by Liz de Jager
This time, though, it feels different. The air is charged with static and the incessant hum, like an insect buzzing in my ear, is disconcerting, putting me on edge.
Drawing a deep breath and calming my stuttering heart, I carefully pull tendrils of slumbering magic to me and focus it, holding it lightly, and close my eyes, letting the magic be my eyes, allowing it to show me what my eyes can’t see in the dark. My magic propels my vision forward and immediately it’s as if I’m looking at the world through a soft green haze. The wards carved into the walls, doors and windows of the house glow jade. No sign of an intruder, or any physical damage to the house. With my sight, I easily pick out the muted glow of my sword resting against my vanity table.
I slide out of bed and pull on my discarded jeans and a rumpled T-shirt and slip my feet into a pair of trainers. My hand slides beneath my pillow and finds the knife Jamie gave me the night the redcaps burned down my home and killed my nan. It was the same night I found out about my heritage and who I was. The night my life changed forever.
The knife fits my palm as perfectly now as it did that night. But the difference between that awful night and now is that I now know how to use it, and I’m getting rather good at punching holes in things that attack me.
I keep the knife by my side as I cross the room to the windows overlooking the wide expanse of back garden. The tall standing stones keep their quiet vigil at the edge of the forest, demarcating where the cultured parkland and formal gardens of Blackhart Manor begin – or end, if you are a glass-half-empty kind of person.
I push open the French doors leading to the small balcony outside my second-storey window and lean forward, narrowing my eyes. My magic responds startlingly quickly and I’m awash in colour and smell and sound. It races up to the warding stones and stays there, allowing me a better view of the thick forest that stretches for miles into the lush Devon countryside.
The protective barrier that the nine menhir, or standing stones, spaced around the garden throw up around the house is both a curse and relief. It stops bad things from getting to the house but it also prevents me from seeing further into the forest. I decide I need a closer look, knowing that there’s no way I’ll be able to go back to bed if I think something is out there.
Running without socks in trainers is not fun so before I leave the room I pull those on. I add the dark blue hoodie Jamie gave me after Marc accidentally knifed me in the shoulder, when I didn’t move away from his attack fast enough. The fabric is stab-proof and it gives me a better chance against opponents; although I’m getting better at defending and attacking, I’m not that good yet and I can do with any bit of help.
My sword gets slung across my back, ninja-style, the knife goes into its sheath that hangs down my leg and I secure the ties around my thigh. My hiking torch stays in my hand and my mobile phone slips into my other pocket. Out of habit I slide my credit card into my front pocket. You never know how things are going to work out or where you’re going to end up once you start running around following your gut instinct.
I leave the house through the back door and bypass the empty stables. The security lights are triggered by my movement as I cross the yard and I curse myself for not thinking and turning them off before leaving the house. I lengthen my stride and soon leave the tidy yard and stables behind me.
The Milky Way blazes above me in a cold clear sky and there is a sense of waiting, of breathlessness and of anticipation that makes the hair stand up on my arms and bare neck.
Two thirds of the way to the tall standing stone I crouch low as a wild ululating cry goes up, coming from the depths of the dark expanse ahead of me. What the hell? The silence that falls after the cry is flat, anticipatory. It lasts mere seconds, before a savage howl slices the night, painting it with chaos, accompanied by the thunder of hooves.
I fling myself forward and run flat out to the nearest stone, where I press myself against the surface, my heart shuddering in fear. A herd of around thirty deer led by an antlered stag bursts from between the trees in a confusion of speed, rolling white eyes and musk. They flash past me, shaking the earth with their passing, fleeing whatever’s in the forest. I watch them speed across the lawns, disappearing into the darkness behind me, heading in the direction of the lake.
I turn my attention back to the forest, my sword in hand. Like the knife, the sword’s become an extension of myself. I write reports with it to hand, I have it propped up against the table when I have breakfast, I have my showers with it leaning against the toilet and I sleep with it next to the bed. Not quite the kind of thing you tell your date – if you are the kind of normal girl who goes on dates, of course.
