TEXT: ™
  Welcome to England
   Father Ryan, bleeding from a cut on his forehead,
  was running toward them, but Tourret dropped
  the priest with a single blow across the throat.
  Suddenly, he was engulfed in flames. Hovering
  over him, a dragon spewed out a fiery breath that
  fused wires with muscle and bone, sending hissing
  steam spiraling into the night. With a high-pitched,
  keening wail of pain, Bratton stumbled out of the
  churchyard to disappear into the village below.
  The dragon hovered, recharging its flame. Atop
  its head, clinging to one large ear, Shamus Leafflyer
  searched for Tourret.
  With a sudden roar, the dragon twisted vio-
  lently, its right eye gone. Below, Tourret stood
  pointing at the flying reptile, pseudoskin removed
  from one finger to reveal the laser concealed within.
  The dragon spat fire as it roared in pain, setting
  the roof of the church aflame. Its tail whipped
  about, connected with a corner of the centuries-old
  structure, sending large stones and sections of
  crossbeams flying. One small piece knocked Letty
  to the ground. A minute later, the burning roof
  collapsed. Screams of parishioners still trapped
  inside echoed in the night.
  — from “Warriors of Destiny”
  Torg: The Possibility Wars
  created by Greg Gorden and Bill Slavicsek
  The Near Now … Later today, early tomorrow,
  sometime next week, the world began to end.
  They came from other realities, raiders joined
  together to steal the awesome energy of Earth’s
  possibilities. They have brought with them their
  own realities, creating areas where rules of nature
  are radically different — turning huge portions of
  the Earth into someplace else.
  Now a primitive realm of dinosaurs and spiri-
  tual magic exists in North America, a fantasy realm
  of magical creatures and high sorcery invades the
  British Isles, and a theocratic Cyberpapacy™ springs
  up in Western Europe. A high-tech espionage realm
  takes control in Japan, a terror-filled reality of
  horrific monters dominates Southeast Asia, and a
  realm of Techno-Horror decends on Los Angeles.
  Egypt, along with much of Northern Africa, is a
  realm of 1930s pulp science fiction.
  But Earth is not helpless. Standing between
  these Possibility Raiders™ and total victory are the
  Storm Knights™, men and women who have weath-
  ered the raging storms of change with their own
  realities intact.
  D
  DD
  D
  Dragons
  ragons
  ragons
  ragons
  ragons
  
  Note to Our Readers
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  DRAGONS OVER ENGLAND
  A West End Games Book/May 1992
  All Rights Reserved.
  Copyright © 1992 by West End Games.
  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material
  herein is prohibited without the express written permission of West End Games.
  ANGAR UTHORION, AYSLE, BARUK KAAH, CORE EARTH, COSM, COSMVERSE, CYBERPAPACY, DARKNESS DEVICE, DR.
  MOBIUS, GAUNT MAN, GOSPOG, HEART OF THE COYOTE, HIGH LORD, INFINIVERSE, KANAWA, LIVING LAND, MAELSTROM,
  MAELSTROM BRIDGE, NILE EMPIRE, NIPPON TECH, OCCULTECH, ORRORSH, PELLA ARDINAY, POSSIBILITY RAIDERS,
  POSSIBILITY STORM, POSSIBILITY WARS, RAVAGON, STAR SPHERE, STORMERS, STORM KNIGHTS, THARKOLD, TORG, the
  TORG logo, WEST END BOOKS, and the WEST END GAMES logo are trademarks of West End Games. ®, ™ and © 1992 West End Games.
  All Rights Reserved
  First Printing: May, 1992.
  PDF Printing: August, 2003.
  Printed in the United States of America.
  0    9    8    7    6    5    4    3    2    1
  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:  92-80513
  ISBN: 0-87431-342-2
  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
  Cover Art by Daniel Horne
  Original Graphic Design by Stephen Crane
  PDF Graphic Design and Creation by Nikola Vrtis
  Edited by Douglas Kaufman and Ed Stark
  West End Games
  www.westendgames.com
  
  Introduction
  Ed Stark
  4
  His Cool, Blue Skin
  Caroline Spector
  6
  The Voyage of the Daria Marie
  Greg Farshtey
  17
  Child of Thunders
  Lester Smith
  28
  Warriors of Destiny
  G. D. Swick
  37
  Gypsor’s Luck
  Bill Smith
  49
  Three Soldiers
  Douglas Kaufman
  59
  Companions
  Ed Stark
  70
  Myth Reality
  Lisa Stevens
  82
  Tales of the Night Walker
  Grant S. Boucher
  97
  Contents
  
  The stories in this book focus on a few characters
  fighting, living, and dying in Aysle, one of the realms
  involved in the “Possibility Wars.” As can be seen from
  these stories, set in the universe of the Torg roleplaying
  game, Aysle is the realm of fantasy and legendary
  adventure: monsters, myths, and magic all come alive
  in the realm of Aysle.
