The Bringer of War
Chapter 42

The pitiful trickle of muddy water barely constituted a stream by anyone’s assessment. It slipped out from between a jumble of thorns and half living saplings to spill across the shallow depression. A man squatted near the water’s edge, using a tin pan to sift through the gritty sediment. A short distance away two other men, these dressed in the king’s livery of purple and gold, leaned casually on spears, looking quite bored. A sway backed mule munched complacently on grass, still hitched to a wagon laden with digging tools and three large barrels lashed together with hemp. A roughly square wooden structure had been erected near the treeline, its doors closed but not barred. The early morning sun cast a golden light over the scene where it knifed through the canopy of leaves.

Standing next to a tree less than a stone’s throw from the man panning the stream stood a male faerie. His skin bore a resemblance to the tree he leaned against, both in color and texture. Stepping away from the trunk, he allowed the enchantment to drop from his corporeal form, re assuming a more normal appearance.

Normal, at least for a faerie. He stood well over eight feet tall, with shoulders broader than any knight’s. Thick fur covered his shoulders and arms down to the elbows, and a mat of black wiry hair covered his bare chest. A simple leather loincloth covered his privates, doing nothing to hide the thick musculature of his legs. The limbs were slightly bent, appearing more as a wolf or horse’s leg. They terminated in a cloven hoof, bigger than the stoutest warhorse.

He gripped what appeared to be a long, ash gray wooden staff, the tip of which reached past the curling ram like horns that graced his crown. A tangle of ivy leaves ran around his forehead just below where they sprouted.

The panhandler glanced up, eyes widening as they fell upon the towering faerie. Instead of the blundering, panicked actions one might expect, the man rose to his feet and stuck his fingers in his mouth. He bleated a loud whistle, gaining the attention of the two soldiers nearby.

“Allfather’s beard, he’s a big one,” said the panhandler. He produced a small but capable looking blade from somewhere in his rugged outdoor clothing.

The faerie did not speak, but his bright green eyes narrowed. His free hand jutted outward, pointing towards the south, and the lands of man. When the faerie moved the men watching jumped, and two more naked blades where pointing towards him.

“What’s he pointing at?” said one of the soldiers, moving towards the stream with his sword angled protectively across his torso.

“Probably wants us to leave,” said the panhandler, almost sadly.

The second soldier moved to join them, though more cautiously. It appeared that he had a bandage about his ankle, and was wary of getting it wet in the pitiful stream. His face flashed with a wicked grin, however, as he beheld the faerie.

“Too bad he don’t know,” said the wounded soldier “we ain’t alone!”

Grinning, as if he had been waiting for such a segue, the panhandler again blew a whistle, three short bleats followed by a long one. The shed like structure burst open and a dozen men came charging out. The Faerie did not react as they moved to surround him, standing just out of sword reach. They were armored, faces sweaty due to being covered in metal on a hot summer’s day.

“Are you Templars?” said the faerie, his voice as deep as the sea. It rumbled with power, like distant thunder, and made more than a few of the men blanch.

“We don’t need no stinking Blue Boys,” said the panhandler, who the faerie’s narrowed eyes had identified as being the leader. “Finish it quickly, don’t give him a cha-”

With a liquid motion more akin to a striking serpent than a mortal man, the faerie clasped both hands onto the strange wooden staff and spun in a tight circle. The staff turned out to be a sword, one with a deadly edge despite its wooden construction. The tip sank deep into the throat of the first soldier it struck, then tore out the eyes of the next, then decapitated a third. A forth soldier was able to react quickly enough to save his life, though he did have a spurting gash on the side of his neck.

His companions, seasoned warriors one and all, set upon the faerie man with their own blades. The faerie pivoted on one foot and kicked out behind him with his hoof. It impacted one of the men just below the nose, causing his teeth to shatter like glass. The soldier crumpled, barely conscious as his palm filled up with red blood and white splinters of teeth.

One of the soldiers shouted in triumph as he managed to nick the attacking leg with his sword. The tiny cut bled little and did not seem to upset the faerie in the least. Using his foe’s superior numbers to his advantage, he slipped between the whirling swords of two of them. The weapons collided, one of the men losing his grip. The faerie gripped the sword two feet taller than either of them in both of his thick, hairy hands and thrust it through the belly of the unarmed man. With a smooth motion he withdrew it and spun in a half circle, burying the wooden sword to the hilt in the other’s man’s chest. The dying man tried a wild counter swing, but the faerie used the horn on his left side to harmlessly deflect the sword.

