THE FAERIE WARS CHRONICLES
BOOK THREE
RULER
OF THE
REALM
HERBIE BRENNAN
Another one for Jacks, with love
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Sixty-nine
Seventy
Seventy-one
Seventy-two
Seventy-three
Seventy-four
Seventy-five
Seventy-six
Seventy-seven
Seventy-eight
Seventy-nine
Eighty
Eighty-one
Eighty-two
Eighty-three
Eighty-four
Eighty-five
Eighty-six
Eighty-seven
Eighty-eight
Eighty-nine
Ninety
Ninety-one
Ninety-two
Ninety-three
Ninety-four
Ninety-five
Ninety-six
Ninety-seven
Ninety-eight
Ninety-nine
One hundred
One hundred and one
One hundred and two
One hundred and three
One hundred and four
One hundred and five
One hundred and six
One hundred and seven
One hundred and eight
One hundred and nine
One hundred and ten
Epilogue
Glossary
Also by Herbie Brennan
Imprint
Prologue
Outside the great metallic cities – spell-protected and weatherproof – the climate of Hell was extreme. Surface temperatures rose to 860°F in the carbon dioxide atmosphere, a greenhouse effect so intense that it melted lead. A fifteen-mile layer of sulphuric-acid cloud blanketed the world at a height of thirty miles, casting the surface into perpetual gloom.
Because of the conditions, each member of Beleth’s entourage was forced to take traditional demonic form – squat, immensely strong, with leathery skin and stubby wings – while Beleth himself had shape-shifted into the towering, slab-muscled Prince of Darkness whose horned face was so familiar to black magicians everywhere.
The party sat in the Great Hall of Beleth’s keep, a basalt-built structure that clung to its lonely cliff face like a giant toad. Acid rain lashed the translucent window, driven by a hurricane that seldom ceased. Their faceted, adaptive eyes penetrated the heavily scarred glass and the deepening gloom beyond to give them sight of a gently rolling plain strewn with flat wedges of rock and broken to the east by an active volcano.
‘The special portals …?’ Beleth rumbled.
A smelly demon named Asmodeus said quickly, ‘In place, Master.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Troops?’
‘On standby, Master.’
‘Assault spells?’
‘In place, Master.’
‘Illusions?’
‘In place, Master.’
‘Blooms?’
‘Matured, Master.’
The volcano to the east belched black smoke and erupted lava which flowed in a fiery river across the open plain. A small colony of steel-fanged niffs took fright and raced away.
Beleth leaned forward, his eyes dark. ‘The boy?’
‘In pl—’ Asmodeus caught himself in time and changed his response. ‘The boy, Master?’
Normally they would have communicated telepathically, with no chance of misunderstanding. But here, far from the amplifiers of the cities, it was easier to revert to speech.
Beleth growled impatiently, ‘The boy! The boy! The stupid boy!’
Asmodeus licked his lips. ‘Within days, Master.’ He hoped fervently it was true. Beleth would have him flayed if anything went wrong.
But for the moment, Beleth seemed satisfied. He stood up and paced the length of the ancient hall. He turned. He glared. He smiled.
‘So,’ he said triumphantly, ‘the conquest of the Faerie Realm may now begin!’
One
The smell of spice was overwhelming.
There were three open sacks just inside the door: one full of dried vanilla pods, one peppercorns, one golden-yellow halud, fine ground to release its perfume. Beyond the sacks were casks and chests, brimming with aromatics. Many glowed startling hues of orange, red and green. Behind them was the darkwood counter with its shelves packed with secrets – asafoetida for the control of demons, powdered lotus root, tilosa corms, cinnamon quills, cardamom pods, sesame seeds and mandragores specially compounded to open magical locks.
The Spicemaster was watching Blue from behind the counter. He was a small, thin man with a twisted spine who had either refused rejuvenation treatments or was so old now that nothing could colour his hair or take the wrinkles from his face. He had very pale, intelligent eyes.
Blue approached him warily, wondering if he could see through her disguise. No question of boy’s clothes this time, of course – too much chance of a scandal. But the way she did look should have fooled anyone. The hand-crafted illusion spell had transformed her into a woman in her early thirties (more than twice her actual age!) and she was dressed in the anonymous garments of a harassed housewife. She might have had a couple of children dragging at her skirts, although – Blue shuddered – thankfully she didn’t. But she looked as if she might, which guaranteed no one would imagine they were in the presence of their Queen. Most of the time it guaranteed nobody noticed her at all.
