by Dyrk Ashton
Myrddin crumples to the floor. Nyneve!
* * *
It’s about time. Bödvar should be fighting for his life, lashing out at his attacker with his final breath. But he isn’t. He’s just lying there, blinking at the dim ceiling of the cave. It’s about damn time.
With tremendous effort, he turns his head to the cave entrance. He sees the moon as if for the very first time--and it seems to be looking back.
His thoughts are becoming startlingly clear, as if a sediment stirred by hate has always clouded his mind and is now settling away with his newfound stillness. The strangest thought occurs to him. I wonder if I actually prefer the company of men?
Gods know, most Firstborn will hook up with anything. They get it from their father. But Bödvar doesn’t mean it that way. Here at the end of things, he realizes he’s always preferred the company of parvuli--humans--real men. How strange...
Maybe he’s spent his entire life, a life of epochs, fighting on the wrong side, pretending he believed something he didn’t, that he was someone he was not. Unlike most Firstborn, he was born when the parvuli were already around. Thinking back, he can’t imagine his life without them. He doesn’t hate the humans. He loves them.
Bödvar’s sister, his only littermate, always adored the humans. She lived among them often, taught them things, even carried them around on her back, something Bödvar would never tolerate. They adored her. Bödvar they respected, even admired, but always feared.
Their mother belonged to a long extinct species the humans have named the South American Short-faced Bear, also called a Bulldog Bear, of the genus Arctotherium. She stood eleven feet tall when raised up on her hind legs and was mean as hell, always smacking Bödvar around at the slightest provocation. He’s sure he deserved it. His sister was just as tall as their mother when full grown, and born before Bödvar by a few minutes. As big as he is, he’d always been the runt, the “little brother,” in size and birth order.
His sister was the polar opposite of their mother in disposition, and of him. Good and kind. Too much so, he always thought, to the point of weakness. She was ferocious when riled though, whew! It just took a hell of a lot to make her mad. They’d never come to blows on the battlefield, Bödvar is glad of that. She was stronger than he. Female Firstborn always are, given the same breeding and age.
For millennia he and his sister were inseparable. He tried to drive her away many times but she wouldn’t leave him, no matter how miserable he made her. Then, one night, she’d finally had enough of his shit--his foul demeanor, his cruelty to the humans--and she deserted him.
Deserted? Where did that come from? I wanted her to go, to leave me be! Didn’t I?
He came in contact with her only once after that, the day she died. As his Firstborn lifeblood drains away, Bödvar sees her clear as day.
It was twenty-thousand years ago. The last Great Ice covered much of the planet, and the final battle of the Second Magnificent Holocaust raged. She’d sided with Father, of course--she was always Deva, his sister, Devi to the core. Her Truename was Artio, but at the time she was known by the humans as the Vanir giantess Jörd. When Bödvar saw her she was armored in a massive breastplate, with great golden wings on her helmet, spattered with gore--but beautiful.
She was kneeling in the mud, clutching the broken body of her dying child, the boy she’d named Thor. She cast up her eyes, seeking aid for her son, and looked upon Bödvar for the first time in many myria. There was no hatred in those eyes, no blame, just the tears of a mother wracked with grief. She spoke only one pleading word. “Brother.” He saw his Asura comrades approach her from behind. He did nothing, gave no warning. Her head fell from her shoulders. Blood sprayed scarlet plumes over the snow, speckling Bödvar’s face and fur...
That’s odd. Spreading from the wound in his chest is not just blood--there’s also a radiating warmth, a comforting sense of relief. He’s gotten what he deserves. It’s over. The unease, the depression, the hate, the regret, and yes, the fear that’s been part of him since he can remember, is leaving him. He feels at peace for the first time since he was a cub, settling down to sleep on feathery ferns, his face nuzzled in his mother’s fur. The only tears The Bear has ever known well up in his eyes.
He wonders if there really is an afterlife, of any of the varieties that humans believe in. At that thought a soft sound that might be a laugh escapes his lips. How trite I am! He’s pretty sure there will be no fluffy clouds, no fanfare of trumpets or plucking harps, and he knows that the horror stories of a burning, torturous hell are just primordial memory fragments of the rule of the first Master and other terrible times in the pre-history of the parvuli. But who knows? Who is The Bear to say? Is it possible he will see Wiglaf once again? Or Valentine?