The faerie looked up at his remaining opponents. Of the twelve that set upon him, half now lay dead or dying in the dust. Those that survived were approaching much more cautiously, trying to outflank him. The faerie could have easily used any of the ample trees to prevent them from surrounding him, but he just stood in place, sword at the ready. His face twitched with an eager snarl, and a low growl escaped from his throat.

“Attack!” hollered the panhandler. He shoved the shoulders of the first two soldiers, causing one of them to curse as his bandage entered the filthy water. Those soldiers surrounding the faerie began to close in, swords ready to be whetted.

The faerie summoned up his innate magic and shaped it, the process much quicker than when Aven did the same. Less than a split second after he began to harness his energies he was ready to unleash them.

“Rasque!” he said in a cold, clear tone. He let go of his sword with one hand and made a tight fist. The soldiers approaching him screamed, weapons dropping from their fingers as they were overcome with agony. All at once, as if a giant fist were wrapped about each of their heads, their helmets were deformed inward, crumpling with a metallic crunch. Blood seeped from the y shaped openings for their eyes and mouth as their bodies fell to the forest floor.

The only soldier who survived was the fellow with his ankle wrapped. He had stopped to glance down at the now filthy bandage, cursing his poor luck. By the time he looked back to the faerie his mates lay dead. The faerie raised his sword over his head in a two handed grip and brought it down , the blade hissing through the air. The man raised his blade before him, using his gauntleted free hand to further brace for the attack. The wooden sword cleaved right through the blade without slowing down, snapping it like a tinder twig. His skull likewise in twain, the soldier dropped to his knees and died without a sound.

The panhandler had seen enough. He turned about and yielded to the better part of valor, feet beating a rapid tattoo on the dirt. The faerie watched him heading up the slight incline. He summoned the energy within and shaped it once more. Using one hand, he made a gesture as if he were pulling back on something sturdy. A few feet in front of the desperately fleeing man, a branch as thick as a man’s leg bent back. When the man was just past it, the faerie released his grip. A hundred feet away, the branch reacted as if released, whipping into the man’s back to send him sprawling in the weeds.

The faerie walked quickly on his strange legs, his long gait allowing him to traverse the distance in a few seconds. He came upon the panhandler, lying on his face and groaning softly. The man’s torso was strangely twisted, his legs facing the wrong way. The faerie dropped into a crouch and regarded him. Behind them, the man who had been run through the belly moaned. His voice sounded a bit strange, as if he were wailing under the ministrations of a tavern wench rather than a belly wound.

The panhandler weakly lifted his head and looked into the emerald eyes of the faerie. His broken body would not respond when he tried to rise, and the panic in his gaze faded, replaced by grim resoluteness.

“Why is he making such a sound?” said the man, his voice strained as if he could not quite catch his breath.

“My blade, Grimwynd,” said the faerie, displaying his lengthy sword. “Any who are cut by it experience the ecstasy of Paradise before their end.”

“That’s bloody twisted,” said the man, who coughed hard. Frothy blood formed at his lips, and he lowered his face into the dirt.

“Better that they die in pain and suffering?” said the faerie. “I regret the slaying of men.”

The panhandler tried to laugh, but he was overcome by more coughing. The faerie stood up and raised his blade.

“Stop,” said the man “stay your hand, sir, I beg.”

“Your back is broken,” said the faerie, shaking his head “even if I were to leave you be, you would not survive long.”

“It is not death that I fear,” said the man “it’s being duped into thinking I’m in Paradise that bothers me.”

“You lie,” said the faerie, though he did lower his blade “you fear death a great deal.”

“Aye,” said the man, chuckling lightly though it caused him agony “I suppose I do at that. There are worst things than dying, though. Wish I could reach the pipe in my jerkin...”

The faerie reached a massive hand towards him and he cringed. The strange being only gently patted his torso until he located the pipe. He put it in the man’s grateful mouth.

“There’s a bit of flint and steel in there, too,” said the panhandler.

“No need,” said the Faerie. He held out a finger towards the pipe, which was about half full of a green-brown hash of leaves. “Cinge,” he said, and the pipe flared to life.

The man puffed upon it, wincing as his twisted torso took in the acrid smoke. He managed to weakly hang on to the pipe with his one working hand.

“Shall I speed your end?” said the faerie. “Grimwynd can be told to behave like any other blade.”

“Told?” said the man between puffs.

“Yes,” said the faerie “He is a living thing, as you and I.”

“As you are,” said the man “I am already dead, condemned for my trespass.”

“Why does the king break our truce?” said the faerie, seeming genuinely confused. “Is there not gold to be had elsewhere? This stream is lacking in anything more substantial than crayfish and mud.”

“Oh,” said the man “we knew that. It was a good place to set up an ambush. You faerie have been..”