Now the sword rests in my hand, tip down. I creep towards the larger standing stone a few metres away and press up against it, taking comfort from its solidity. The stone, the one we refer to as the Sentinel, is taller than me by a good two feet and carved with intricate knotwork spirals that look somewhat Celtic. I touch the stone with my free hand and murmur a greeting to it. A sharp ping of magic nips the palm of my hand in answer, telling me that I’m safe here, right now, regardless of what’s out there in the forest.
For a few seconds I close my eyes and allow myself to stand there in the darkness, letting the magic keeping Blackhart Manor safe wash over me. I ride the current for a few moments, enjoying the sensation it brings, how it lifts the tiredness gnawing at me.
I pull away from the stream of magic and stretch my magic towards the forest, a small tendril only. Quietly, softly, I let it snake forward, ready to pull it back as soon as I encounter any trouble. I sense there are no small creatures about; they have probably gone to ground in the wake of the deer’s abrupt escape from the forest.
I follow the tendril as it makes its stealthy way into the depths of the forest, seeking, prying. It feels like an age, but when it finds the trespassers and I have the chance to take the information in, I lean back against the ward stone and rub my eyes, unsure if I’m really seeing what I’m seeing.
I’ve found a squad of redcap goblins carousing in our part of the forest and it looks as if they’ve got someone trapped and are having a grand old time toying with him. I press my fingers to my forehead and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to sort this out.
My knowledge of redcaps isn’t encyclopedic. They are a particularly nasty subgroup of goblin that both the Seelie and Unseelie Courts use as foot soldiers in their ongoing squabbles for territory and political shenanigans. The name redcap comes from the legends that these goblins soak their caps in the blood of their victims. Goblins aren’t ever pleasant, but the redcaps are dirtier and more evil by far than most of them. The older they are, the more gnarled and twisted they become, the warts and scarring on their faces making them outlandishly unpleasant to look at. From the look of this group there are four young ones and two older redcaps. None is taller than me but they are bulky and muscled, and as usual they carry a variety of pikes and serrated knives. They also like to play with fire. Three of the troop hold burning torches aloft, the flames flickering and throwing capering shadows against the thick trunks of the trees in the clearing.
I focus on the person they have at bay. Dusty blond hair and fine featured with the tell-tale look of something inhuman that I’ve come to associate with high-born Sidhe Fae, he looks maybe eighteen, no older than twenty. Dressed in plain battle-stained armour, he appears tired and angry as the redcaps do their usual trick of rushing up at him, swinging their weapons, jeering and then backing off. He holds his sword confidently in his left hand while his right arm hangs uselessly by his side, blood dripping from beneath the shirt, along his hand and fingers, onto a pennant trampled in the dirt beneath his feet. A jagged cut has parted the chainmail, showing a deep gash on his upper arm. The wound looks inflamed and his breathing is fast and ragged. There are various smaller cuts on his hands and, as he turns to snarl something in their guttural tongue, I notice blood down the side of his face, along with an impressive bruise the length of his jaw.
The styl
ized carved griffin rampant on the sculpted pectoral of his cuirass, the breastplate, tells me I’m dealing with someone from High King Aelfric’s household. He may be a minor noble or a bodyguard, and I wonder who he was protecting, and why he’s now in our forest surrounded by the thugs of the Fae world, who obviously want to kill him or eat him, and not necessarily in that order either.
Act now, think later, I tell myself. How to approach this? Six redcaps means I must take out at least three, and hope that elf boy gets at least one. Redcaps lack courage, so if we gain the upper hand, the rest should flee. Then I figure out what a bloody Sidhe warrior is doing in our forest, a world away from where he should be.
I draw a deep breath and step through the wall of magic keeping me safe from the creatures of the night.
Chapter Six
Seventh Son: A rather old and dated piece of folklore pertains to the seventh son of the seventh son. It was generally thought that such a person would be luckier than his siblings and would be blessed with impressive magical powers, invariably that of healing powers.
