Rise of the Fey (50 page)

I return my attention to the scene unfolding in the puddle just as Gauvain punches Gareth in the ribs. “Give it back,” he says. “You don’t know what it does.”

“I’ll show you what it does,” Gareth says, swinging the massive hammer dangerously close to his cousin’s face.

“It’s an untried weapon, you fool!” Gauvain says, not moving from his spot. “And you want to take it into battle with us?”

“You’re just jealous I’ve got a better weapon than you now,” Gareth retorts, smiling brightly. “With this in my hands, you won’t be able to beat me anymore.”

Gauvain snorts. “Wish it were stuck to you since you seem to love it so much!” Gauvain gasps as soon as the words leave him. “No!” he says, turning quickly to the Fey. “I didn’t mean—”

“Your wish is my command!” the Fey says, his voice oozing with evil pleasure.

Gareth suddenly drops to his knees with a grunt, holding onto his left hand, then doubles over with a howl.

“Gareth?” Gauvain asks, tentatively touching his cousin’s heaving back. “You OK, cuz? Gareth?”

He pulls on Gareth’s shoulder, forcing him to sit back up.

“Sacré nom d’un chien
⁴²
!” Gauvain exclaims.

Sweat beading on his face, Gareth lifts his arm tentatively before him. Where once was his hand is now the large end of the warhammer, its metal glinting dully in the moonless night.

“Undo it!” Gauvain exclaims, pointing at the Fey. “Undo it now!”

“Can’t,” the tiny Fey says. “You haven’t said the magic words.”

“Fine,” Gauvain roars, “I wish—”

“Wait,” Gareth says, holding onto his cousin’s arm with his remaining hand, “it’s not so bad.”

“What do you mean it’s not so bad?” Gauvain yells. “You’ve lost your hand!”

“Yes, but now I have a weapon I’ll never lose,” Gareth says, sounding awfully calm. “And…”

“And what?” Gauvain asks, more subdued.

“We never know when a wish could provide utility.”

“It’s ‘to prove useful,’ you ass,” Gauvain corrects him automatically, but he seems to be thinking Gareth’s words over. “How are you going to get dressed with that? And the…other business. Because there’s no way in hell I’m going to wash you.”

Gareth shrugs. “I’ll find a way. If that squirrel Agravain can do it, so can I.”

“Yes, but he’s only missing a leg,” Gauvain says, but he seems to have made up his mind and gives a sharp nod.

The Fey flutters in front of them like a bumble bee on steroids. “Your third wish?” it asks eagerly.

“Not now, buzzer,” Gauvain says.

“But I’ve got to make your third wish come true!” the little Fey exclaims, sounding hurt.

“Yes,” Gareth says, getting back up to his feet, “but not now.”

“You can’t do this to me!” the Fey exclaims, stomping his foot in the air furiously. “I’ve earned my freedom! I deserve to get out of here!”

“Oh, you can follow us,” Gauvain retorts, breaking into a sardonic smile, “but you’ll have to wait until we make up our minds about our third wish before you can roam about freely.”

And with a satisfied smirk, both cousins hurry after the rest of the group. I hear the Fey mutter a slew of swearwords before whizzing out of sight behind them.

Only then do I notice the large, burnt tree laying in the background, as if some giant tore it down, and I recognize the location.

“They’re almost here,” I say, awed at their finding my traces so quickly.

Mordred glances at me suspiciously. “Yes, that was fast, wasn’t it?” he asks, his gaze traveling down my body and I shift uncomfortably in the tattered remains of my dress, thankful for Arthur’s jacket.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a tracker on you?” he asks.

“A what now?” I ask, unable to meet his eyes.

“Never mind, it’s time to get started,” Mordred says, tapping the surface of the puddle again so it bubbles up then disappears in a cloud of steam.

“Time to get what started?” I ask, following him and Nibs back to the fort ruins.

“Oh, he hasn’t told you?” Nibs asks, struggling to climb back over the crumbling pan of wall.

He slips over a mossy boulder and I instinctively throw my bound arms out to keep Nibs from tumbling down. As we both finally make it back inside the building’s warmth, the clurichaun looks up at me.