Bödvar’s eyes widen, ever so slowly, as he lets out a long, soft breath.
Will my sister be there? he wonders. Will she forgive me?
* * *
Myrddin watches the flailing mass of gray flesh that was his beloved Nyneve, frantically twisting, coiling and uncoiling, mist rising from its blistering skin. It emits an ear-splitting scream that goes on and on.
Then it’s upright, shrieking, “IT B-U-R-R-R-R-R-R-N-S-S!!!”
The shadow swiftly unfolds a thin arm, impossibly long, and smacks at the creature, sending it to slap against the wall of the cave. From the shadow’s core an opalescent globe appears, then flies through the air as if of its own accord. It shatters on the wall, splashing blue liquid on the wriggling thing. A spark flicks in an arc and the creature is engulfed in flames. The screaming and writhing increases in intensity.
It takes supreme effort for Myrddin to push himself into a sitting position. “Lamia,” he finally comprehends. Then, with loathing, “Lamia!”
Suddenly she’s up and hurtling at Myrddin with a shrill cry. The shadow lashes out and she slops to the ground, severed in two.
The flames are dying, but The Leech isn’t dead. The bottom half of her quivers, tail and legs wriggling like worms. The top half lies in a steaming mass, breathing with short ragged breaths.
“Brother-r-r-r-r-r-r,” she moans. “Help m-e-e-e-e-e-e.”
The shadow occludes her from Myrddin’s sight and there are sounds of slicing wet meat. Lamia could have healed from the burns, perhaps even lived out her life as an amputee without legs and tail, such is her genetic makeup. But when the shadow moves away she lies slashed to ribbons. There will be no recovering from this.
The dark shape approaches Myrddin, and like black smoke blown away in the wind, the shadow cloak is gone.
Myrddin gapes. “Fintán mac Bóchra...”
“Good greetings, Myrddin Wyllt,” says The White Watcher. “We thought we’d lost you forever.”
* * *
When Myrddin last had contact with this Firstborn, Fintán had been hiding himself away since the time of the ancient wars over the island of Éire. The loss of his wife Cessair in The Deluge had taken a dreadful toll on him, but it was the plague that wiped out the Partholonians which finally sealed his despair. He’d sworn never again to take part in the affairs of the world.
Over the millennia he gained the fabled epithets of White Ancient and The Witness, the ageless observer of the unfolding history of Ireland and indeed all the British Isles. Myrddin, however, had begun addressing him, not without some derision, as The White Watcher.
Myrddin smiles, an affectionate gleam in his eye. “Fintán my boy, as I live and breathe.” He speaks in Caithness Norn, a lost language once spoken in the far north of what is now called Scotland.
If there ever was a being who looked like a true mythological god of old, it is Fintán mac Bóchra. When he appears in mtoto cloak, both men and women swoon. He’s that handsome. A true Adonis. More than Adonis himself ever was.
In Trueface, as Myrddin sees him now, it’s no wonder he’s known to his fellow Firstborn as The Falcon. His mother wasn’t exactly a falcon, but one of the first raptors of the avialae clade, a predecessor to the
diurnal birds of prey that populate the world today--and much larger. Fintán stands nearly seven feet tall and his wings span over 14 feet. Built somewhat like a man, he has extremely broad shoulders--actually, two sets of shoulders--one higher and wider for his arms, the other lower and set farther back for his wings. To accommodate both arm movement and the rigors of flying, his chest is tremendously thick, with rippling pectoral muscles that taper to his waist.
His head resembles that of a modern day eagle, with ivory feathers tipped gold, though his beak is more severely curved like a falcon’s. The rest of his body is bare, with deeply bronzed skin, except for his white feathered waist and thighs. His legs are roughly humanoid in shape and function, but his feet are entirely bird-like with wicked curving talons.
Fintán removes his hand from the grip of a dagger sheathed at his hip, cocks his head to survey Myrddin with an eye the color of a golden citrine gem. “As you live and breathe, truly, by my grace.” He has no human mouth, but his tongue and the lower part of his beak move when he speaks.
