by S A Archer
Lugh scrambled forward as the very world gave a shudder. The Mounds were crumbling. Dying.
As the All-Mother was dying.
Lugh gathered the tall, thin frame of the Sidhe All-Mother into his arms, rolling her body as he lifted. The handle of a silver dagger gleamed, driven to the decorative hilt in the very heart of Danu. Twice again as ancient as Lugh, Danu’s delicate beauty remained unchanged from the innocence of grace she possessed at seventeen. Not even the pallor of bloodlessness could rob her of her Sidhe perfection.
The Creatix of the Mounds… The All-Mother of the Tuatha de Dannan… The people of Danu… The Sidhe… The single unbreakable tie binding together all magic in this fey realm…
Stabbed in the heart.
“No!” Lugh rose to his feet even as the light and illusions beyond the balcony flickered and crashed down from the sky. Her hair and the drape of her long skirt spilled from Lugh’s arms and reached the floor. Embracing her limp body tight to him, Lugh rushed to the back of the throne room, to the great crystal globe balanced on a pedestal and throbbing with centuries of magicraft. Lugh kicked the globe, driving it from the pedestal. It crashed down onto the floor and shattered into flakes of enchantment like a pile of snow. The barrier against Glamour and teleportation disintegrated.
Jhaer’s strength finally faltered. The precious minutes the Unseelie bought Lugh were spent. A great crack and rumble shook the building as the ceiling of the Mounds gave way to the tons of rocks and earth above. A boulder of the falling debris hit the rotunda, which stalled its descent only a fraction of a second. The roof came down with crushing force just as Lugh teleported Danu away.
Chapter Sixteen
All Jhaer’s concentration, his strength, focused solely on preventing the Mounds, home to hundreds of thousands of fey, from catastrophic collapse, for as long as he could.
Differences postponed in the face of imminent demise, the Seelie raced toward the castle as Jhaer bore the weight of the world. With muscles trembling from the effort, Jhaer waited for the dread to dissipate, anticipating the Creatrix to reach out and fortify the Mounds. But what he felt was life, the connection to Danu, fading away. The All-Mother, she who bound the Mounds together for centuries, was disappearing. She was dying.
All hope shattered, leaving only fatalistic determination. Through raw force of will, Jhaer held aloft the vast cavern ceiling, allowing as many fey as possible the chance to escape, the stronger ones via teleportation, the lesser fey certainly crowding the portals that might whisk them to the surface. Alone, Jhaer balanced each rock, each clump of dirt. For miles. Sweat ran in rivulets down the strained muscles of his body. Holding. Binding. Unyielding. And yet fissures snaked through the cavern under the oppression of tons upon tons of earth overhead. Fissures Jhaer could not mend. Fissures that sheared as chunks broke free and rained from the sky. Chunks that slipped through his shattering strength. Jhaer dropped to his knees, giving all his power to the failing magic. The edges of the cavern crumbled, creating a cascade as each lost rock freed those above it. Rockslides like waterfalls poured down in a roaring that could not completely annihilate the screams of terror. Down the ceiling fell in ever greater pieces until the entire cavern plummeted down like a mountain to entomb everything beneath, burying alive everyone who had not already escaped. Including Jhaer.
Chapter Seventeen
The only way to preserve what might yet survive of the crumbling Mounds was to save Danu. Lugh knew this as certainly as he knew his sole purpose now was to save her, their home and their people. The magic of his teleportation brought Lugh to the grand receiving hall of Danu’s temple in the heart of Ireland. Far above the Mounds secreted below the ground.
“Assist me!” Lugh bellowed, his voice echoing into the temple and bringing an immediate rush of lesser fey servants, mostly Brownies and fairies from the look of them. Over the screams and weeping at the sight of their mistress’ bloody body, one Scribe urged Lugh to convey the All-Mother to her chamber. The room turned out not to be a bedroom as he anticipated, but a private magicraft workshop. Lugh arranged Danu upon the altar, the knife handle rising like a beacon of death from her chest. The silver would slowly poison her, but if he pulled out the blade unprepared, she would bleed out in seconds.