  But why? Why is there a section of the Earth that has
  been turned into some fantastical place from European
  myth and legend? And, in a larger sense, what does this
  mean to the rest of the game world?
  There are many different, and contradictory, an-
  swers to these questions, but, simply put, Aysle rep-
  resents a land of magical conception. Not only can there
  be elves, dwarves, giants, or other magical creatures,
  but they can exist, in Aysle, without detaching them-
  selves entirely from the world of twentieth-century
  Earth. The magic-using elf may use a calculator to
  figure out an arcane puzzle; dwarves invest on the
  London stock exchange; and giants mix with half-folk
  and mythical creatures in  modern-day crime syndi-
  cates. The point of reference is familiar.
  It is this uniqueness, this mixing of the real with the
  unreal, that gives Torg, the game, its appeal. And, in
  these works of fiction, these “Chronicles of the Possibil-
  ity Wars,” authors are able to experiment with this
  “cross-genre” fiction. Elves and dwarves, pulp heroes
  and dinosaurs, cyberpunks and occultists — Torg has
  all of these and more. Aysle is not “pure fantasy” any
  more than the real Earth is pure anything at all.
  But it is not just the presence of magic or technology
  that makes Aysle special. Blending the attitudes and
  interests of modern Earth with those of “medieval
  fantasy” can be fascinating for an author or a roleplayer.
  And, of course, this can lead to some interesting
  difficulties, as is shown below when Baran DeFlorrs, a
  court official loyal to the crown of Pella Ardinay, dis-
  cusses policy with Sir Harald Wallic, a representative of
  Queen Elizabeth II, crowned head of England. The
  conversation is an excerpt from a royal investigative
  treatise, published previously:
  From: Treatise to the Court, 133
  Author: Kelegor
  (This conversation was observed and reported by an anony-
  mous courtier. He insists that he had no choice but to overhear
  the conversation and he has omitted certain details on the
  grounds of security. These details have been filled in, in a
  fictitious manner, so as to confuse the agents of the accursed
  Angar Uthorion and his evil minions.)
  Sir Harald Wallic: Your honor, sir, if I might have a
  moment of your time?
  (It is to be hoped that the reader will not find fault with the
  author for these repeated interruptions, but, in the interests of
  accuracy, I must humbly intervene. It is well known that Sir
  Harald, courtier to Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, is of
  Introduction
  Ed Stark
  
  5
  Introduction
  Scottish ancestry and, thus, has a strong native accent. In the
  interests of clarity, this accent will not be reflected in the
  author’s reiteration of the following conversation. Likewise,
  only dialogue is presented here, though the author may include
  certain … observations as the need arises.)
  Baran DeFlorrs: Your servant, sir.
  Wallic: Of that, my lord, I have no doubt. I thank you
  for your time.
  DeFlorrs: Well, if your honor would be so kind …
  W: Ah, yes. Well, it has come to our — meaning
  certain friends of mine and I — attention that you are of
  a dissenting view regarding Her Majesty’s — and by
  this, I mean Queen Elizabeth’s — policy of half-folk
  citizenship.
  DF: I suppose, my good sir, that by “dissenting,” you
  mean “within the majority?”
  W: Well, I do not think that has been established as —
  DF: Established! It is obvious! Virtually all of the
  representatives favor the withholding of representation
  until this “Warrior of the Dark” business can be straight-
  ened out.
  W: Virtually all of the Ayslish representatives, you
  mean …
  DF: Ayslish? Well of course I mean Ayslish — we are
  in Aysle, are we not?
  W: Technically, no, my dear Baran, we are not in Aysle
  — we are in England! Specifically, London!
  DF: Ah, yes: “the last bastion of sovereign Great
  Britain!” I’ve heard the exclamation before. Your Times, I
  believe. What would the Queen — and I mean Queen
  Pella Ardinay the First — say to your words? Are we not
  united in our goals?
  W: This “queen” of yours; this magical maiden; has
  caused more trouble than she —
  DF: Now, now, Wallic; I do not believe you mean
  exactly what you are saying …
  W: Of course I — no, no; you are right, of course. Queen
  Ardinay, despite her origin, is an … ally of the British
  Aysles. Damn! I mean “Isles.”
  DF: Ha, ha! Well said, well said!
  (It should be noted that, at this point, the observer noted that
  Wallic looked decidedly uncomfortable and was visibly fidget-
  ing, while DeFlorrs was of the calmest bearing.)
  DF: So, we were discussing the halfies —
  W: “Half-folk,” if you please, my lord.
  DF: Of course, of course … pardon me. What were we
  saying about them?
  W: Well, I was about to bring up that England has had
  a long history of equality within the masses, and Her Maj
  — Queen Elizabeth — feels that this should extend to our
  new … emigrants. Regardless of race … er, species.
  DF: She does?
  W: She does.
