“I ask the Lady’s help in wooing the man I love. I wonder if I will ever feel as connected to him as I do to her.”
She stopped speaking. Tathal used the silence to mull over the conversation and one thing had become quite clear.
It would be a difficult night ahead.
“Return to me, Breena,” he ordered finally. “You have done very well.”
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“I will pour you that drink now,” he informed her, already walking around the bar—and stepping over the body of poor Old Wynn to reach the liquor.
He could feel Tinkham’s beady eyes watching him curiously from above. “Are you going to get her drunk?” the fairy asked, flying down to hover at Tathal’s shoulder. “Will that help you get the answers we seek?”
“The answers I seek,” Tathal corrected. “And no, I have no further need of her.”
The fairy blinked in disbelief. “You had better share then.”
“My dear Tinkham,” Tathal said, handing Breena a drink. “If you continue to speak, your services will no longer be required. You know what that means, yes?”
The black-scarred face of the Shadowell fairy scrunched up in rage. He wisely went quiet. The wizard turned away, already puzzling over what he had learned. Tathal would confront the Lady of the Lake, that much he knew. Whether he could steal, coerce, charm, or fool the information he wanted from her depended on this night. He had brought Tinkham as well as his knight protector, the latter waiting outside. The two of them and his own wits would have to be enough.
And the night beckoned.
“Pick up the knife, Breena,” Tathal ordered.
She put down her untouched drink. She picked up the blade, Old Wynn’s blood still wet enough to coat her fingers and palm in sticky red.
“You have wanted to die a very long time,” Tathal said, leaning close to Breena and lowering his voice to plant a seed. “Ever since your husband left you with nothing. You want to die now. There really is no reason to go on.”
Breena frowned. Tathal simply waited until his spell did the work for him. With so many strands unwoven in the tapestry of his future, it was best not to leave one thread undone, one that could be pulled and undo at least some of his work. Like Old Wynn, the woman’s soul had a powerful drive of self-preservation that even a wizard of his talent had a hard time overcoming. Breena would fight him as so many others had over the centuries. It mattered not. Her will would crumble like all the rest.
And her life would end as so many others had. With death by his hand.
Breena stared at the knife. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. Tathal watched a few fall. Some part of her knew. Knew what was happening. She gripped the knife tighter, unable to undo the persuasion that compelled her. He saw the seed had taken root and grew inside.
He saw her final truth. The knife would fall continuously upon his leaving.
Tathal Ennis left The Wily Puck then, the night embracing him as it had for so many centuries, cloaking him in a darkness that had always been a friend. Tinkham and the wizard’s shadowy knight protector followed. No one saw them depart. No one would know what Tathal had done. He would leave the village of Betws-y-Coed as he had arrived—with no one the wiser.
In an hour or maybe less, someone would enter the establishment looking for a drink or conversation with Old Wynn and Breena or both.
They would find much more than that.
Tathal grinned.
A murder-suicide was nice and neat.
* * *
Wasting no time, Tathal Ennis moved through the midsummer night.
The moon accompanied him, out of Betws-y-Coed and into the countryside, its light painting Wales in silver and the warmth of the day still sticky around him. He had grown up in a similar setting and had traveled through the Misty Isles many times while tracking down the implements he needed to fulfill his plans. The last time, he had visited Glastonbury Tor just to the south and the grave it had hidden for centuries. There, he had found his protector—a terrible revenant. The shadow had become his best tool, an indomitable, raging spirit given life again. Proving its loyalty, it had crossed land very much like the one they now traversed, destroying the village of South Cadbury in its entirety to ensure Myrddin Emrys and his foul Heliwr knight Richard McAllister could never discover Tathal’s business. His protector now followed behind him, just out of sight, as silent as his slain.
Still, possessing the returned revenant did not mean Tathal could let his guard down. Tinkham scouted ahead, his gossamer wings a blur carrying his black, knobby body through the air. The wizard had met the nasty little creature months earlier when he had entered Annwn in search of the Archstone—the rarest of keys, needed to unleash Stonehenge’s most terrible secret. Tathal hadn’t found the relic. But the fairy had become another piece in the wizard’s scheme. He was as ruthless as Tathal. And Shadowell fairies had a habit of exploding upon death, tarring the vicinity with their ichorous innards. Tathal grinned. He had to admit he hoped to see that one day.
