by Emma Hamm
Clattering become clanging, growing louder and louder as it reached the door of Eamonn’s quarters. Sorcha’s brow furrowed. She knew that sound, and yet she didn’t.
It wasn’t the sound of pottery or plates.
The door to the bedroom burst open, slammed against the wall with a thunderous bang, and fell off its top hinge. She shrieked and held her arm up. She refused to flinch, to hide, to fall backward.
“Sorcha!” Eamonn’s shout was a welcome, if concerning, sound to hear.
“Eamonn!”
“Where are you, woman?”
He couldn’t see her in the darkness. She ran towards him, wrapping her arms around the frame outlined by candle glow.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here, what’s wrong?”
Metal dug into her ribs. Her biceps met cold armor and the pommel of his sword pressed against her belly. He was dressed for war.
Eamonn wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips against her hair. “Thank the gods. You’re safe.”
“I’m fine, what’s happening?”
“When did you see my brother?”
The question chilled her to the bone. “What?”
“You saw my twin, and you did not tell me. When was this?”
“Eamonn, I’m sorry, I should have told you. He summoned me and I knew it would cause problems if I didn’t go. I didn’t want to—”
He held her an arm’s length away and mashed a finger against her lips. “I’m not angry with you. I just need to know what was said between the two of you.”
“Nothing I thought you needed to know, or I would have told you immediately.”
“He tried to convince you he would be a good king.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “He tried very hard.”
“And he didn’t succeed.”
“No. I still believe you would be the better king, and it pained me to see an imposter sitting on your throne, wearing your face.”
He tilted his face, wincing at her words. “You may regret saying that.”
“He offered me a boon. He wouldn’t dare harm me, not when I can command him.”
“Dangerous for a king to offer such a thing.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
Eamonn tapped her chin with an armored finger. “Precisely why I find you so interesting, Sorcha. You think like a soldier.”
“I think like someone who wants to survive. Why have you donned your armor?”
She watched him carefully as he pulled away. The armor creaked with his movements, groaning and shrieking plates scratching against each other. His spine stiffened, and he took a deep controlling breath.
“I always knew it would come to this. My brother has wanted me dead for centuries. I threaten his right to sit on that throne, even though I have been disgraced and banished. As long as I am alive, the people will always call for the High King of Seelie to sit upon the golden throne.”
“As they should.”
“It’s not my choice, Sorcha,” he said. “The world has made this decision for me. I am ruined, therefore, I am unfit to be king.”
“Don’t you believe change is worth considering? Perhaps the people who choose to be Seelie Fae no longer wish to have a perfect king!”
“You say blasphemous words you could not hope to understand.”
“I understand more than you know.” She reached for his face, framing his cheeks with her hands. “Your people are dying under the control of a tyrant who shows them little kindness. They want you to come home. Even the Tuatha dé Danann.”
“What do you know of such things?” A spear of candlelight spread across his face.
No, not candlelight, she realized. Fire from outside the window of the castle’s tallest tower. Something was burning outside. She could smell the smoke now, acrid and burning her nose until she wanted to sneeze. She would not look.
“Elva was the faerie Oona wanted me to help. She said she was raised with you and your brother. She spoke very highly of you and the good things you might have done if you became king.”
“Elva,” he whispered. “That is a name I have not heard in a long time.”
“The king made her his concubine.”
“He had no right.” The sudden anger in Eamonn’s voice startled Sorcha.
“Was she yours?”
“No. She was another's, but he would not have claim over a Seelie woman if the Seelie king wanted her.” He cursed. “How dare he meddle in such things? No wonder he is so hated.”
Sorcha swallowed. “Eamonn, why are you in armor?”
“The king is here.”
Of course. She should have guessed, but she hadn’t wanted to think the worst had happened.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
And she did. The king wanted to kill his brother once and for all. Sorcha ducked her head, stroked her hand across the smooth plates of his armor, and nodded.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Stay safe and out of the way.”
“How?” She looked up at him for guidance. “I’ve never been in a battle before.”
“Follow me. I will bring you somewhere I know you won’t be harmed.”
“And if you fall?” She didn’t want to ask the question. The thought of him bleeding out on the battlefield without her assistance made a scream rise in the back of her throat. “I can help the wounded.”
“I need you to stay out of the way. Follow me as closely as you can, and if we come across any of Fionn’s men, do not interfere.”
Sorcha nodded and followed as he rushed from the room. The weight of his armor must have been great, but he moved as if he wore nothing. It differed from the metal armor she had seen before. Interlocking pieces slid easily against each other and did not hinder his movements. No adornments made the armor “pretty.” It was functional. Practical. Like him.
She held her skirts high as they raced through his chambers and out onto the dangerous parapet hanging above the ground. It was then that she saw the army.
Spread out across the isle she loved so dearly, men and women in golden armor lifted their swords and spears. The Fae who lived in the castle and served their true master stood around the castle in a weak line.
There were so few of them.