  (At this point, Wallic has composed himself and DeFlorrs has
  taken a much more thoughtful expression upon his features.)
  DF: So the proposal is serious — even with the “War-
  rior of the Dark” leading the half-folk all across
  Scandinavia and Northern Scotland and whipping them
  into a frenzy?
  W: Of course it is serious! There are a large number of
  half-folk still within the boundaries of … the Light, as you
  call it. They are good, decent people — regardless of their
  looks — and should have representation under the
  Houses. Now more than ever.
  DF: Oh?
  W: Yes, yes, man — can’t you see? A vote of confidence
  from the government is all they need … a declaration of
  citizenry would establish us within their community. It
  would show that we are behind them.
  DF: And the other minorities?
  W: Hmm? Which? The dwarves? They have citizenship.
  And those elves who wish it — though there are precious
  few. And all have equal consideration under the law. If
  you mean the giants, they have —
  DF: I do not. I mean the East Indians; the Irish; the
  European refugees; your own lower classes.
  W: What do they have to do with anything? They have
  citizenship — those that qualify, anyway — and equal
  consideration.
  DF: “Equal consideration” — bah! How many times is
  a man or a woman — a being of the same species as you or
  I — passed over for a job or an education simply because
  he or she is from what you call “the lower classes?”
  W: That is pure rubbish; every man —
  DF: Yes, yes, I’ve heard the rhetoric: “every man,
  woman, and child has equal rights and opportunity
  under the laws of England.” Centaur sh —
  W: Well, they do —
  DF: “Pure rubbish!” Since when did a lad from Soho or
  Carnaby Street grow up to be King? Or even a member of
  the House of Lords?
  W: That’s —
  DF: “That’s irrelevant.” Of course it is. Just as this
  “half-folk” issue is irrelevant. Half-folk are half-folk. Un-
  der the laws of Aysle, half-folk can join with Houses and
  come under their representation, but they cannot have
  their own. They are not folk. You discriminate meaning-
  lessly: by race or gender. We, at least, have a reason. We
  allow those of our species — all folk — to be represented.
  (For all intents and purposes, the dialogue ended here.
  Wallic rallied for a few more tries, but he was unable to get past
  DeFlorrs’ logic. This is to be expected, as DeFlorrs has since
  been promoted to Her Majesty Queen Ardinay’s Royal Barris-
  ter, and Wallic is still entrenched with the unpopular front of
  “England’s men.”)
  “As can be inferred from the above excerpt, the ‘Half-
  folk Citizenry Act of 1992 A.D./432 P.A.’ was defeated
  resoundingly. It turned out for the good, as hundreds of
  these creatures immediately defected to areas of the
  Dark, strengthening Uthorion’s forces with their own.”
  — Kelegor, Royal Historian
  
  So much pain.
  It pierces like a knife — and the blood. Nobody told
  me there would be so much blood.
  Now the faeries come with their tiny hands, caress-
  ing my brow, saying words meant to soothe me, but I’m
  not comforted. The pain is relentless. I feel I’m washing
  away, caught in this circle of agony, the ebb and flow of
  my life stretched out in endless minutes of suffering.
  They say it won’t last much longer, but what do
  faeries know?
  I want this to end. I cry out, and remember how it
  began.
  *    *    *
  It started with the storms. Terrific, pounding water
  crashing from the sky rocking the earth, making the
  world tremble. The lightning looked like huge grab-
  bing hands and the thunder was deafening. I thought
  the storm lasted for days — maybe weeks. But I’m not
  certain anymore. Maybe it only lasted minutes.
  Benedict said the storm was the beginning of the
  Millennium, the Apocalypse. He looked out the win-
  dow as if he expected to see Famine, Plague, War, and
  Death riding down on the farm. There was a gleeful
  look on his face when he stared out the window, the
  expression of a wicked little boy with something to
  hide.
  We’d come to England for our honeymoon.
  I loved the accents, the bad food, the eccentricities.
  London charmed me.
  But London made Benedict nervous. He said there
  were too many years there, that he could feel the
  pressure of history on him like heavy weights.
  Eventually, we decided to rent a small farmhouse in
  the countryside. Quaint and rustic, we could pretend to
  be gentleman farmers, cozy in our cottage hideaway.
  I like to remember that time — it didn’t last long.
  Everything changed. Except me.
  I tried to talk to Benedict about it, but he just looked
  at me. Looking into those unblinking, ebony eyes was
  like staring into the abyss. He didn’t know what I was
  talking about.
  “Everything has changed,” I said. “Can’t you tell?
  You didn’t use to be … like this.”
  “Like what?”
  “Like this. Blue.”
  Silence.
  He toyed absently with his long braids. Crew-cut
  Benedict wearing a rasta hairdo.
  “I think you should see a healer,” he said.
  “You mean a shrink.”
  “I don’t want you to get smaller, I want you healed.
