, then backward, knocking his skull on the street, trapping his own feet beneath him.

  Knocks held aloft his bloody-rag-wrapped stump, pointing at Ewan’s stomach. “Try cutting that off to save your life.” He threw down the pike as if he was spiking a football, then held both arms out to his sides. “I did it,” he said, giggling. “I fucking did it. You’re fucking dead.” He danced around a little. “I just killed you. What are you going to do about it, Ewan? Huh?”

  Ewan gurgled, leaning up, reaching a single arm out to Knocks. It was over, but he wasn’t ready to concede. He rolled onto his side—one arm trying to hold in his insides while the other tried to push him to his feet. His arm gave way and he tumbled face-first onto the pavement, spilling organs into the street.

  Knocks stood over him, smiling. “Look me in the face,” he said. “You look death in the face and you accept it. I want to see you accept it.” Ewan pushed himself up again and stumbled forward on his knees, trying now to crawl away. With a light kick, Knocks toppled him over.

  Ewan lay on his back like an upended turtle, staring unblinking into the rain as the life drained from him. The sounds around him dulled; he knew Knocks was talking, but he couldn’t make out anything other than the staccato of rain spattering beside his ears.

  It was over.

  YASHAR WIPED HIS bloody fists off. The downpour was strong and steady now, the roar of the storm drowning out all but a few distant clangs. Angels and Sidhe littered the sidewalks. Blood ran pink in the swelling rainwater. Only two angels still stood, busy holding their ground, about to be overrun by the half dozen remaining Sidhe.

  In the street between them, Knocks and Ewan wrestled with a pike.

  Colby screamed as the pike sliced open Ewan’s stomach.

  He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t let him.

  Ewan collapsed. Colby had failed.

  “Motherfucker!” Colby yelled, his voice drowned out by the rain. He watched as Knocks danced around, taunting Ewan. His stomach dropped, his throat went dry. Hands became balled fists digging fingernails into flesh; teeth gritted against one another, grinding away small flakes of enamel.

  Colby could feel the veil between worlds thinning, a cold, dark presence rumbling on the other side, begging to be unleashed. A voice in the back of his head demanded to be let out. The door was locked; he had but to twist the knob. Let us in. Let us do it, it whispered. The fabric was growing thinner by the moment. There was enough dreamstuff flowing through him to do it. Then he recognized the voice.

  It was the master of the hunt.

  No, he thought. Not this way.

  Colby let loose a torrent of energy, bolts cascading across the street with whatever dreamstuff he could muster.

  Knocks swept the pike in front of him, deflecting the bolts away harmlessly, as they exploded like fireworks, showering sparks across the pavement. The changeling smiled wickedly, small fragments of the energy still hopping and popping around in the puddles beneath him. There seemed nothing Colby could do to hurt him.

  “Try it again, Colby. I’m sure you’ll hit me eventually.”

  Colby reached out toward Knocks, yanking away the pike with an unseen force. It sailed past Colby, embedding itself in a brick wall behind him. Knocks stared wide eyed at the pike, smiling.

  “Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll shut it for you.”

  Let us in. Let us do it, the voice whispered again.

  Knocks laughed. “Just come here and hit me like a fucking man.”

  Colby ran at Knocks, fists clenched, swinging wildly.

  Knocks stepped out of the way effortlessly, knocking Colby onto the ground with a single awkward kick. “Come on,” he said. Colby scrambled to get to his feet, but Knocks kicked him square in the gut. “You’re such a fucking pussy.”

  Let us in.

  Knocks leapt on Colby’s back, rabbit-punching him with his one good hand.

  Colby bucked, tossing Knocks to the ground. The two quickly scuttled away from each other, pushing themselves to their feet.

  Colby’s head throbbed. His knees ached. His hands were scraped and bleeding.

  Then the two ran at each other again, trading blows. The first few hits were a flurry of jabs, but the two soon settled into a groove of hitting each other, punch for punch,
one after the other.

  Colby swung with a haymaker, loosening Knocks’s jaw.

  Knocks swung at Colby, bloodying his nose.

  Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby. Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby.

  It had become an endurance contest, each man trying simply to outlast the other. Neither had the strength to carry on much longer. Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby.

  Colby swung, staggering forward, exhausted. He fell to his knees.

  Colby looked past Knocks, saw Ewan bleeding, crawling in the street. His frustration and rage began to bubble over.

  Knocks stepped back, shaking his head with a queer little grin. “You’ve got nothing. You can’t fight me, Colby. What are you gonna do?”

  Let. Us. In.

  “Something.”

  In that moment, he decided to let her in.

  Colby closed his eyes, rewove the fabric of reality, shredding a piece of the veil, building from it a bridge between earth and Hell. The clouds rumbled their disapproval, belching out indigo streaks, lighting the world purple for three solid seconds. Everything shook and when the rumble of thunder faded, the shaking continued. The earth groaned wearily and spat out Hell.

  The Wild Hunt roared out, a dozen riders strong.

  Twelve massive black goats—their manes thick, shaggy, their horns long, gnarled, razor sharp—galloping ferociously toward the dying melee, a pack of howling hellhounds at their heels. Thunder now rose from the earth to the skies. Atop the lead steed was Tiffany Thatcher, more bone than flesh now, her sockets empty of eyes, replaced by the glowing embers of a hateful Hell. A few scraps of flayed, parchmentlike skin clung desperately to her jowls and rib cage, a few chunks of desiccated muscle refusing to yet break away from the bone.

  Beside her, mounted on a goat of his own, was Jared Thatcher, a sad, lonely expression on his face. With them rode redcaps and nixies and the tattered remains of a single Bendith Y Mamau. Twelve creatures of Hell with hate in their eyes, bearing down on six battered Sidhe and a pair of angels.

  Yashar ran to Colby. Though he couldn’t yet see them, he knew what this was. “What have you done?”