The only problem was her hair. In a moment of vanity, she’d commissioned waist-length, sex-goddess, brushed blonde hair which – duh! – ruined the effect, so she’d had to tie it up. Illusion or not, that hair was heavy. She felt as if she was wearing a military helmet. Would the Spicemaster notice? He had a fearsome reputation. Would he be able to see through the illusi
on as easily as he was supposed to see … other things? Not that it mattered. She was expected.
She half thought he might say something, offer her fennel or chilli or a twist of taste powder, but he only stared at her.
Blue said very quietly, ‘I understand the Painted Lady approached you about me, Spicemaster.’
For a moment he looked blank. Then he murmured, ‘Ah,’ and came slowly round the counter to shoot the bolt on the door. She heard magical securities tinkle into place. The display window dimmed. They were alone in the shop. No one could see in.
The Spicemaster turned towards her. ‘Your Majesty …’ he exclaimed. There was just the barest hint of a question mark in his voice, but he bowed deeply all the same. The twist in his spine pitched him sideways.
‘Can we be overheard?’ Blue asked.
He straightened painfully and shook his head. ‘The privacy spells came into play when I closed the door.’
‘Good,’ Blue said. ‘Spicemaster, I –’
‘Memnon,’ he murmured. He caught her expression and added, ‘Forgive me, Majesty, but it is not fitting that the Queen should have to address me by my title.’ He cast his eyes down. ‘My name is Memnon.’
Blue suppressed a smile. Memnon the Spicemaster was another Madame Cardui, a stickler for good manners and precise protocol. No wonder she’d spoken of him so highly.
‘Master Memnon,’ Blue said, granting him one honorific to replace the other, ‘Madame Cardui has told you why I’m here?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘You know this visit can never be spoken of?’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘And you can do the thing I wish of you?’
This time there was just the barest hesitation before he said, ‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Blue asked at once.
‘Majesty, may I sit in your presence?’
Blue blinked, then realised what he was asking. Memnon was a very old man and that spinal problem must make standing difficult.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
He moved even more slowly this time. ‘I have a stool behind the counter, Majesty.’ When he had perched, he said, ‘I can do what you wish, but the Painted Lady has told me I must work without assistants.’
Blue said, ‘The matter is confidential. No one must know but you and me.’ And even you won’t know, she thought, if what Madame Cardui told me is true.
He looked away as if embarrassed. ‘Then you must assist me, Majesty,’ he murmured.
She’d been warned this would most likely be the case.
‘That will not be a problem, Master Memnon,’ she said firmly. ‘Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
There was something else: she could tell by his tone. ‘What is it?’
The Spicemaster raised his head to look her directly in the eyes. ‘Majesty, to stay with me alone in the labyrinth may prove dangerous.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Very dangerous indeed.’
Two
Henry felt nervous visiting his dad.
He hadn’t figured out why. You’d think he’d be glad to get away from Mum for a while. Which he was. But that still didn’t stop him feeling nervous. Once he was inside the flat, Dad would give him the glad hand and the big grin and say, ‘Come in, old man, come in!’ (Dad called him ‘old man’ all the time now since the split with Mum.) But for all that, Henry still felt nervous.
Maybe it was the area. Up to a year ago, you took your life in your hands going down by the canal. Now it was trendy. He hated to think what his dad had paid to live here. (He’d showed him the brochure once. It was a fat, expensive Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer production with tissue paper over a full-colour photo. And they didn’t call it a brochure. They called it a prospectus.) At least he didn’t have to stay long. He had the Hodge excuse ready. He was heading out to feed Mr Fogarty’s cat.
Henry thumbed the bell and waited. After a minute, he thumbed it again. With a peculiar feeling of relief, he began to think his father might be out. He thumbed the bell a third time, deciding that if nobody came inside ten seconds, he was heading for the hills. He’d phone later, say he’d called, and collect the Brownie points with none of the hassle. Not that Dad meant to hassle. It was just that he kept asking about Mum. It wasn’t the questions that upset Henry. It was the way his dad’s eyes filled up when he asked them.