Sorcha stopped running, fisting her hands in the fabric of her skirts as tears dripped down her cheeks. They would die. Under no circumstances could such a small amount of Lesser Fae stand a chance against an army in full battle gear.
The faeries she knew and loved held kitchen pottery in their hands. Pots, pans, garden hoes.
A choked sob rocked her forward. “They don’t even have weapons,” she whispered. “Please have mercy on them, they don’t even have weapons.”
“Sorcha!”
She flinched at Eamonn’s shout, rocking forward dangerously near the edge.
“Sorcha get down!”
A man climbed over the edge of the parapet. Twin blades glinted in the moonlight. He used them as hand holds, puncturing wounds into the side of the castle. They knew where Eamonn was.
The gilded edge of his armor was sharp as a knife. He spun towards her, not Eamonn, and grinned at her look of fear.
“You’re getting in the way,” the faerie grunted. “Off you go.”
He lunged, and she spun away. His hands caught in the fabric of her dress and she fell onto her hands and knees. Stone bit into her palms. Hair fell in front of her face, obscuring her vision. His hands gripped her ankles, and she screamed.
Then he disappeared. Ripped away from her legs with a panicked shout of his own. She looked over her shoulder to see Eamonn lift the faerie over his head. Too easy. Too simple. His expression was cold and heartless as he threw the man over the edge.
The echoing scream sounded like the wail of a bean sidhe.
“Come.” Eamonn reached out a hand for her to take. “We have to go.”
“That man—”
“One of my brother’s and not
worth your guilt. Get up.”
She wanted to vomit. Sorcha had seen death many times over, but never so carelessly handled. That was a life that was thrown away, quite literally, and he wasn’t even bothered by it.
For the first time since meeting him, she looked at Eamonn with new eyes. Somehow, she had fantasized about him as the hero in a fairytale, but he was a flesh and blood warrior whose hands and body were stained with death and war.
She fit her hand into his, knowing full well what it meant. She could not support death. But she would not turn from him either.
He pulled her to standing and nodded. “That’s not the last of them, Sorcha. There will be more.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t.”
“I do now.”
He gave her one last, lingering glance before racing towards the door to the main part of the castle. Sorcha followed, her heart thudding hard in her ears.
The clattering of his armor echoed in the winding stairwell. It bounced up the circular tower, growing louder and louder. The slamming gong of church bells. Funeral bells.
A body fell silently down the middle. She wouldn’t have noticed it, for the faerie did not even shout in fear, but air whistled through her armor and the thudding weight charged the air with electricity.
“They are following us,” she said. Her words seemed too loud, disrespectful of the deaths she had just seen.
“Of course they are. Stay close.”
As they neared the bottom, Eamonn drew his broadsword. The rubies in the handle suddenly made more sense. The blade feasted upon the blood of its enemies, and thousands of souls were caught there.
Though the thought was fanciful, Sorcha still edged away from his sword.
“Are you frightened of me?” he asked. He did not look at her, instead he stared down the hallway and waited for her answer.
“Not of you, but of your weapon.”
“You should be afraid of Ocras.”
“The sword’s is name Hunger?”
“It devours my foes and cleaves flesh and bone. She does not desire you.”
“Her?”
Eamonn flashed a feral grin. “Of course. Women are capable of both beauty and pain.”
“There are many who would argue with you on that.”
“They would have to argue with Ocras.”
“Are we running?”
“Not yet.”
“Why are we waiting?” She didn’t look down the hallway, not wanting to see what they would run towards until the last second.
“Just a bit more,” he murmured. “Just long enough to give them time.”
“For what?”
“Now.”
He rounded the wall and charged down the hallway with a piercing shout. His roar made the walls shake and the ground quake with the force of his rage. As promised, Sorcha followed close behind but gave him enough room to swing his sword.
And swing he did.
Four soldiers waited for them. Two men, two women, golden armor molded to their bodies. Helms topped with bright feathers hid their species and made them appear all the more otherworldly.
They attacked all at once, and it was as if they struck a bull. Eamonn ducked into the first one, slamming his shoulder into the man’s stomach. Metal crunched as he lifted an arm to block a sword slicing towards him. It struck his forearm and snapped in half as it cut through his armor and met crystal underneath.
Ocras sang as she swung through the air and sliced through the neck of a male faerie. It stopped halfway through, blood dripping down his armor as Eamonn placed a foot on his chest and shoved him away.
He didn’t hesitate. He turned and lashed out, plunging the sword into another soldier's chest cavity. She shrieked and fell to the ground while holding her stomach.
Eamonn wrenched her sword out of her dying grip and caught the next attack on its blade. The weapons shrieked their fury into the air. The muscles on Eamonn’s neck bulged, veins pulsing as he pushed the other back. Step by step.
Unlocking their swords by swinging his to the side, Eamonn sank the blade through the crevice where thigh met pelvis. The man fell with a cry, holding onto his leg.
The last woman ran. She raced down the hallway as if it might contain a new escape. Eamonn growled and pulled the stolen faerie sword from the man’s leg, ducked his head, and calmly walked down the hallway.