A wizard, a knight, and a fairy. The words invoked the French Arthurian romantic legends. But Chrétien de Troyes would have been aghast at their malevolence. It was needed this night though. For the woman Tathal went to speak to was no woman.
Not any longer.
She was one of the most dangerous of Word creations.
The air cooled as midnight came and went. Tathal made his way through Northwestern Wales, more determined than ever. Tinkham scouted ahead, leading the way; Tathal’s shadow protector followed behind, an unseen presence. The nocturnal creatures they crossed gave way, hiding from the three. The wizard paid them no mind. Soon he heard the sound of water rushing over smoothed stones even as a silver ribbon came into view, one highlighted by the moon and that snaked through the darkness. The Conwy River, the source of the fairy glen. Finally, he arrived at a gate with a simple toll box, the proceeds meant to pay the caretaker for the upkeep of the path. He went through the gate without paying. The path angled away then until it split—one direction diverged to the Fairy Glen and the other went Riverside. He took the former. Ferns and lichens grew along the banks of the river and purple orchids and globeflowers scented the air. He could feel the magic of the place as he made his way to the river, a cool, soft ebb of power that most mortals would never feel but which he had been attuned to his whole life.
With the sky filled with stars, Tathal arrived upon rocky banks and a hush fell over even the river, a great stilling of sound, filled with expectation.
“Well, wizard,” Tinkham groused. “We are here. What now?”
“Tinkham, patience,” he said, breathing in the night. “First, I must sing and call the Lightbrands.” The dark fairy hissed. The Shadowell clan hated the Lady of the Lake’s guardians. “They will appear because the magic of the song will compel them. Then there is the Lady of the Lake. She is not so easily coerced. But the Lady of the Lake has the memory of her human heart. The feelings she possesses can be used against her. And I plan on taking advantage of that. If necessary.”
“Can she cause us harm?” the fairy asked.
“If she is guarded, yes—and she will be.”
The fairy looked back the way they had come. The wizard’s protector waited at the edge of shadowy awareness, staring at them, still as a statue. “And my part in all of this, wizard?” Tinkham asked, his eyes obsidian beads.
“I do not know,” Tathal lied. “The part you will play in this is not yet clear.” The Shadowell fairy frowned. He knew Tathal rarely didn’t have an answer. “Although,” the wizard continued. “If the Lightbrands try to flee, I need you to attack them. Unlike other fairies, the Lightbrands are immune to my magic. You can confuse them. And give me enough time to think of something.” The fairy nodded, become very serious. “Now be quiet. And still. It is time.”
Tathal turned toward the waterfall and closed his eyes.
And sang.
The son
g spun out of him, laced with his own magic, the same words Breena and her grandmother had sung before, a supplication, a request, an entreaty to meet and be heard. He beckoned the other, the fey. The sound of his deep voice penetrated the night and as each word resonated within the fairy glen, a swelling answer returned to him. The trickling sound of the waterfall disappeared. Tinkham and the revenant disappeared. Only the song mattered. Upon finishing it, he began anew. By the third time through, he could feel the magic pushing at the veil that kept this world separate from Annwn.
Tathal understood then. The song existed as a clarion call. When he opened his eyes, he could see a blurring of two distinct worlds in the same space, a junction of sorts. It was just the beginning. Lights swirled within the waterfall, captured starlight given life. The movement started small at first and then grew. Tathal watched the lights separate from the water to fly up above the river. Lightbrands. Several dozens. Before the wizard had finished his final song, five glowing figures separated from the rest and flew toward him, fairies made all of light, growing more distinct as they approached. They were nude, their hair white and their eyes as blue as the deep ocean. Three females and two males. All stared at him. He could sense their growing uncertainty.
The Lightbrands flew in a circle, tighter, until they were a blur approaching him, a ring of fluid movement.
“A rogue wizard,” one said.
“Very dangerous.”