He was overcome with red, wet coughing. The faerie waited implacably for him to recover.

“You faerie have been attacking our mining camps for weeks,” he said “we knew that it was only a matter of time till you came at us.”

“I see,” said the faerie “so there are other small troops of men plying the same guile against my subjects?”

“Subjects?” said the man. “You some kind of....kind of king?”

“Aye,” said the faerie with no trace of bravado “I am the faerie king, Oberon.”

“Killed by a king,” said the man “and my father said I’d never amount to much.”

His face lowered to the dirt, though he continued to speak softly. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Don’t know why...the king did this,” he said, voice fading “some say he’s gone...mad. Funny, always thought I’d...die of...boredom...”

Oberon had seen enough. He drew himself up to his full height and took Grimwynd in two hands.

“I return you to the earth,” he said “you will not be wasted. Your essence will provide sustenance in this world and the next. To Hrath, brave one.”

He brought the sword down and neatly severed the man’s head from his shoulders. Bending low, Oberon wiped the excess blood from Grimwynd’s blade on the man’s jerkin. Then he rose to his cloven feet and likewise finished off the still living soldier by the creek.

The faerie king looked about himself, becoming aware for the first time that something was amiss. He could hear the wind as it whispered of the king’s men treading hard upon the forest soil, which he had been hearing for weeks. There was something else, a familiar scent on the wind that he could not place at first. His placid features abruptly became creased with worry, and he began to lope through the woods faster than any elk.

He found his quarry a half mile away, traversing a game trail. It was a human maid, young with curly strawberry blonde hair. A homespun gown with a skirt that terminated a few inches below the knee adorned her body. She looked at him with narrowed green eyes full of a irritation.

“Will you strike me down, oh king?” she said, putting her hands at her ample hips.

Oberon looked down at himself and realized that he was holding the sword defensively across his chest. He lowered it and stared back at her abashedly.

“Of course not,” said Oberon “would I cause harm to my own blood?”

“No,” said Aven “just exile it.”

“Aven, please,” said Oberon “it was for your-”

“If you utter the words ’for my own good,” said Aven “I will do my best to kill you.”

“You would fail,” said Oberon, pouting “you are but half faerie.”

“Really?” said Aven mockingly. “Without someone to remind me of it every day, I had almost forgotten.”

“Why have you returned?” said Oberon. His face was full of pain, but his tone was firm. “There is nothing for you here. Perhaps in the world of men you can-”

“The world of men has brought me here,” she said. “Why do you think I appear as a mortal? Their soldiers are in the Still Hollow, their marching feet trampling vine and flower.”

“I know,” said Oberon, leaning on his sword as if weary. “I have slain nearly a score this day. What I do not know is why they have come.”

“The king needs all the gold he can muster,” said Aven, unable to keep the hostility out of her tone “he seeks to summon a Queen Dragon.”

“I should have known,” said Oberon, growing angry. “I have grown addled these last centuries.”

“How could you have known?” said Aven.

“The comet,” he said “Knell’s Bloom only appears twice in a millenia, and always portends strife. That and the heat...dragons are drawn to heat, and this summer has burned like flame.”

“It has been hot,” said Aven, sweat standing upon her brow.

“How do you know of this plot?” said Oberon, putting his hand before his mouth as he regarded Aven.

“I will spin the tale,” said Aven “but it will take some time, and there are humans about who would do you harm.”

“Let them try,” said Oberon as if it did not concern him “speak, my granddaughter, and tell me of the twisted plans of men.”

** *

Mannix let the arrow fly, its path true. The shaft whipped across the meadow and buried itself to the fletchings in the pheasant’s side. The bird dropped from the tree it had perched upon like a stone, crashing through the foliage to land with a thump on the forest floor.

He grinned, moving out from the treeline. It had been a long time since he had the opportunity to go hunting, and he was pleased to have recovered his prowess so quickly. Despite the Roach’s warning, he could not be brought to put too much distance between himself and Fort Drakken.

He had been in the woods for several days, living off the land with the stars as his ceiling at night. But for the mosquitos that had dotted his face with red weals he was almost having a pleasant time of things. Only the thought of his daughter, still in the clutches of Drakken, prevented him from simply forgetting his life as a noble.

He whistled as he wove his way between the trees, heading for the spot where his bird had fallen. The tune died mid note as he came upon a sight that chilled him to the core.

The pheasant was there, as well as the arrow that had pierced it. However, instead of the two of them being intertwined as one, they were quite separate. The arrow lay upon the dead leaves, its point and shaft smeared with blood. The bird still had a hole large enough to fit his little finger in, but should it have been chirping and flapping its wings? The strange, dark skinned child that held it seemed to be mystified as well, stroking the pheasant’s soft plumage with one hand while she gripped it fast with the other.