… Nine … ten … eleven … twelve … thirteen … fourteen … There was definitely nobody home. He was free and clear, duty done. He could go now. It was like being let out of school.
For some reason his hand reached out and pushed the door.
The door was off the latch. It swung open a few inches. Henry stared at it stupidly, wondering what that was all about. Nobody went out and left their door open, not when the flat was empty. It was asking for trouble. Even his dad must know that. This stretch of the canal might be trendy now, but the area around it was still pretty rough. The new waterside apartments had to be a target for every scumbag in the district.
Henry pushed the door again and it opened even further. A horrible thought occurred to him. Suppose Dad hadn’t left the door unlocked when he went out. Suppose he’d locked it the way he always did. Suppose a scumbag came along and picked the lock! A scumbag who was inside now, rifling every drawer in sight …
The nerves in Henry’s stomach turned to a sick fear. He’d watched far too many horror movies. You pushed an open door and walked into an empty flat and something in a Scream mask lurched out of the shadows to smash your head in with a poker. But not all of the fear was for himself. He kept thinking maybe his dad might have come back and the thing in the Scream mask loomed up behind him. He kept seeing a body on the floor and blood staining the pale carpet.
Heart pounding, Henry pushed the door right back and slid into the flat.
The front door opened on to a postage-stamp hall with a coat rack, a wall mirror and a silly little polished table that was supposed to look eighteenth century. There were two doors off the hall. The far one led into what the prospectus called the ‘Master Bedroom’, which had shag-pile carpet, a double bed – what would Dad want with a double bed now he wasn’t living with Mum? – and mean little French windows leading on to a tiny balcony with a fire escape. There was also, Henry knew, a connecting door to the living room and an en-suite bathroom. The closer door in the hallway led into the living room as well. The prospectus called it the ‘Lounge’.
Henry cautiously turned the handle of the living-room door.
He was trying to move quietly, but his heart was thumping so loudly now you could hear it halfway down the street. It was making him feel sick in his throat as well as his stomach. The worst of it was he knew, he positively knew, he was going to find his father dead or dying on the floor. He wished he’d brought a weapon of some sort, but it was too late now.
The lounge was the largest room in the flat, furnished in poncy white leather with a squat spiral staircase winding up to a nun’s cell the prospectus called a guest bedroom. There was a door to a kitchen, a door to a second bathroom, a door to a study his father never used (possibly because it was designed for a dwarf), a door to the master bedroom. There were windows that opened up to another balcony, this time without a fire escape, overlooking the canal. The carpet, he saw at once, was clean and bodiless.
Henry sighed and felt his heart wind down. ‘Dad …?’ he called, frowning. But the frown was just a habit – there was no body on the floor, no blood on the carpet. Maybe best of all, the whole place was bright and cheerful, without shadows for characters in Scream masks to lurk in. ‘Dad …?’ There was no reply. The place was empty.
It was a relief, except it didn’t explain why his dad had left the door open. Maybe he was just getting forgetful. God knows he had enough on his mind these days. First there was Henry’s mum having an affair with his secretary. Then there was Henry’s mum kicking him out of his own home. (They claimed it was ‘by agreement’, but He
nry knew better.) Then there was Henry’s mum insisting both children – Henry being the reluctant one – stay with her. When you started to think about it, Henry’s mum had a lot to answer for.
Henry supposed he’d better hang around for a bit. He couldn’t very well just wander off now and leave the front door open. But he couldn’t lock it either, in case his dad had gone out without his key, maybe just slipped down to the corner shop for a minute, taking his chances with Scumbags Anonymous. So the thing to do was make a cup of tea and wait. Once his dad came back he could say hello then go and feed Hodge.
He found the tea bags easily enough – Dad kept them in the fridge for some reason and there wasn’t much else in there. He brewed up in a mug that said, Beam me up, Scottie, there’s no intelligent life down here. Since there wasn’t any milk either, he tried adding a spoonful of plain yoghurt and carried the mug into the living room. He sat down on the poncy leather couch and stared gloomily into his tea. The yoghurt had been a mistake. It had separated out and was floating on the top in uneven globules. He debated whether to risk tasting it or go back and make some fresh.
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