The Eighth Court

by Mike Shevdon

  “Houston,” said Charles. “We have a problem.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  They could hear the commotion behind them as those in the stables pushed through the gaping hole in the wall. There was no going back.

  “Behind me,” said Tate, adjusting the grip on his axe and moving out onto the clear grass sloping down towards the pond.

  “Which direction is behind?” asked Charles as the wraithkin circled around them. Tate turned slowly to face the ghostly silhouettes, while the four of them stumbled around to remain roughly at his back. From back at the house there was a dull boom. Somewhere up on the roof, an explosion sent fragments of tiles tumbling and pattering into the flower beds. The smell of smoke drifted on the breeze.

  The flickering fingers of light faded around one of the figures who returned to a more normal aspect, illuminated by the cold moonlight. He spoke, “Finally it comes to this.”

  “Deefnir,” said Tate. “I might have known you’d be hanging around here somewhere.”

  “Like fish in a trap,” he said, “we simply wait and they come to us. Why engage in all that tiresome running around?”

  “You’ve caught more than you bargained for this time,” said Tate.

  “What’s this?” said Deefnir. “A threat? An opening bid? Will you bargain for your skin, their lives for yours?” From the gap in the hedge, the other wraithkin joined them. The circle extended to accommodate the newcomers, so that interspersed with the dark figures outlined in pale fire were the Shades, grey women, their hair falling around their faces, their hands outstretched as if they would leech the warmth from their victims.

  “I’m not leaving without all of them,” said Tate.

  “You’re not leaving at all,” said Deefnir. “Oh, I’m sure you’d love to roar, and sweat, and swing that great axe of yours, but I don’t think there’ll be a need for that kind of histrionics.” The moonlight dimmed and dappled shade filtered across the grass, even though there was nothing shading the moonlight.

  “What’s going on?” said Debbie.

  “What’s happened to the moon?” said Charles.

  “Gallowfyre,” said Alex. “They’re not going to stab us to death.”

  “That’s good?” said Debbie.

  “They’re going to drain our life from our bodies where we stand,” said Alex.

  “Not so good, then,” said Charles.

  Around the circle, each of them dimmed, spilling out shade onto the grass. Where the gallowfyre met between them, shimmering walls came into being where one wraith’s power pressed against another, flaring into a purple so deep it was barely visible. From around the woman a dark pool of blackness crept across the moonlit grass.

  “Your time is at an end,” said Deefnir. “A new age dawns, and it is the age of the wraithkin.”

  “Ready?” said Tate.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Alex. “You can’t fight them.”

  “I’ll die trying,” said Tate.

  There was a sound. It was like a mosquito, or a night moth, flying swift through the darkness. It stopped with a sudden, thup. Alex turned around and one of the wraithkin who had joined the circle behind her stood with the pale shaft of an arrow emerging from his chest. He looked down in surprise, and then slowly toppled backwards onto the grass.

  “Down!” said Tate. He caught Alex by the neck and pulled her down to the ground, lying across her.

  “Ow!” she cried, “Get off! You’re hurting.”

  Charles looked around. “What the…?” Tate kicked the legs out from under him and he went down on his back, the air whooshed out of him.

  Then the air was filled with buzzing, fluttering death. The arrows came from everywhere, whizzing over them, disappearing into the hedge or sailing into the night where they missed. The wraithkin were peppered with them, whirling around, trying to see where they were coming from, but where wraithkin stood, the arrows found them. Alex watched as one found an eye and the figure staggered blindly away into the dark before falling on the grass.

  The Shades fell back from the circle, dissolving into thin mist, vague outlines in the moonlight. The arrows whizzed and buzzed, but could not touch them. Across the grass, Deefnir crawled on his belly, an arrow protruding from the back of his shoulder. He reached for Tate across the grass. “Too late for you,” he said, the dappled shade extending across the grass between them.