  You are obviously cursed by some strange magic.”
  “Bull.”
  That was one thing that hadn’t changed. Benedict
  had always been good at putting off blame. It infuriated
  me when he did that.
  His Cool,
  Blue Skin
  Caroline Spector
  
  7
  His Cool, Blue Skin
  “Look,” I said. “I know this sounds crazy. You think
  I don’t know how insane I sound? But I swear I’m not
  making this up. Things have changed. I remember
  microwave ovens, computers, television, CDs, for heav-
  ens sake. Now you look like a Smurf on steroids and
  we’re living in fairy-tale land. Don’t you find this
  disconcerting?”
  He stared at me, silent and cold.
  “I must go out now,” he said.
  *    *    *
  My dreams.
  They were vivid, full of omens and import. Bad
  dreams for a bad time. The first dream went like this:
  She stands in a field of flowers. Her robes billow in
  slow-motion, hugging her, outlining her breasts, thighs,
  and stomach. In her hand is an obsidian crown. She
  raises it over her head then lowers it to her brow.
  Hordes of foul creatures appear on the horizon
  behind her, led by four horsemen.
  She could stop them, but she doesn’t. The thrill of the
  power is in her now. A delicious wickedness — seduc-
  tive and damning. She runs her hands over her body as
  this evil force flows through her.
  In the end, the meadow is ruined, blackened and
  scorched beyond recognition.
  She leans forward and I feel her warm, fetid breath.
  Her face is a parody of beauty, twisted by her cruelty.
  “Remember, I am Ardinay. I am Death.”
  Her voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard.
  There’s someone with me, a shadow, grey and vague
  in the background. He reaches for me, but his hands
  slide through me. I’m as insubstantial as a ghost. He
  tries to speak, but I can’t hear him.
  I woke in a sweat. Benedict was still asleep. I touched
  him, a reflex. His skin was cool, hard and unyielding,
  like a pebble under fast, running water.
  The tears began then, hot tears in my frosty bed.
  *    *    *
  Benedict and I argued. He denied that the world had
  changed. These fights left me so frustrated that I often
  ran screaming from the room.
  I began to mistrust him.
  The local villagers knew something was wrong with
  me, too. They gave me strange looks when I went into
  town and stared at me out of their crude huts. They
  didn’t think I noticed them looking, but I did. I could
  feel their eyes on me like ants crawling on my skin. It got
  so bad I didn’t go into town after a while. Instead, I
  spent my time tinkering with the few items left from
  before the storms. My portable CD player still worked.
  When Benedict came home one evening I showed it to
  him. I even made him sit down and try to use the damn
  thing. It stopped playing the minute he touched it.
  He told me I was a sorceress, that I was playing with
  evil magic and I must stop. He said I mustn’t tell anyone
  what I could do.
  I began to hate him.
  *    *    *
  I had many dreams. I couldn’t escape them. They
  were so real, and seemed to become more real as time
  went by. Sometimes I wasn’t sure I was dreaming
  anymore. I don’t remember all of them.
  *    *    *
  I stand on that familiar field. Ardinay is here. Clad in
  armor, she rides a huge horse. Her lance is drawn and
  aimed at someone. I think it’s me, but as she charges
  forward, I see her rush toward a man. He looks like a
  Viking. Her lance strikes him. I run to him. His chest is
  soaked in blood.
  I cradle his head in my arms. He looks at me. I’m
  drawn by his eyes. Seduced. I’ll do anything for him.
  “See what she’s done,” he says. “Save me from her.”
  “How?” I ask.
  “Kill her.”
  “Who are you?” I ask.
  “Uthorion. Angar Uthorion.”
  He coughs blood. It spatters my face like teardrops.
  The light goes out of his eyes, and I’m left holding his limp
  body. The pain of his death hits me in waves of agony. He
  is my life and Ardinay, that bitch, has killed him.
  I lay him on the ground. A shadow falls across us. I
  look up. Standing before me is a knight clad in armor
  similar to Ardinay’s.
  “You are not supposed to be here,” he says.
  “Who are you?” I ask.
  “Noble of the House Gerrik. Who are you?”
  “Martha Ayers. From America.”
  “You are dead,” he says.
  *    *    *
  One morning after one of those horrible dreams, I
  asked Benedict what he knew about Ardinay.
  “Lady Pella Ardinay of the Houses?” he asked,
  surprised at my interest.
  “I suppose. I’ve been having nightmares about her.”
  “Oh,” he said. “Tell me.”
  Something in his voice made me cautious.
  “I don’t know. Just dreams. I’ve never heard of her,
  but I have this feeling that she’s a real person. Pretty
  strange, don’t you think?”
  “I do not know what to think. I do not know you
  anymore, Marka.”
  “I told you, my name isn’t Marka. It’s Martha. Martha
  Ayers. Good god, Benedict, we’ve known each other
  for years. You know my name.”