“The Mounds are crumbling. We must act with swift diligence.” Lugh pressed a hand against the wound on her cooling, blood-soaked chest.
The Scribe touched the All-Mother’s neck and then met Lugh’s eyes. As lesser fey went, Scribes always had the tendency to appear grave in expression. Large eyes that perpetually worried. Thin, short bodies hedging on underfed and spindly. Pasty, green-tinged skin on faces that rarely left the library or archive long enough to have a passing familiarity with sunlight. Even for a Scribe, this one’s mournful expression spoke volumes.
Growling, Lugh shouted, “She has lived many thousands of years. No mere blade shall be the death of her! Fetch a healer!”
“There is nothing to be done,” the Scribe whispered.
Lugh reached across Danu’s body and snatched the Scribe by the front of his pressed white shirt, staining it with blood. “You lie! Bring the healer!”
“I am the healer, Sire.” The Scribe covered Lugh’s hand with both of his, not to pry but to let the magic flow from his fingertips and prove his credentials. Lugh snatched back his hand as all evidence confirmed the Scribe’s claims.
“She can’t be dead.” Lugh stumbled back from the altar, his arms held away from his body, now uselessly holding nothing. The All-Mother’s blood soaked his clothing and dripped from his fingertips. The horror-shock numbed him like an unexpected punch as he staggered back from her lifeless body. Lugh walked, then jogged, then ran to the portico that overlooked the hills that gave the Mounds their name. Two great hills should have risen before him as high as the hill where Danu’s temple perched. Through magic, the entirety of the expanse of the Mounds existed within the belly of those two hills.
The hills beneath which the Mounds were buried crumbled in on themselves. Deflated as the hollow caverns beneath lost stability. A cloud of dust and debris billowed out as the hills sunk down, turning instead into a crater.
Lugh gaped at it, dumbfounded. The other fey about him wept and screamed in their terror.
Homes… Family… Friends… Lives… Culture… History…
Everything…
Lost…
Just… Just…
Gone.
Lugh dropped to his knees. The strength drained from his arms and they slumped to his thighs. The lesser fey wept about him, but Lugh could not even reach past the shock to begin to comprehend grief. Pain, though… Pain cut right through him. His heart ached as if the silver dagger had been planted in his chest, rather than in the All-Mother’s. His head dropped back as his pain screamed out to the heavens above. The magic bond to the All-Mother, and to the magic of the Mounds, severed like a dirk sliced through it. Lugh clutched at his heart. Everything he was, was linked to the Mounds, to the magic, to his people.
The world had ended. And he, the Champion of the Sidhe, hadn’t been able to save it.
Chapter Eighteen
One Year Before the Collapse of the Mounds
Malcolm still smelled like industrial hand soap from his sink bath at the gas station. He wiped the pocket fuzz from the black plastic comb that was only missing a couple teeth and then battled the knots in his too long hair. His reflection in the store window winced back at him. The skater boy hair served a purpose beyond just announcing to the world that he didn’t have the cash for a haircut. The unruly waves covered the telltale point to his ears.
Even after he beat the worst of the dirt off his clothing, Malcolm still looked like what he was, a homeless teen.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t go back. They’d take him back. He knew they would. Only, if he went back home
they’d never let him leave again. “For his own protection.” That’s what they’d say. That’s what they always said. Like house arrest was what it was. Some kind of fey witness protection program or something.
Only, if they’d ever let him get out at least once in a while, he probably would know something. Like how to get money. Or food. Or a warm place to crash. Instead of having to figure a way to steal what he needed.
Malcolm crouched down behind the lunch special sign, waiting for customers to venture into the Fairy Circle shop. Probably a waste of time, only Malcolm lacked for any better ideas. Not like he could ask someone for directions to a fey hangout or anything.