“We’re going to go open the Gates of Hell,” he says eagerly, a piece of molten skin flapping over his scarred lips with every word.

My blood runs cold as Mordred orders everyone to get on the move. I spy Dub in the opposite corner sweeping back to the front door, a shadow among shadows. If only I could get close to him…. My manacled hands instinctively clench around the air, and I imagine Dub’s neck between them as I squeeze the life out of him. Assuming, of course, the Shade breathes at all.

I feel my hands grow warm then something releases inside me and Dub’s shadow jerks around to face me.

Nibs pats my hands down furiously. “Don’t you dare try to get the Prince of Darkness’s attention, you cretin!” he whispers harshly to me. “Want to find yourself dead before you step out of here?”

I blink down at the clurichaun, still confused about what just happened. Did Dub really feel what I wanted to do to him?

“Remember there’s no backing away now,” Mordred shouts over the din of the Dark Sidhe preparing for battle. “We get there, and we conquer! This is
our
time to shine.”

Barks and shouts receive his proclamation in a loud roar that shakes dust and small debris from the roof. Nibs shoves me brusquely forward after the others and we file out into the light of early dawn.

The troop marches past the long line of spiked heads who whistle and catcall after us, then climb up the steep staircase to the cliff’s top.

“Where are we going?” I ask as Nibs pulls me after him in the persistent mists.

“Forward,” the clurichaun says.

“I know that,” I say, tripping over my frozen feet. “But where forward?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Nibs says, helping me back up impatiently.

“She might not.”

I jump as Mordred trots over to us, his kelpie’s hooves barely making a sound. I crane my neck up to look him in the eyes.

“What do you mean I might not?” I ask. “Are you going to kill me first?”

Mordred smiles brightly. “Let’s not be so dramatic now,” he says. “I was thinking more of using you as a…diversion.”

“Ah yes,” I say with a sneer. “We’ve noticed you guys are pretty enamored with that tactic.”

Mordred drops his smile as if he’s just caught whiff of a pungent fart. “And yet you always fall for it,” he says. “Why change something that’s working? You already saw your precious Arthur and his ilk rushing to save you. You’re the perfect bait while we go on to higher pursuits.”

My stomach heaves, threatening to make me sick. “Why do you want to open the Gates of Hell?” I ask. “Do you really hate this world so much that you want to see it completely destroyed?”

“Yes,” Mordred says bitterly. He casts me a long, pensive look. “It is my destiny. Or, rather, that of my mother, I’m just picking the reins up where she left off.”

“Your mother?” I ask. He is Carman’s third son, isn’t he?

Nibs shakes with repressed laughter at my stunned look.

“AC!” someone shouts.

A squat, burly Fey jogs over to us as we make our way into the forest, a long lance held loosely over his shoulder like a fishing rod. His human face bears the same strange tattoos Mordred carries over his whole body.

“We’ve picked up a tail,” the Fey says pointing to the side where the last of the troop is trickling into the woods.

Along the eastern horizon line, the first streaks of pink are cutting through the greying sky, dissipating the fog to reveal a strange forest of stone columns rising from the earth in a gigantic, tortuous maze.

“Knights?” Mordred asks.

“Not sure,” the other Fey replies. “We only spied one individual before it ducked out of sight again.”

Mordred nods. “Let’s go check it out,” he says, before turning to Nibs who’s having a hard time controlling his mirth. “You know where to take her,” he adds, steering Nessie away and trotting off to the maze of stone pillars, the squat Fey loping at his side without any difficulty. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Nibs finally lets out a loud whoop of laughter.

“What?” I ask testily.

“You have no idea who Mordred’s mother is, do you?” he snorts. “Do you even know what AC means?”

I scowl at him. “I’m not stupid,” I say. “Everyone knows it means air conditioning. Although I have no idea why someone would want to be named after an appliance.”

Nibs’s chortling turns into full guffaws, cut short when he trips over my chain. I watch him eat dirt and let out a chuckle of my own.

“Karma’s a bitch,” I say.