  “I know that you are my lifemate and I do not
  understand this strange behavior.”
  
  Dragons Over England
  8
  “You and me both.”
  We stood and looked at each other. Even with all the
  changes, I still knew him. It was a queer sensation, as
  though reality were layered over by a fine film. In that
  moment I could almost see the truth, but not quite. Not
  then, not until later.
  I’d never felt so alone. I came to England believing
  that Benedict and I were starting a life together that
  would last until we died. Now my life was slipping
  away from me faster and faster and I couldn’t stop it.
  *    *    *
  I went riding my bike in the countryside one day.
  What I saw as I rode along scared me even more than
  when Benedict changed into an elf after the storms.
  The countryside had turned into something awful.
  Green rolling hills and meadows had been transformed
  into scarred, blackened earth. The trees were twisted
  and gray beyond recognition and I could barely iden-
  tify what type they were. When I stopped and touched
  one of them, it seemed to cry out. For an instant, I could
  have sworn I saw a woman’s face in the bark.
  All around me the trees sighed. Mournful sounds. I
  wanted to gather them together and ease their pain, but
  I couldn’t. I couldn’t help anyone. Not myself, not
  Benedict, not those wretched trees.
  I began to pedal faster, as though I could outrun the
  terrible images I was seeing. That’s when I came upon
  the group of dwarves. I’m not talking about little people,
  although they were. I mean real dwarves, with beards,
  crossbows, and armor. They stopped me, fascinated by
  my bike.
  Their names were Diver, Wart, Ferris, and Brown
  Billy. I tried hard not to laugh as they introduced
  themselves. It felt good to laugh. It’d been a long time
  since I’d felt happy.
  Diver was the leader of the group, outgoing and
  talkative. Unlike the others, he kept his beard short-
  cropped and neatly trimmed. Wart also liked to talk
  and had a sense of humor, but the other two, Ferris and
  Brown Billy, didn’t seem to have anything to say. I
  wasn’t sure if they were taciturn or just stupid.
  All of them were dressed in shades of brown and
  gray. Their clothes seemed practical and sturdy.
  They told me a lot about Aysle, which is where they
  said they came from. And they talked about Lady
  Ardinay. They seemed to like her. I felt sorry for them,
  being duped by that woman. Obviously, she had de-
  ceived them into believing that she was good and kind.
  That she would take advantage of their trusting nature
  revealed a lot about her character to me.
  They talked about the storms. Slowly, I began to
  understand what had happened to my world. Ardinay
  had invaded Earth and imposed this fantasy world on
  us. My dreams were signs that I had to stop her. I didn’t
  want to be involved with this, but it was beginning to
  look like I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted my world
  and my life back, I had to take some action to stop her.
  I spent the afternoon together with the dwarves, and
  when I left, I felt better than I had since the storms.
  Dwarves and talking trees were becoming common-
  place to me.
  *    *    *
  “Join us,” Mara says.
  We stand in the field where the other dreams took
  place. This time it’s covered in green grass dotted with
  delicate pink and white flowers.
  Mara looks ultra-punk, her hair a white mane. She
  touches me with her cybernetic arm, pointing toward a
  castle in the distance I’ve never noticed before.
  “I know you think Ardinay is the enemy, but she’s
  not. Uthorion is deceiving you.”
  “Liar,” I say. “He’s my life. And you want to kill
  him.”
  “No,” she says. “Uthorion is using you. Can’t you
  see?”
  “I don’t believe you. He warned me about you.”
  I put my hand into my pocket, fingers closing around
  the handle of a knife. I don’t remember putting it there,
  but feel a surge of confidence at its presence.
  “Please, listen to me,” she says. “You’re important to
  all sides right now. You’re the balance. If you go to him,
  he’ll use you up and throw you aside. But we need you.
  We will always need you. Every Storm Knight is impor-
  tant in this struggle.”
  When she calls me a Storm Knight something tight-
  ens in my chest. I feel my eyes sting with tears. Not of
  sorrow, but of joy. So much joy it hurts. I can’t stand
  feeling the happiness.
  “Shut up,” I say and drive the knife into her heart.
  Surprise is stamped on her face. She pulls me close.
  “Beware of Uthorion,” she whispers in my ear. “See
  what he is doing before it’s too late.”
  Her lips brush my cheek and she sags in my arms.
  Once again there’s blood on my hands.
  “You have to leave.”
  I look up. Noble stands before me. The light dances
  off his armor. I put my hand up to block the glare.
  “What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice raised
  and shrill.
  “Your body is mine. You are dead. I need your body
  to finish my duties.”
  I feel queasy.
  “I’m not dead. I don’t know what sick part of my
  subconscious you are, but get the hell out of my dreams.”
  I sound like a fishwife but I don’t care. Some spook out
  of my id isn’t going to scare the hell out of me.
  He shakes his head.