  Tate’s arm swung the across his body. The blade of the axe was an arc of light in the dappled shade. It flew across the gap between them and sank with a satisfying thock into Deefnir’s head. Figures ran up the slope towards them, carrying burning brands and long spears with glinting points. At the sight of the flames, the Shades drifted back, merging with the shadows, drifting insubstantially in the night breeze, leaving the still bodies of their brethren scattered across the grass, slowly turning to ash.

  “Slimgrin, here!” shouted Tate, holding up an arm. In seconds they were surrounded by tall, long-limbed figures covered in golden fur, the glint of many white teeth showing in the moonlight. Each carried a long spear. They fell on the figures scattered on the grass, using the long spears to make death a certainty.

  Tate rolled off Alex and pushed to his feet, helping her up. For once she didn’t complain. The circle widened as new warriors joined, holding pale bows that curved back on themselves in organic symmetry, pale arrows nocked at the ready, each with a glinting silver tip and pale feather fletches. There was a sense of wrongness around her and she shifted uneasily. It was then that she noticed the black metal tips on the arrows, gleaming dull in the moonlight. The arrows were tipped with iron. The warriors with spears knelt, forming a barrier of spears while the archers took up places behind them, watching the dark for signs of movement. If they were discomforted by the metal-tipped arrows then they did not show it. Tate retrieved his axe.

  Into the defensive circle walked two figures, almost identical to the warriors. One had a silver chain around his neck, and Alex immediately recognised Lord Mellion. The other held out his free hand to Tate, who clasped it firmly in his.

  “I’ve never been so glad to see you, old friend,” said Tate.

  Slimgrin held his fist over his heart, then touched his forehead.

  “We stand together,” said Tate, holding his fist over his heart.

  Slimgrin made a complex gesture that Alex couldn’t see.

  “Any help is welcome,” said Tate. “Amber has the Way-node secure, but we’re not fighting a battle, we’re just trying to save as many as we can.”

  “They’re using iron,” said Alex to Tate. “Iron-tipped arrows against their own kind.”

  Lord Mellion considered her for a moment and then made a series of complex gestures, ending with a fluttering gesture over his heart.

  “What did he say?” asked Alex.

  “He says that we are no longer fighting for honour,” said Tate. “We’re fighting for survival.”

  They started talking about numbers, how many wraithkin they’d seen, how many they’d killed, and how many of the gifted they’d been able to save. As they tried to evaluate the situation, Alex looked back towards the house. The rooftop was now ablaze and she could see columns of flame rising into piles of smoke above the house.

  “If we don’t get people out soon,” she said. “There won’t be anything left. Where’s Dad? Where’s Blackbird and the baby? Where are they?”

  Tate stood beside her. “Let’s hope they got out,” said Tate. “Even with Mellion’s warriors we don’t have a big enough force to take the house, and that’s if it wasn’t burning. We’re going to try and secure the exits and help people out if we can.”

  Alex turned away. The smoke from the house was making her eyes sting. She blinked. “What’s that?”

  “It’s all we can do,” said Tate. “We don’t have enough…”

  “No,” said Alex, pointing at the sky. “What’s that?” She pointed at a light in the sky that was getting steadily stronger. They watched as the ligh
t became intense and a heavy thumping filled the air. In a moment a big helicopter banked away in a long curve to the left of the house. They could see an open door in the side and green lights inside. There were figures in the doorway looking down at them.

  “Do the fire service have helicopters around here then?” said Charles.

  “You are such a city boy,” said Debbie.

  The helicopter banked away in a long arc and then circled around until it slowed and hovered, a way off beyond the pond at the bottom of the slope.

  “What are they doing?” asked Alex.

  “I think they’re waiting to see who wins,” said Tate.

  Blackbird guided Lesley out of the great hall ahead of her while Big Dave tagged along behind, leaving Niall to watch their backs and keep people moving. Strangely, neither Altair nor his cronies seemed in a hurry. They must have been planning this for a while.