The gift of prophecy is also tied in with the person’s magical abilities.
From an archived report filed in HMDSDI HQ, 1942
I slink through the forest on quiet feet, stepping over tree roots, and manage to not fall on my face. The redcaps are making so much noise I wonder if they are doing it on purpose and if I’m walking into a trap. But then they are redcaps and are generally challenged in the brains department.
They are laughing and talking loudly, taunting the young man. I don’t understand half of what they’re saying; the large tusks that jut from their bottom jaws make conversation with them nearly impossible. There is a lot of grunting and snorting.
I hear the sound of metal against metal a few times and I reckon that the wounded young man is bravely fending them off as they toy with him.
I don’t bother taking time to think out my attack. I’m not a strategist, as Jamie wryly enjoys pointing out whenever I barge face-first into an attack. I tend to favour the ‘I see my enemy, I bash him over the head’ tactic which, admittedly, has worked for me in the past.
I’m twenty metres from them when I pick up speed. I run at them, a wild battle cry tearing from my throat the last few metres. I burst out of the undergrowth screaming like a demon, throwing the redcaps into confusion. I leap at the nearest one, propelling myself forward by pushing down on a tree stump with one foot, and swipe at his exposed neck in mid-air as I fly by. It’s chaos around me. The first redcap I cut lets out a warbling moan and clutches the deep cut in his neck. Arterial blood sprays the clearing and the smell of the blood drives his cronies crazy.
I land with my back to the young man, then spin and deliver a kick to the head of a redcap who tries to rush me; I shoot the Fae a quick look to check he’s helping out, not paralysed by my insane arrival. But he’s right there, sword flashing against an opponent, focused on the fight.
I’m lucky that I’ve always been fast. Karate and boxing training helped but, with Jamie’s rigorous training, I’m faster still. The blade in my hand dances in the pale starlight and I strike and slice my enemies with precision but little showmanship. Another redcap keels over under my onslaught and I leap over him to launch an attack on the one nearest to me.
The young man seems startled at my lack of battle tactics but then throws himself into the fray with a great deal more grace than I can ever display. Together we take out two more redcaps each and face the final one with raised swords, our chests heaving.
The redcap growls at us, his shark-black eyes flickering between us. A serrated knife, more the size of a short sword, wavers in his hand and he takes a cautious step back. We advance on him simultaneously, as if we’ve practised the move. He doesn’t like it. With a final snarl he turns and flees into the darkness, leaving his dead and dying cronies behind.
I turn and look at the bodies strewn around the clearing, blood and adrenalin raging through me. All five bodies are wearing the same colour armband tied high on their biceps. I nudge one over with my toe and grimace at the blood staining my trainer. I kneel down beside the body and tug at the armband, unrolling it. It’s a rune, white painted on a black background. It’s not a sigil from one of the twelve houses of the Fae that I recognize. My hands are shaking when I turn to look at the young man.
He leans against one of the trees and carefully wipes his blade on a piece of cloth before sheathing his sword clumsily. He’s pale and dark circles have gathered beneath his eyes but when he looks at me directly, I’m struck by how solid he seems in the midst of the carnage. It’s an odd thought, a disjointed reflection I realize, but there’s no other way of describing his presence. There’s nothing about this Fae that’s whimsical or fey, rather he gives off a vibrancy that belies how tired he looks. I take a second to appreciate him, even if he smells like blood and gore, and offer him a cautious nod.
‘I’m Kit Blackhart,’ I say, catching my breath, and in a smooth move flick the blood off my sword and slide it home. I do it with far more style than I’ve ever done it before and I feel a bit swaggery. ‘Nice fighting.’
His eyes are very dark in the flickering light of the dying torches the redcaps have dumped. I see him swallow against a dry throat, but then he draws himself up and executes a perfect courtly bow as if we’re meeting at a royal ball, in a glittering room with perfumed courtiers, and I’m dressed in an exquisite gown, rather than ratty jeans covered in redcap blood and bits.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Blackhart. Prince Thorn, the seventh son of the House of Alba, at your service.’ His voice is pleasant and deep and his accent is a bit foreign. A neat package, until he tries to smile and his eyes roll back in his head and I have to catch him before he hits the ground.