  “Something has gone wrong,” he says.
  *    *    *
  
  9
  I woke, but this time I didn’t pull away from Benedict
  as I had before. I let my fingers trail over his cool, blue
  skin. I cupped his buttocks in my hands and slid closer
  to him. I reached over his hip and held him in my hand,
  stroking gently. Then harder. He rolled over and pulled
  me close.
  “Marka,” he whispered.
  I put my lips on his to stop that name. Not that, not
  here and now. I wanted to put the events of the last few
  weeks out of my mind, to have my husband back, for
  everything to be like it use to be.
  His mouth was warm. I bit his lip. He grabbed the
  back of my neck and ran his free hand roughly over my
  breast and then down. I wanted him. It made me
  furious.
  He was searching my body with his mouth. Explor-
  ing me like a blind man.
  But I was impatient.
  Pushing him onto his back, I straddled him and
  gasped as he slipped inside me. I didn’t want to think
  anymore. I let the feelings swallow me up.
  Angry sex. We’d never made love like that before.
  When we finished I felt sad and drained as though I’d
  lost something precious.
  When I woke the next morning, my body felt bruised
  and battered.
  And Benedict was gone.
  *    *    *
  Days passed and Benedict didn’t return. I would
  have been worried, but I had other problems. The
  villagers burned me in effigy. They did it right in front
  of the house. I don’t know how they got so close
  without my hearing them, the fools. They thought they
  could frighten me.
  Uthorion came to me nearly every night.
  *    *    *
  “They’re peasants,” Uthorion says.
  We’re lying together in the green pasture. His head
  is cradled in my lap and I’m stroking his hair.
  “Ignorant sheep,” he says. “Someone has to lead
  them.”
  He looks up at me, his blue eyes mesmerizing.
  “We will lead them,” he continues, “but first, you
  must stop Ardinay.”
  I laugh at the idea that I could stop anyone.
  He slaps me. Hard. My head snaps back and I put my
  hands to my face, cowering from him.
  “Never laugh at me, “ he says. His voice is flat and
  cold.
  “Please,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
  He tells me what I must to do to stop Ardinay. I want
  to please him. I’m willing to do anything.
  *    *    *
  The dreams continued. I dragged around the house
  during the days, exhausted from lack of rest, jumping
  at shadows and the slightest noise. The nights were
  worse. When Uthorion wasn’t in my dreams, Noble
  was. He showed me awful things and told me lies about
  Uthorion.
  Noble wanted out of my dreams. He demanded that
  I relinquish my body, saying he needed it to complete
  his mission for Ardinay. It got more and more difficult
  to make sense of anything. I felt trapped in the farm
  house, stuck in a foreign country which had become far
  more strange than I ever imagined it could be.
  *    *    *
  Noble no longer stayed safely in my dreams. He was
  in my head all the time, talking, trying to control my
  actions, commenting on my thoughts. All I wanted to
  do was shut him up, but he wouldn’t be silent. He kept
  nattering around in my mind.
  “We should go to Oxford,” he said.
  “I’m not going anywhere until Benedict comes
  home,” I said.
  “Ardinay is in Oxford. She’ll know what to do.”
  “I don’t care who’s there. I’m not leaving.”
  I stopped. There I was, standing alone in the middle
  of the afternoon, having a conversation with someone
  who wasn’t there. I went to the bathroom and pulled
  out Benedict’s shaving bag. There in the bottom was the
  bottle I was looking for: Valium.
  I swallowed two of the pills. I would get some rest
  and relief from this endless nagging.
  The dreams didn’t come that night. I woke up groggy
  with a terrible taste in my mouth. But I felt clearer than
  I had for some time. What I needed was a few nights
  without the dreams and maybe things would begin to
  make sense.
  *    *    *
  I stayed on the pills for a week. Each night was a little
  ritual. Carefully, I placed the tablets on my tongue and
  let them dissolve slowly. The acrid taste was horrible,
  but I didn’t want sleep to be easy. I was too afraid of
  getting addicted and not being able to sleep any other
  way.
  During the day, I devised projects for myself. The
  main one was finding a power source to run the ma-
  chines I could still work. I finally used the car battery for
  juice. The first thing I hooked up was the CD player and
  speakers.
  It took me a couple of minutes to decide which
  album to listen to, then it came to me. I plucked the
  shiny mylar disc out of its jewel box and carefully
  dropped it into the waiting mouth of the player. I
  pressed the track number and then the play button.
  There was pause, then the familiar syncopated drums,
  yelping vocals, and piano broke through the night,
  shattering the pre-electric silence.
  “Please allow me to introduce myself,
  I’m a man of wealth and taste.
  His Cool, Blue Skin
  
  Dragons Over England
  10
  I’ve been around for a long, long, year,
  stole many a man’s soul and faith.”
  It seemed appropriate.