“By your grace,” Myrddin replies with a nod of gratitude. “And what kept you, old friend? The Leech almost put me to an end.”
“I had some articles to fetch,” replies Fintán, reaching into a cloth bag that hangs from a strap over his shoulder.
Myrddin gazes at the steaming heap of Lamia. “Salt, oil, and flame.”
“And this.” He tosses bunched fabric to Myrddin, who catches it and holds it up. A hooded gray robe of worsted wool. “I thought you might want for cover.”
Myrddin stands, shaking, holding his hands out to steady himself on the air. Once he is relatively sure he isn’t going to topple over, he dons the robe, runs a hand up one of the sleeves. “Many thanks, and more.”
Fintán removes the cap of a plastic water bottle and hands it to Myrddin, who takes it hesitantly, having never seen such a thing.
“Water,” Fintán explains.
Myrddin sniffs the bottle’s contents and drinks cautiously. He smacks his lips. “Delicious.” The effect of his encounter with Lamia, the loss of blood and so many years without food or drink suddenly washes over him. He puts a hand to his forehead, wavers, and begins to fall.
Fintán catches him easily in his strong arms. Myrddin’s eyes flutter at the edge of consciousness.
“I have food as well,” Fintán informs him. “You’ll need to take it slowly.”
Myrddin’s voice is a ragged whisper, “There are... so many things...”
Fintán answers thoughtfully, “Over 1,500 years have passed since you were imprisoned here. Much has changed, but much has not. Many searched for you. When they desisted, I persevered, but in vain. How these beasts found you is beyond me. Nor do I know what it portends.” Then, after a pause, “Nyneve is gone. As is your king.” He studies The Madman. 1,500 years is a nighttime to Firstborn like he and Myrddin Wyllt. Somehow it must seem very different, however, when there is no escape. Still, it should be no surprise that Nyneve is dead. She was Fifthborn, nearly mtoto-kind. And Arthur was merely human.
After a long silence, Myrddin asks, “And my people?”
“The men of science today have uncovered their bony remains. They call them Homo habilis.” Myrddin’s countenance falls. “But some do survive, yes.” Relief washes over Myrddin’s features. “But what you really want to know...”
Myrddin searches The Falcon’s features. Does he know my deepest secrets?
“Launcelot is dead.”
Myrddin closes his eyes. Of course he does. He is The White Watcher.
“But his son lives.”
Myrddin’s eyes snap open. He gazes at Fintán in wonder.
Fintán lowers him to sit on the ground and strides to the entrance of the cave. Myrddin checks his wound. A red ring from the bite of The Leech has soaked through his robe, but the flow of blood is assuaged. He crosses his arms over his knobby knees and looks to Fintán, who stands over a bulky motionless form. “The Bear?” he queries.
Fintán crouches next to the body. “Yes.” Bödvar’s eyes are open, but there’s no life in them.
“Young Matunos.”
“Younger than you, perhaps, Old Madman, but senior to me. The Bear has always been a savage foe and time was of the essence. I waited for assurance this was indeed where you were entombed, and better he to open it than I. I also did not know their true intentions until it was almost too late. There was no time for propriety of combat.” He gently closes Bödvar’s eyes. “Be that as it may, let it be known that I announced myself and did not stab our brother in the back.”
“You did what had to be done,” Myrddin reassures him. “There would be no reasoning with The Bear, and certainly not with The Leech. I owe you my life.”
“Consider it a debt repaid. One of many.” Fintán removes the dagger from its sheath and severs Bödvar’s head from his body with one swift motion.
Myrddin doesn’t even wince. It isn’t necessary to decapitate a Firstborn to kill them, but it isn’t a bad idea, just to make sure they stay dead, and it has become a grisly custom. But he does notice Fintán’s weapon.
“Is that what I believe it to be?”
Fintán wipes it on the hair of Bödvar’s chest. Long for a dagger, short for a sword, it’s forged all in one piece with no hilt. The blade is a triangular spike with runes inscribed along all three sides--symbols older than Enochian, older than mankind, older than all but the most ancient of Firstborn--runes of the First Language.