Mostly, Malcolm would’ve figured the place for a joke, if not for the smell. The smell turned his head the first time he walked past. The smell promised something. Proved something.
Malcolm couldn’t put a finger on what, exactly. But something.
Something more.
Something not normal.
Something special.
Maybe even magical.
The moment a middle aged woman walked in the shop, Malcolm hopped up. Not the best of distractions, but waiting made him fidgety. The bell on the door clattered way too loudly as Malcolm entered. He clenched it, silencing it, as he closed the shop door.
A mishmash of curiosities crammed every available wall shelf and island display. A short bookcase provided cover and he crouched as he slipped along beside it. He peeked around the far side to catch sight of the customer discussing crystals with the shopkeeper.
Malcolm had seen the shopkeeper through the window before. Probably early thirties, the woman decorated herself in a flowery, gauzy hippy skirt and floppy, knit sweater that somehow screamed both “new age” and “thrift shop” at the same time.
Ducking back, Malcolm scanned the titles. His fingertips danced over the spines. Some had a feel to them, like heat or static, but the titles didn’t jive with his search. His sharp hearing kept tabs on the conversation, trying to note if it was coming to an end or if the speakers moved closer or further away.
Until he found the book.
Malcolm’s palm hovered over the spine. The gold embossed title simply read, “The Secrets of the Fey.” What if it contained garbage? Then why did his hand tingle? His excitement bubbled through him. He had to have the book. Had to find the answers to the questions that clawed at him mercilessly.
He slipped the book from the shelf and tucked it under his shirt.
Only then did he notice the bell clanging at the door. His head snapped up. Had someone come in? Or the customer gone out? Distracted by the search, he’d forgotten to keep tabs on his surroundings. Hugging the hidden book to his chest, Malcolm crept to the edge of the bookcase.
The place was dead silent.
He peered around the bookshelf. Oh… so… slowly… No one seemed about. The place had an abandoned stillness. Creepy.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Malcolm yelped. He spun about, eyes wide. Heart ready to burst from his chest. The shopkeeper just smiled. “Who are we hiding from?” she asked, and then peeked around the shelves herself in a conspiratorial way. “I don’t see any scary monsters.”
He backed away, clutching his chest. The book made an obvious bulge under his t-shirt.
“What are we reading about?” she asked, all kindergarten teacherish.
Malcolm stammered, not making much of a coherent answer as she reached beneath his shirt and plucked out the book. He backed away, ready to bolt.
She simply turned it over and smiled at the cover. “You have questions about the fey?” She flipped to the table of contents. “How to find them perhaps?”
Malcolm gaped at her. After a long pause, he blinked. “Uh... yeah.”
“The fey are real, you know,” she said. “But, of course you do.” She gave him a knowing smile.
Malcolm trembled, the urge to run nearly overwhelming.
She pretended not to notice his reaction, but instead simply flipped through the book. “Ah, yes. So simple, really.” She closed it with a thump. “Let me jot down the directions.”
Chapter Nineteen
Malcolm checked the hand drawn map, then the surroundings. The little stone bridge spanned the stream there. Check. Clumps of trees down the little hill to the left. Check. So far so good. So where the hell was the circle of stones? He turned the map upside down. Didn’t make sense that way, though. Was he supposed to build the circle of stones? Hell, there were not even any stones around.
According to Flora’s supposed expertise, some fey fella named “Rand” hung out around here. Seemed a pretty unlikely place to Malcolm. Not even any houses in sight. She’d said if he followed the instructions it would call him out somehow. Maybe this Rand guy fished the river or something.
“This is so stupid.” He jammed the paper back in his pocket. “So bloody stupid.” Stupid or not, Malcolm hiked back to the stream. He jerked his shirt off and used it to gather a load of egg sized river stones. Back at the trees he spilled them out in more or less of an oval. He kicked them around until the shape was as close to a circle as he could manage.