“The Lady will not be pleased by this one. We cannot accept his plea.”
“He cannot touch us. He is not of fairy.”
“Return. Return.”
The fairies spoke quickly, Tathal barely able to understand their words. He saw what was happening though. The circle of light that comprised the five Lightbrands had already begun to break down and move back toward the waterfall.
“Now, Tinkham!” Tathal roared.
From over his shoulder, the fairy shot like a dark arrow into the midst of the Lightbrands, slashing at them with his tiny, glowing fey sword. The Lightbrands tried to hide behind one another, tried to fend off the little creature. Just as Tathal had hoped.
Tathal shot his magic directly into the grouping of light and its spot of dark.
Into the heart of Tinkham.
The Shadowell fairy exploded. One moment, he was attacking his most hated enemy. The next, his black insides covered every Lightbrand fairy.
The Lightbrands realized their danger but all too late. The magic Tathal spun chained the remains of Tinkham, binding the Lady’s gore-covered servants to the fairy glen.
The Lightbrand leaders were his.
“Farewell, brave, pain in the ass Tinkham,” Tathal smirked, even as he walked into the shallow depths of the river to view his prisoners. The Lightbrands tried to clean away the Shadowell fairy’s death, in an attempt to get free from the wizard. As he approached, he could see the fear etched onto their little faces. He smiled.
“My Lady, my Fey Queen, I wish an audience,” Tathal said to the night. He knew she would be listening. “I suggest you grant it.”
It did not take long. He could feel the shift in the fairy glen before it even happened. And something else? An uneasiness? With his wizard eyes, he watched the veil pull back to reveal the true fairy glen in Annwn. His dark companion went with him, tethered to Tathal for that purpose. A rowdy waterfall existed in this fairy glen as well, the resulting river slowing to a smooth stillness as it meandered through the meadow and beyond into dark woods. Peace tried to worm its way into his heart, part of the magic of the fairy glen. He fought it, hated it. It belied life’s most earnest truth—that life ripped peace away, destroyed love, and offered only pain.
Rage he had carried for centuries sharpening his resolve, Tathal Ennis looked around for the object of his coming, restraining the Lightbrands in the air near him.
The Lady of the Lake was not present.
Tathal was about to threaten his hostages again when he saw a knight.
She stood upon the opposite shore of the river, ethereal as the mist, beneath ancient fir trees that towered around the glen. Tall and lithe, her steel armor hugged her close, its surface polished to a silver sheen but without helm. Instead, the cowl of an inner cloak concealed her features, pulled up over her head. All except full lips blessed with a ruby glow. Flame glowed and rippled along the edges of her armor, a perpetual cinder embedded in the steel to ward off enemies when needed. With her gauntleted left hand resting comfortably upon the silver circular pommel of her longsword, she stood, a blade given human form, prepared for war within the most peaceful of fairy settings.
The emblem of a white rose embossed the armor over her heart. Made of opal, it captured the star shine and glowed like the Lightbrands.
“A Blodyn Knight,” Tathal said. His surprise gave way to a tiny sliver of doubt. “A powerful bodyguard, Lady. How very interesting.”
The woman moved then, as if the wizard’s recognition of her presence gave her freedom to do so. She strode confidently toward him, over the river where no stones or bridge held her up.
This was a powerful creature indeed.
“Last wizard of the Fallen Court,” she greeted without welcome. “The Lady I serve requests you free the Lightbrands you have unceremoniously captured. She does not wish to see her friends wither at your touch. She also does not wish to destroy you—here in this most peaceful of places—despite the ill intentions you have brought.”
Tathal snorted derisively. He stepped forward carefully, keeping his distance from this dangerous creature, whose speed and agility was renowned and whose magic was deadly.
“Does one such as the Lady truly have friends?” he questioned.
“All life is precious to her.”
“Be that as it may, you did not answer my question,” he said, peering at her closely. There was much he did not know about this particular Blodyn Knight. “And perhaps you are not who you say you are. Show yourself. And when I am convinced you are an emissary to the Lady, we shall start with introductions.”