“What are you about, child?” said Mannix, his voice breaking. He held a hand out for the pheasant. “Give it here, wounded animals are dangerous.”

The girl gasped when she saw him. She took a few steps backward, the bird noisily chirping in her hands.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said Mannix, trying to smile “are you lost? Where’s your mother?”

The girl opened her mouth and shouted.

“Hecker!” she screamed. “HECKER!”

In the distance, he heard another shout. The sounds of people crashing through the underbrush made him cringe, and he nearly turned about and fled the scene. He was a fugitive, one with a large price upon his head.

He hesitated a moment too long. A youth came crashing out of the verdant foliage, a sword gripped in his spindly arm. Fuzzy brown hair hung in a tangled clump around his head, making him seem even more awkward. His freckled face creased in a grin when he beheld Mannix, and his sword point lowered to the ground.

“Lord Mannix,” he said, walking into the sunlight. “What in the Allfather’s name are you doing out here?”

“Hector?” said Mannix, eyes narrowing as he peered at the boy. “Is that you, lad?”

“It’s all right, Kira,” said Hector, patting the girl on the head. She dropped the bird to the forest floor and hugged him tightly around the waist.

“I wasn’t going to hurt her,” said Mannix, clearing his throat.

“Of course not,” said Hector “but I told her to call out if she met anyone she did not know, and she is a good lass.”

He looked down with fondness at the child, then frowned at Mannix.

“There is much for us to discuss,” he said.

“Aye,” said Mannix “there is at that.”

Both men’s ears pricked up when they heard more voices. Hector relaxed and bade Mannix do the same.

“Just my companions,” said Hector “a strange pair, but they have proven themselves good men, when they are not driven to desperation.”

“I have learned something of desperation myself, recently,” said Mannix.

*** *

“King Drakken has gone mad,” said Aven, pressing her advantage. Oberon stood stoically silent, hand before his mouth. He had not spoken in some time, allowing Aven to tell her story without interruption. “The Green People must stand against him.”

“And we will,” said Oberon. Aven’s eyes lit up at his words.

“Excellent,” said Aven “who shall be leading the assault? Is Tatiana still living, or will you trust this to Sethra’s recklessness-”

“I am sorry,” said Oberon, holding up a hand to forestall further protests “but you are mistaken. If humans come to our lands, we will strike them down, and any dragons they are foolish enough to track with. But if they respect our borders, if they remain to the south, then we will not seek conflict.”

“Are you insane?” said Aven, her jaw falling slack. “Conflict has come to you, whether you seek it or not! The king has a dragon queen, are you not listening?”

“Of course I listen, child,” said Oberon with kindness “but I have lived much longer than you. Your life is but a heartbeat when laid next to mine.”

“I am not a child!” hissed Aven. “You said so when you banished me.”

“I never banished you,” said Oberon, his eyes full of pain “I thought you would be happier among the humans. You can pretend to be one of them with ease.”

“Aye,” said Aven “I can live a lie for the rest of my days, however long they may be.”

“What am I to do?” said Oberon, spreading his hands “how can I make this right for you?”

“Send warriors to the south,” said Aven “If you do, I will leave and never sully the Still Hollow with my presence again.”

“It is not that I won’t,” said Oberon “it is that I cannot. Our numbers dwindle, Aven. You are the only child born to us in hundreds of years. We have grown old and sprawling, like an ancient tree that no longer bears fruit but lingers still. Our time on this world is coming to an end, and I will not hasten our decline by spending lives in battle to save humans from their own stupidity.”

“Why can you not see?” said Aven, nearly swooning. “Drakken will burn the forest down around you to get what he wants! Perhaps we are fading from the world because we refuse to be a part of it.”

“The human world is corrupt,” said Oberon “full of greed, lust and suffering.”

“So you send your only grandchild there,” said Aven “makes perfect sense.”

Oberon winced as if struck.

“I did not mean-” he began.

“Tomorph,” said Aven, allowing her human guise to melt away. Oberon’s voice caught in his throat as he beheld her, an image so like and yet unlike his departed daughter.

“I will go,” said Aven “to fight this battle, not just for the humans but for the faerie as well. Their rightful protector seems to have grown soft.”

“You have no right to say such..” Oberon’s hot words trailed off as Aven took off at a dead run for the south. She bounded into the foliage and was gone like a daydream.

“I have missed you, dear Aven,” he said in a whisper “I have missed you. May the living spirit of the forest protect you and guide you, and may they forgive this foolish old one’s pride.”

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