  Blackbird shook her head – they were bottled up, they’d never get everyone out. “Up,” said Blackbird to Lesley.

  “How will that help?” asked Lesley.

  Blackbird’s mind was racing. They’d been seriously wrong-footed and they had to regain the initiative. “Up will give us time,” she said. “They’re expecting us to run, and they’ll be waiting for us if we do.”

  “Do I have to remind you that there are no exits up here?” said Lesley, ascending the stairs up to the gallery above.

  “I’m aware of that,” said Blackbird. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “It doesn’t leave us with many alternatives,” Lesley said.

  “There are always alternatives,” said Blackbird, “you just may not like them very much.”

  “I already don’t like them very much,” said Lesley.

  They reached the top of the darkened stairs and Blackbird pushed through the door into the main bedroom, carrying the baby on one hip and holding the door open with the other while Lesley and Dave came through. The baby stared around wide-eyed at this sudden change of mood, but at least he wasn’t yelling. Maybe even he knew how serious their situation was.

  “Find something to block the door,” said Blackbird to Dave, pushing the door closed behind them.

  “Will it stop them?” asked Dave.

  “No,” said Blackbird.

  “Then why bother?” said Lesley.

  “Because it’ll give you something to do, and me time to think,” said Blackbird.

  She stared around the room in the limited light coming in through the tall leaded windows. There was a large tallboy, and a wardrobe, but not big enough to hide any of them. Hiding wouldn’t work in any case. The fireplace was cold, there wasn’t even any kindling. How anyone was supposed to have lit a fire in here, she couldn’t imagine, but that was the National Trust for you. History could freeze to death as long as it looked pretty. The curtains were all very nice, but they looked too heavy to make a decent rope, even assuming there would be no one at the bottom waiting for them to climb down.

  “Damn!” she said.

  The bed was large, but not much use as a weapon. The chandelier looked substantial enough for someone to swing on it, assuming they were cavalier enough to try.

  “We should have gone to the kitchen,” she said. “At least there would be knives in the kitchen.”

  Lesley and Dave moved a chest of drawers in front of the door. Blackbird put the baby on the bed and went to the door. As soon as she put the baby down, he started crying, initially a hesitant whimpering, but rapidly ramping up to a full-blown yell. Concentrating for a moment, she sealed the door. That would give them a little time.

  Lesley picked up the baby and started rocking him, but he would not be placated. Blackbird took him back, and he quietened a little, sobbing into her shoulder.

  “There, there, little one.” She wanted to assure him it would all be OK, but she really wasn’t sure it would. Above them there was a dull boom that shook the house, followed by a noise which sounded like rats running through the walls. Her senses told her that fire was blossoming above them.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Dave.

  “Nothing good, you can be assured,” said Blackbird, looking up.

  The door handle rattled, followed by a heavy thump as something hit it hard.

  “Dave,” said Blackbird. “Pull the curtains down, Use them to climb down the outside and get Lesley away.”

  Dave went to the window and started furiously tugging at the curtains.

  “What about you?” said Lesley.

  “I’m the reason they’re here,” said Blackbird. “They’re not going to allow me to leave.”

  “But the baby,” said Lesley. “What about little William?”

  “Get yourself out,” said Blackbird. “When you’re safe, I’ll follow you down.” What she didn’t say was, if you can get down.

  Dave rattled the window open, and pushed it wide to the night air. The cold rushed into the room, chilling it further. He’d got the curtain loose but was now having trouble finding anything to secure it to.

  “This is not going to make very good rope,” he said.

  “Use the bed to anchor it,” said Blackbird. “It’s heavy enough.” The door thumped again, and then again, as whoever was on the other side became more determined.

  “This doesn’t work,” said Dave.

  “I know,” said Blackbird. “It’s the wrong sort of material. Can you smell smoke? Is that coming from outside?”

  “Then why the f…” said Dave.

  At that moment the doorframe split from the wood panelling of the wall and the edge of the door splintered inwards. “Knock, knock!” said Raffmir, from beyond the door.