Fintán utters the weapon’s name, “Carnwennan.”
“Pratha’s Athamé.” Myrddin looks to Fintán with circumspection. “It must have been given to you freely for you to wield it as an Astra blade, to cloak in shadow even to Firstborn who are not of mtoto blood, such as The Bear.”
Fintán stands. “Arthur passed it to me upon his death. Excalibur went back to the lake.”
“That is a story you must tell me, one day.” Myrddin forces himself to his feet, shuffles to Fintán. “How do you suppose these devils found me, when all others failed? What incited them to commit such an act? I know well how Lamia despised me, and I have never been kind to Matunos, but to make this journey... And she and The Bear together, I cannot imagine...”
“They could not have done this of their own volition,” Fintán responds. “Someone put them up to it.” Together they regard the bodies of The Bear and The Leech, contemplating the grim implications.
After a long moment, Myrddin studies Fintán’s regal bird face. “And what of you, Fintán mac Bóchra? Why have you come to my aid? Why has The White Watcher broken his solemn vow to never again take part in the affairs of this or any world, to observe only, and forever?”
Fintán shoves the Athamé into its sheath. “The time for watching is done.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Flowers & Figs 11
On the rain-slick sidewalk, Fi and Zeke struggle to unravel the knot of arms and legs they’ve tied themselves into.
“Fiona Megan Patterson!” Edgar exclaims in his familiar English accent. He grasps her arms and lifts her to her feet. “You’ve been trying to give me a heart attack since the day you came into my care. But this!”
Fi’s shocked to see him here, but also taken aback by her imperturbable uncle’s sudden ire.
Then he smiles affectionately. “It’s good to see you, dear.” Standing there with his hands on her arms, Fi feels safe for the first time in what seems to be a very long time. She moves in reflexively for an uncharacteristic hug, but he brushes past her to Zeke, ignorant of her need.
“Young man,” he says, taking Zeke by the elbow and hauling him up, “are you all right?”
“I think so,” Zeke replies, rubbing his knee.
“Are you certain?”
Zeke shakes his leg tentatively. “Yeah, I’m good. Thank you.”
“I’m okay too,” says Fi, crossing her arms. “In case you were wondering.”
“Of course, dear,” Edgar responds. “Into
the auto, then.” He strides to the old blue Bentley. “You too, lad,” he urges, opening the back door.
Zeke hesitates, but Fi nods in encouragement. When he looks in at the back seat, there isn’t much room--“Fi!”
“What?!”
“Look!”
She gives her uncle a questioning glance over the roof of the car then whips open the passenger’s side rear door.
Lying on the seat is Mol. “Oh my God!” Patches of blood soak through bandages that wrap his torso and front leg and he has freshly cleaned cuts on his face, but he grunts in welcome and wags his tail. “Mol!” She hugs his big furry head. He groans in her embrace.
“Where’d you find him?” she asks Edgar. “Is he going to be alright?”
“He’ll be fine, dear. He arrived at the house shortly after I returned and I dressed his wounds. Then I heard something had occurred at the hospital and left as soon as possible to find you.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “You had to be really worried! I wanted to call, but...” Her eyes flit to Zeke.
“You’re here now,” Edgar reassures her, “and all in one piece. That’s the important thing. Now, get in out of this rain, both of you.” Zeke hesitates. “Don’t worry, lad, you won’t hurt him.”
That’s not exactly what Zeke’s afraid of. He cautiously presses himself in next to the big dog, who actually scoots over to give him more room.
Fi climbs in the front, turns to Zeke. “You okay? I can sit in back.”
Now that he’s in and Mol hasn’t torn his arm off or even growled, he feels relatively safe. “It’s alright, thanks.”
Edgar addresses Zeke’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “You must be the fellow who plays guitar at St. Augustine’s.”
Zeke sits up straight. “Yes sir.”
“Oh, shit,” says Fi, realizing she’s made no introductions. “I mean, sorry. This is Zeke--wait--how do you know who he is?”
“Fiona, you don’t think I am completely unaware of your life outside the house, do you?”