  *    *    *
  Eventually, I had to leave the farm house. Benedict
  didn’t come back and the villagers were becoming
  dangerous. Even though they were superstitious, they
  were less and less impressed by my technological tricks.
  The few times I went into the village for supplies, I was
  armed. Bullets seemed to impress them, but they still
  harassed me when I was on the farm. They thought I
  was playing with evil magic and wanted me to leave.
  But I was afraid to leave. Even with the danger from
  the villagers, the farm was home now. Though I didn’t
  want to admit it, I was still hoping Benedict would return.
  I felt so isolated. That’s when the dreams returned.
  *    *    *
  We’re sitting together in the field.
  “You must find Ardinay, now,” he says. He is em-
  phatic. “You can’t wait any longer.”
   “What difference does it make?” I ask.
  “Are you questioning me?” he asks. His voice is
  deceptively soft. A chill sweeps through me.
  “No. it’s just that I’m afraid I might fail you.”
  He laughs.
  “Rest assured, you won’t.”
  Then he pushes me backwards onto the grass and we don’t
  speak again.
  *    *    *
  I woke with the memory fresh in my mind.
  I knew I had to leave. I wondered about Benedict.
  He’d been gone for almost three weeks by then.
  I gathered up supplies to take with me. I didn’t know
  what conditions would be out there, and there was no
  telling how long it would take me to find Ardinay and
  get close enough to her. I decided to take the horses. I
  didn’t want to stand out too much.
  I brought the pistol with me. It was an antique I’d
  found in an old wooden case at the bottom of one of the
  closets. It was a beautiful piece, inlaid with mother-of-
  pearl and gold. Much to my surprise, it was still in
  working order. There was even a small amount of shot
  tucked into a leather bag. The leather was so old it
  crumbled into dust in my hand. In one corner of the case
  was a small silver box holding gunpowder. I shoved the
  shot into my jeans pocket and tucked the pistol and
  powder into the inner pocket of my jacket.
  I knew the villagers were out there in the dark
  watching me. Waiting. When I finished with Ardinay,
  I would come back and deal with them.
  *    *    *
  I camped out along the way to Oxford. Everywhere
  I went there were faeries, but not the sweet kind I read
  about when I was a child. Real ones, full of malice and
  rotten intentions. They spun webs around me. Their
  music drove me mad, but that’s what it is supposed to
  do. Spriggins, brownies, Hedley Kow, cluricaun, fir
  darrig, goblins, kobolds, wichtlein, coblynau, pixies,
  bogie, phooka, will o’ the wisp, puck, trows, Unseelie
  Court, Fachan, hags, black aunts, bogles, red caps,
  bean-nighe. I knew all these creatures. They were like
  intimate friends.
  “Safe passage,” they whispered. “Give us the little
  one and you may have safe passage.”
  I laughed.
  “No little ones here.”
  “Safe passage, safe passage for the little one.”
  “Fine. Take it.”
  They wheeled away, screaming with delight. I didn’t
  mind giving them what I didn’t have.
  I was two days out from the farm. My life there
  seemed like a faint memory. Each day out I got stron-
  ger. And I was changing.
  I was going to Oxford. Ardinay was there, sur-
  rounded by her loyal idiots. She thought she was safe,
  coddled in that illusion. What a pleasure it would be to
  ruin her.
  It wouldn’t take me long.
  *    *    *
  I met the dwarves again. They seemed glad to see
  me, but you could never tell with dwarves.
  They told me they were on their way to Oxford to
  lend support to Lady Ardinay. I mentioned that this
  was my destination, also. They just nodded their heads
  as though they knew already. When I pressed them to
  tell me how they knew, they shrugged and said they’d
  been keeping an eye on me. I was annoyed at this news,
  but kept it to myself. I didn’t see any reason to provoke
  them. We agreed to travel together.
  The conversation turned to arms. They showed me
  some of their weapons. Beautiful workmanship. A few
  months ago I wouldn’t have understood a thing they
  were taking about, but now I seemed to have an innate
  knowledge
  We discussed grips, proper position, heft, and the
  balance of a good sword. They asked if I would be
  willing to trade my pistol for one of their weapons. I
  agreed. What the hell, they probably wouldn’t be able
  to use it anyway.
  *    *    *
  It was wonderful.
  I never thought anything deadly could be beautiful.
  Diver said he would instruct me on the finer points of
  using the blade. We travelled slowly, taking time each
  day for lessons.
  Diver was my primary instructor. He said he’d never
  seen anyone take to a blade the way I did. I must admit my
  spirits improved, even if every muscle in my body ached.
  
  11
  The countryside no longer seemed as menacing.
  Maybe I’d grown accustomed to the way everything
  had changed. There were small green buds on the trees,
  and even a few wildflowers peeking out here and there.
  I mentioned this to Diver, but he just grunted. Dwarves
  weren’t interested in green things.