  “Step out of the way,” said Blackbird.

  “What are you talking about?” said Lesley. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “I’m doing what I must,” said Blackbird. “I’m ordering you as Steward of the Eighth Court to stand aside.” She stood up straight, lifted her chin, and patted the baby’s back gently. “There, there, honey,” she said.

  “But Blackbird…” said Lesley.

  “Dave, move her out of the way. It’s me he wants.” Blackbird flinched as the door crunched and split under the force of his blows.

  “At least give me the baby,” said Lesley. “At least give me little William.” Dave was drawing her back towards the window, but she pulled against him.

  “He wants William too,” said Blackbird. “It’s what they’re here for.”

  Raffmir grabbed the edge of the splintered door and wrenched it, breaking it in two and tossing the pieces over the gallery banister into the hall below where they clattered. “They don’t make them like they used to,” he said. He kicked the chest aside, and it lurched, the leg buckling so it collapsed. He pushed it aside with his foot.

  “Have you any idea how difficult all this is going to be to replace?” he said. “Still, out with the old.” He drew his sword. The edge glittered in the dim light.

  “I demand that you leave this place immediately,” said Blackbird. “You are not wanted here.”

  “You demand?” said Raffmir. “You have a nerve.”

  “I invoke the wardings of this place. Begone!”

  Raffmir laughed softly. “I was setting wardings here before you were born. This was our court long before it was ever yours.”

  “Then we would request your leave to vacate and leave you to it,” said Blackbird.

  “We are a little beyond that, do you not think?” said Raffmir.

  “As the Lady of the Eighth Court, I demand the right for me and my people to withdraw peacefully.”

  She said it with all the dignity she could, but Raffmir simply chuckled to himself. “There are so many things wrong with that, I can hardly count them. There is no Eighth Court. You are not a Lady of the High Court of the Feyre. There is no High Court – it’s gone… dissolved… ended.”

  “Some of us still hold to our laws. Did you not swear that you would do me and mine no harm? Is your word worth nothi
ng, Cartillian, Son of the Void, Star of the Moon’s Darkness?”

  “You invoke my name? Very well, Velladore Rainbow Wings, daughter of Fire and Air, I remind you how you came by that name. You bought my name with the life of my sister. You killed her with your own hand.”

  “She broke the law.”

  “She did nothing! She would have drawn back. She would have remembered herself, if you hadn’t killed her first.”

  “No,” said Blackbird. “She wouldn’t, and you know it.”

  “Well, now there is no law, there are no courts, and there is nothing between you and the edge of my blade.”

  “Oath-breaker,” said Blackbird.

  “A badge I shall wear with pride,” said Raffmir. He stepped forward, and as he did a shadow materialised behind him. There was the flash of a blade. He twisted on the spot, and parried the cut on the edge of his blade about six inches from his neck.

  “Cousin,” he said, as he used his sword to push mine away. “I was beginning to think that you had disappointed me and fled.” He twisted the blade so that his slid free and sliced into the space where I stood so that I was forced to jump backwards out of reach.

  Amber finished dragging the pieces of fallen timber into the loose horseshoe she had formed around the Way-node. The broken branches wouldn’t prevent anyone reaching the Way-node, but the wardings she’d placed on them would give her warning.

  She stopped again and listened to the sounds of the woodland around her. The night was still, and the trees reached frozen fingers up into the night air. She shrugged and returned to the small mound in the centre of the hollow where the Way-node was, placing her feet above the node. She breathed in slowly, and when she exhaled, a few of the fallen leaves around her lifted from the ground, floating on the air in a gentle dance, circling around the inside of the barrier she’d made. More joined them, until a silent column of floating leaves, brown, orange and gold, circled slowly around her. She stood at the centre, sword in hand, eyes half-closed, feeling the drift of the air, sensing each fluttering leaf, searching for disturbances that shouldn’t be there.