I’m a tall girl, and strong, but I know it’s going to be hellish to try and get him back to the Manor before dawn.
I make it to the patio doors before I completely run out of energy. I carefully dump the unconscious prince on the ground and straighten my aching back. I’m still sore from my encounter with the banshee and after tonight’s, no, this morning’s shenanigans, I don’t think I’ll be able to move without doing a lot of groaning.
Behind me are the snarls and curses of the dark creatures that have hounded us through the forest, flocking to the standing stones that circle the Manor. Casting a look over my shoulder, I see a variety of dark shapes battering themselves against the wall of magic. One of them, bigger than the redcaps, maybe an ogre, is heaving at one of the marker stones, doing his utmost to shift it. Some of them start digging, trying to tunnel beneath the protective wall, and I have to give them five out of five for thinking outside the box. But, unless they have drilling equipment, I doubt they’ll be able to get through. The protection spells safeguarding Blackhart Manor and the estate are centuries old and they are renewed at each equinox. Nothing is going to get through the stone circle. Nothing I’ve heard of, anyway.
I open the patio doors and heave the armoured young man into the informal lounge and with much swearing I lay him down on the longest couch before I run and lock the doors. I take out my knife and snick my finger lightly so that a droplet of blood wells from the cut; I press it into the elaborate carving around the doorjamb and watch as my blood sinks into the wood, leaving no trace. The effect of the safeguarding spell is instantaneous and I close my eyes hastily against the bright flare that lights up the Manor. I can feel the ripple of it go through the house and know that if anyone was watching the Manor from the Otherwhere the place just lit up like a beacon. The spell tells whoever’s watching that we’ve gone into lockdown and that nothing will be able to get through the doors unless I let them. Sometimes you just needed more security than your average lock on the door.
Knowing that I’ve basically just sent off a flare for help in both worlds, to be seen by anyone with the slightest bit of magical potential, makes me feel vulnerable. There are very few places of significance in our world that exist in the Otherwhere too
, and the Manor is one of them. It makes it easier for high-born Sidhe to pay visits to us, and it’s easier for us to nip across than to traipse into the forest to activate the gate hidden there.
The young man on the couch moans something in a language I’m sure I should know and he struggles to grasp for his sword in his half-conscious state. I rush over and remove the sword from his side to prevent him from hurting himself. The sword feels very heavy in my hands. It makes my plain sword, with its leather-wrapped hilt, feel like a piece of scrap metal. I notice the elaborately carved hilt and the deep green stone set in the pommel. A single large stylized dragon is etched along the blade and I wonder what Jamie would make of it. He was fond of saying that weapons were meant to look like weapons, not toys. I lay it on one of the side tables and rub my bloodstained hands down my thighs.
At the sight of my hands, my heart accelerates and my knees go rubbery and weak, as if they can’t support my weight one second more. I lean pathetically against the table for a few seconds, trying to get a grip on myself. I practise some of the breathing techniques Jamie’s taught me for use when it feels as if my magic’s about to burn free. The breathing eventually helps and I turn to survey the unconscious prince.
First things first. He has to be cleaned up and I have to see if I can sort out the cut on his arm and we both need some rest. The carriage clock above the fireplace tells me it’s just after five. Dawn should arrive soon, sending the redcaps and whatever nightmares they had with them scurrying for the darkest recesses of the forest, where they’ll hide till night-time before coming at the house again.
I move as fast as I can to the kitchen and down a can of full-fat Coke for my nerves. As I wait for the sugar to hit my bloodstream I gather my wits. In the utility drawer I find several scissors, which I pocket, and under the sink I find the overlarge and very well-stocked first-aid kit Mrs Evans keeps there. I grab a stack of clean bed sheets from the linen cupboard and carry them into the lounge.