Sorcha didn’t know whether to be terrified or angry. There were better ways to end a fight than in blood and gore.
The metallic scent burned her nostrils. Blood welled into the air until she thought she could see it hanging above her like a curtain of guilt.
She couldn’t stand by and watch this happen.
Eamonn wasn’t looking, so he couldn’t stop her. She rushed forward and placed her hands on the faerie man’s shoulders.
“Easy,” she whispered. “I will drag you back to the wall. Do not make a sound, or he will turn around.”
The man grunted and pressed his hands harder against his wound.
Sorcha, though small, had grown strong from manipulating the human body and hiking all across the isle. He was larger than her but small for a Fae. She tucked her hands under his armpits and dragged him a few feet until he could lean against stone.
She dropped to her knees next to him and brushed his hands out of the way.
“No,” he grumbled.
“Let me. I’m a healer.”
The wound was deep and cut through muscle. If he was lucky, he would live, but he would never walk again.
Sorcha would not be the one who told him that. Perhaps faerie healers knew more than she did about their bodies. The only thing she could do was stop him from bleeding out.
The tearing sound of her dress made Eamonn pause. She could feel the heat of his stare, his anger burning through her flesh.
Quickly, she wrapped the cloth underneath his thigh and cinched it as tight as possible. She knotted the fabric, ignored his pained whimper, and turned towards the faerie glaring daggers at her actions.
“I won’t let him die.”
“Why? Some strange affection towards my twin?”
“Because he’s just doing a job. I won’t stand by when I can help, no matter what side he fights for.”
“Soft heart.”
Eamonn turned and flung the sword in his hand. It whistled through the air and embedded in the faerie woman’s back who scrabbled at the door, then hung limp.
“Let’s go,” Eamonn said. He turned and yanked Ocras out of the other woman, holding out a bloodied hand for her to take.
Sorcha stood slowly, measuring him with a weighted stare. “You’re angry at me.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t deserve your help.”
“He’s alive. That means he deserves my help. I will never stop wanting to heal people, and if you want me to then we can end this now. I help others. That’s what I do.”
She watched a muscle jump on his jaw. His eyes canted away from hers, staring at the wall until he finally nodded. “So be it. Come with me.”
He did not reach out a hand, and she did not take his arm. They stood still in the hallway filled with blood, looking away from each other. A rift between them grew, splintering and splitting, a canyon tear apart their tenuous alliance.
Sorcha should have been heartbroken. She should have been sad, but she was angry. How dare he be angry at her for trying to save another life?
Her heart whispered to be gentle. That the man standing before her needed as much healing as the man behind. His brother was here to kill him. Eamonn likely would not be looking for those who were just doing a job compared to those who wanted him dead.
Maybe they all wanted him dead. She had no way of knowing.
He glanced at her and she met his gaze as his eyes widened in fear.
“Sorcha!”
She heard the crunching sound of armor moving before she turned. The faerie she’d saved stood behind her. She s
aw nothing but cold determination in his gaze and a knife that seemed to glow in his hands.
Time slowed. She heard her own exhalation and his hand began to descend. Sorcha ducked, her palms dragging across the plates of his armor. Her fingers slid across metal and gripped a sharpened piece.
She gasped as he fell against her, staggering in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut as hot blood poured over her hands. The jagged edge of armor bit into her fingers, but sliced into his chest even farther when she tried to move.
Her hands trembled, but she couldn’t make them move. He gasped in her ear, the rattling wheeze of a dying breath. She knew it well. Sorcha had heard it many times, but never so close.
Eamonn might have killed the others, but she had killed this one.
“Sorcha.” Eamonn’s armored hands pulled her away from the body. It fell to the ground with a wet thud. “Sorcha, I’m sorry you had to do that.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“You had to protect yourself, mo chroí.”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“The first one is always the hardest. But we do not have time for this.”
“I should check for a heartbeat,” she said. She tried to turn but he wouldn’t even let her look at the body.
“No. No, we leave now Sorcha. I need to hide you from him.”
“From who?” Her mind felt foggy. All she could feel was blood on her hands and she should have been comfortable with the feeling. How many times had she felt blood on her hands? Pouring from between a woman’s legs. It was life.
But this was death.
“Sorcha.”
“I thought you and Bran looked like you were dancing. It was beautiful to watch you spar. I was so impressed. I thought real battle would look like that, but it doesn’t.”
“Practicing is one thing. It’s easy to make the movements look graceful when there is no blade striking at your throat. Real battle is gritty, messy, brutal. I’m sorry you had to see it.”
“Mo chroí,” she whispered. “You called me your heart.”
He gripped her hand and did not answer. They raced through the halls, ducking around soldiers. The castle rang with the screams of Fae who had not gone to the forefront to fight the king’s army.
Sorcha couldn’t handle any more death. She squeezed her eyes shut and let Eamonn guide her across the floors. Perhaps he knew that she wouldn’t look. Eventually, he swung her into his arms and charged through the endless doors and hidden rooms.