A few silent moments passed as if she were getting direction. Then she lowered her cowl. She was beautiful but in a terrifying way, made as strong as the steel at her side and just as unforgiving. But that was not what truly drew his surprise. No, it was her sharp chin, high cheekbones, and the auburn hair that barely concealed the pointed ears of her heritage.
The Blodyn Knight was an Elf.
“I am Lilyth Imrel Ayr, Sworn Shield of the Lady of the Lake,” she said with the slightest inclination of her head. “You are Tathal Ennis, wizard of the Fallen Court. Once more, the Lady requests that you free the Lightbrands under your thrall. I will not ask it again.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Sworn Shield,” Tathal said, also inclining his head just enough to not be rude.
“No, you are not,” she replied. In her right hand, a rose appeared. She gazed at the flower even as its edges caught fire, blackened, and burned. “Do not make me draw my sword,” she warned, smelling the bloom even as it disintegrated into ash. “Life is life until it is death.”
Tathal watched her, thinking. He felt like he was missing something, some aspect of her. Something in her voice. It became an itch, one he would scratch if he worked at it hard enough.
“I am surprised to see an Elf in the service of the Lady,” he said, buying time to discover her secret. “The Elves vanished from Annwn and the Misty Isles long ago.”
A hint of a smile played across her ruby lips. “You know nothing of Elves, wizard. We inhabit these Isles as our Tuatha de Dannan kin once did so long ago. In hiding. The fey who serve the Lady of the Lake do so proudly, last wizard of the Fallen Court. And we are as varied and numerous as the stars in the sky.” Tathal sensed her pride and noted it. “I am here to discuss the transgression you have brought against the Lightbrands as well as your presence here in this peaceful place.”
“You are no negotiator,” Tathal said, casually waving the idea aside to get a rise ou
t of her. “I wish to speak to the Lady unencumbered by your tongue.”
She darkened.
“What am I then, rogue wizard, if not the Lady’s voice?”
“You are a blunt tool, albeit a useful one,” he said. “You lack the faculties or wisdom that the Lady and I possess. Only a conversation with her will satisfy me. And only if she gives me what I desire.”
“You will not free the fairies unless the Lady appears?” she asked, making sure they were clear on the matter.
“Not until she rises out of that pool,” he said, pointing at the froth below the waterfall.
“She does not wish that.”
“Then we are at an impasse, and the Lightbrands remain with me.” He paused, bringing the fairies closer to him. He could see the fear on their faces as they struggled against their viscous bonds. He knew the Blodyn Knight could see that fear as well. “I wonder how much light I can squeeze from one of them before their life darkens and winks out?”
Lilyth Imrel Ayr took a step toward him. “Does your life mean so little to you?” she asked. “You tempt its end.”
Tathal grinned. “I do more than that.”
The Elf gripped her sword’s hilt.
“The Lady will not relent to your evil,” Lilyth Imrel Ayr said, drawing her sword free. He could feel her magic reach into the world. “I am to end your life so that the Lightbrands may live. And to stop your dark quest before it consumes the world and all life with it.”
“My dear Blodyn Knight,” Tathal said, smiling. He gestured to the darkness where his protector and knight had been waiting, hidden. “How ever do you think you will free them and stop my quest if you are already dead?”
The Sworn Shield of the Lady hesitated then, her eyes shooting over Tathal’s shoulder.
For from the shadows, the Mordred entered the fairy glen.
* * *
Hissing, the Blodyn Knight became as taut as a drawn bowstring.
It did not matter that the Mordred looked no match for the Elf. He was too tall, too broad-shouldered, and looked to be as slow as an ox. Lilyth Imrel Ayr could see the truth though. Tathal had replaced the soul of a churchwarden from South Cadbury with a revenant once imprisoned by Glastonbury Tor—the bastard son of one Arthur, King of Caer Llion. He was now the wizard’s shield and sword, fettered by magic. To anyone else, the Mordred appeared to be a man of the cloth, with his clergy tab collar and black clothing, not a man who had killed hundreds in his lifetime and even more in death. A horror. A killer. A monster armored by magic. A revenant so filled with darkness that it had nearly conquered Britain and more.
Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists Page 18