Nibs gets back up hastily, rubbing his nose angrily. “AC stands for Antichrist,” he says, spitting.

It’s my turn to nearly lose my balance. “What?”

“It’s more of an inside joke, really,” Nibs adds, unconcerned. “But as in every joke, there is a foundation of truth.”

I creep after Nibs, unresisting, with only the sound of branches cracking under our feet to breech our silence. I’m simply unable to form one coherent thought, let alone speak.

When Nibs said Antichrist, did he mean someone who leads people astray? Or does he truly believe Mordred’s the devil’s spawn? Did the devil ever procreate? Sister Marie-Clémence always liked to threaten me with one of the seven Princes of Hell whenever possible. Perhaps she got her facts wrong and some of them are actually Princesses, unless demons can switch sexes like a bunch of clownfish, and one of them is Mordred’s mother….

I rack my brains, trying to remember their names. Lucifer and Satan are the obvious choices, but there’s also Mammon, and Leviathan, and Beelzebub, and—

Wait, what am I doing? Who cares who sired him? Evil is evil and Mordred’s off to unleash all those demons onto our world!

My manacles clink together as I clench my hands impotently. I need to find a way to get out of here and warn the others before it’s too late.

“Not thinking of running away, are you?” Mordred asks, suddenly at my side again.

“Of course not—” I start, but a wave of nausea prevents me from finishing my answer and Mordred laughs.

“Ah, I’d forgotten you guys are more sensitive to lies and such nonsense,” he says.

“And you aren’t?” I ask.

“It doesn’t affect us Dark Sidhe as much,” Mordred says with a shrug. “Perhaps because we’re so much closer to Hell than you are. But let me reassure you, that won’t last much longer.” My lack of response seems to annoy him, and he adds, “I thought you might like to know it wasn’t a knight who was after you, yet, just your weird groupie.”

I keep my mouth firmly shut for once and, after a while, Mordred grows bored with me and motions Nessie to the head of the line, leaving me to struggle after Nibs.

By the time the sun’s high in the sky, I feel no better than one of Mordred’s draugar, dragging my feet through the carpet of dry leaves and fallen branches that covers the forest floor in an ever-thickening layer. Yet Mordred pushes us on, with no regard for any of our welfare. Granted, only I seem to be suffering at all, which might be the point. Mordred is the supposed descendent of some Prince of Hell or other, after all.

“Stop grumbling to yourself and step it up,” Nibs says, yanking on my chain.

I stagger forward and Nibs lets out a disgusted grunt.

“Why are you letting your human side weaken you like this?” he asks. “Embrace your Fey blood and you won’t feel the cold anymore, nor will your feet hurt, nor fatigue slow you down.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, my head lolling forward with weariness and Nibs rolls his eyes at me.

By the time the sun’s disappeared down the opposite side of the trees, Nibs is practically dragging me through the underbrush. Finally, there’s a sharp snap somewhere ahead of the line, and we all come to a stop inside a clearing where the scent of burnt vegetation finally relents.

I collapse on the spot, not caring whether I land in a bed of thorns or animal droppings so long as I’m not forced to move ever again.

A foot nudges me in the ribs then rolls me over so I’m not lying on my front. I stare blearily at Mordred’s concerned face.

“Is she dying?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say with a shuddering sigh.

“No need to panic,” Nibs retorts. “Look, her feet are already healed over. She’s probably not used to a little exercise, is all.”

“Just go on without me,” I moan. “I’ll only slow you down.”

“Why do you always have to be such a drama queen?” Mordred asks with a hint of a smile. He drops to the ground next to me and holds something over my face. “Eat.”

“What is it?” I ask suspiciously. “You’re not feeding me human flesh, are you?”

“Of course not,” Mordred says, shoving the food into my mouth before I can protest further. “I wouldn’t sully myself that way.”

Slowly, as I chew my way through the bread, energy flows back into me and I’m able to sit up again. A thin, silvery moon is now rising above the forest line, providing enough light for me to pick out the thousands of blue lines curving around in strange patterns over Mordred’s face.