Once satisfied, he fished out his lighter and the pocketful of herbs Flora gave him. Malcolm thought her name sounded phony, but who cared? She’d not given him the book, just the instructions and a nickel’s worth of dried out weeds.
After a couple of failed attempts to set fire to the fist sized pile in the middle of the circle, Malcolm scooped the herbs back up and wrapped them up in the paper from his pocket. He put the wad on the ground and set it alight. The flame died down to a glow of smoldering ash, threatening to burn itself out, when with a sudden whoosh the herbs ignited into a massive smoke bomb.
Coughing, Malcolm stumbled back. The sooty smoke burned his eyes and he scrubbed at them. The smoke rose through the trees, reaching like a beacon into the clear sky.
Flora instructed Malcolm to hum or sing to lure the supposedly timid fey out of hiding. Seemed about the dumbest thing, on top of all the other dumb stuff he’d done already. Malcolm gave the ring of rocks and smoke signal about five minutes to kick in. When no fey showed up he started humming “Danny Boy.”
“Is your head a Marley?”
Malcolm spun about. “Rand?” The guy glared at him. Whoever he was, he was no farmer peeved at some punk trespasser. Not in those pressed slacks and clean button-up shirt with the purple sheen of silk. Realizing he was shirtless, Malcolm shook out his wet and dirty t-shirt and yanked it back on. “I… Just…” He scrubbed his dirty hands on his jeans.
“Put it out, fey boy.” The guy pointed to the smoldering bundle.
Malcolm stomped out the ashes, choking on the smoke. Fey boy? Without even asking, Malcolm could feel the difference in the guy. Felt the vibe from him like prickling heat on his skin. “You are fey, right?”
“Shut up and come here already.” Rand snatched Malcolm by the back of the neck. Before Malcolm could squawk a protest they vanished from the bright sunny wood.
Chapter Twenty
One second he’d been in a summer wood. The next second Malcolm found himself in the shadowed depths of a cave. Luminescent moss glowed with ambient light as if by some enchantment. The weak light glinted off the wet cave walls. The place stank like molded socks and over-used cat litter. Malcolm brought the back of his hand up to his nose, as if that might prevent the onslaught to his nasal passages.
“Dark Rot! Get your filthy arse out here!” Rand shouted into the depths of the cave.
Disoriented, Malcolm dropped to his knees, which hurt like heck on the uneven stony ground, but that pain didn’t completely cut through the confusion frying his brain. His questions gasped out so fast they almost tumbled over each other. “What happened? How’d we get here? What is this place?”
The guy only sneered at Malcolm.
Not good.
A scuttling sound echoed from the deep. Malcolm scrambled to his feet and ducked behind Rand.
A platoon of green-skinned creatures scurried up the cave, filling it from wall to wall with their leathery, naked bodies. Goblins? Huge eyes reflected evilly. Sharp irregular teeth protruded from their opened mouths, like their teeth were too big to wrap their lips closed over them. They hissed and snarled, but Rand didn’t appear the least bothered by it. Between the slurping and guttural mumblings one word kept repeating. “Sidhe.”
So not good.
“This one’s gonna cost you. Full blooded Sidhe.” Rand reached around and hooked his hand tight around Malcolm’s neck again. He shoved him forward, tossing him to the cave floor.
The goblins descended on Malcolm like hyenas, laughing and growling. Clutching at him. Hands everywhere. “No!” Malcolm fought against them, only to have more rush in to replace the ones he shoved away.
Twisting and punching, Malcolm broke free. He raced past Rand, who just laughed and called out, “There he goes, lads! He’s a wily one! Better catch ‘im!”
With no clue where he was or how to get out of there, he just raced away. He came to a fork, chose the one heading “up” and kept running. The laughing and chattering flew on his heels. When he slipped, he scrambled on all fours until he got his feet under him again. His mind screamed, ‘Run! Run! Run!’