  Maybe I was too tired, but that was the first time
  since the storms, except for that week at the farm, that
  I didn’t dream. Part of me missed them, but what I felt
  most was relief.
  Wart talked a lot about Ardinay and Aysle. His
  version of what happened was very different from
  what Uthorion told me. But what could you say about
  a man who only comes to you in your dreams?
  I wondered where Benedict was. I asked the dwarves
  about elves’ habits, but they just laughed. According to
  them, the only good elf was a dead elf. Though Wart
  wouldn’t discuss it, I got the feeling that something
  awful happened back on Aysle between the elves and
  the dwarves.
  *    *    *
  While I was no longer bothered by Uthorion in my
  dreams, Noble was another matter. As I trained with
  the dwarves I could hear him in my mind. He tried to
  take control of my actions. His voice was in my head,
  telling me when to riposte, feint, and parry. There were
  times when it seemed as though he had taken hold of
  my body. When I fenced, Noble got stronger.
  “Get out of my body,” Noble said.
  I was leaning against a tree trying to catch my breath
  after a bout with Diver. Noble’s voice was clear and
  loud in my head.
  “I’m not in your body,” I said.
  Diver looked at me with a perplexed expression on
  his face.
  “Yes, you are,” Noble said. “You don’t realize it, but
  you’re not supposed to be here. Why don’t you go now,
  before things get even further out of hand?”
  “Shut up,” I said.
  “I did not say anything,” said Diver.
  “Not you, him.” I gestured at the air.
  “Ah,” said Diver. He gave me a long appraising look.
  “En garde.”
  *    *    *
  After we had been traveling for a few days, I had
  some doubts about going to Oxford. I realized how
  stupid it was to kill Ardinay because of dreams I’d been
  having. I told the dwarves I had decided to go back to
  the farm.
  They talked me into continuing on with them to
  Oxford. They convinced me that going back to the farm
  would just entail more run-ins with the villagers. Re-
  luctantly, I agreed. Perhaps when I got to Oxford I
  could find a way back home to America.
  The further we traveled, the better the country looked.
  In some ways, it seemed better than before the storms.
  The grass was more lush. The air was cleaner. All
  around me I saw new life. I didn’t know a lot about
  wildlife, but even I could tell that things were different;
  a vitality was in the air that hadn’t been there before.
  I mentioned the faeries to Wart. He shrugged like
  they were the most normal things in the world. The
  only time he seemed worried was when I told him
  about them wanting the ‘little one.’ Of course I pointed
  out that Benedict and I didn’t have any children, so it
  didn’t make any sense. He said faeries never made
  much sense, but it was worrisome just the same.
  I was glad I’d met the dwarves. They gave me
  perspective on everything that happened, but even
  more so, they became my friends.
  *    *    *
  We traveled along the Thames. There were a surpris-
  ing number of boats on the river. Most were fairly
  primitive — simple canoes, a few barges. I did see one
  motor boat. It looked strange and out of place to me.
  We stopped at noon and ate. Diver insisted we spar.
  I didn’t want to, since it had become too simple to defeat
  him. There was no point in fighting him anymore,
  except to work up a slight sweat.
  The other dwarves teased him afterward. I felt bad
  that I was the cause of his embarrassment. I began to
  feel, again, that I should continue on my own.
  And I thought more and more about returning to
  America. The impulse that had once driven me to
  Oxford had faded and in its place was a sense of
  responsibility to the dwarves. I looked at my situation
  and realized that there was nothing for me in England
  anymore. Benedict was gone, I had no family here …
  going home made sense. I missed America and was
  afraid. If England had changed to this, what had be-
  come of America?
  *    *    *
  Benedict came back the next day.
  “Hello, Marka,” he said.
  “Where the hell have you been?” I asked. I tried to
  keep the anger out of my voice. I failed.
  “Out. When I returned, you had left. I was con-
  cerned, so I came to find you.”
  “I’m touched. But it’s too little, too late.” It felt like a
  red haze had enveloped my mind, a curtain dropping
  down over everything and coloring it with my anger. I
  was surprised at my reaction. Even when we had
  fought before the storms, I’d always tried to placate
  him. Now I didn’t want to; I was furious and I wanted
  him to know it.
  “Since when does ‘going out’ mean disappearing for
  a month?”
  Benedict shrugged. He squatted on the ground a
  little way from the fire. Something about him got my
  back up.
  His Cool, Blue Skin
  
  Dragons Over England
  12
  “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”
  I demanded.
  He toyed with a piece of bark. I’d forgotten he did
  that, played with things as he thought: one of the little
  nervous habits that punctuated his life.
  “I thought it best if I left. Things between us had gone
  … bad. I went to the woods for solace. I found I could
  not forget you.”
  “Thanks for letting me in on the decision. You take
  off for a month, then pop up here and expect everything
  to be all right between us. Well, it won’t work.”
  “You misunderstand me,” he began.
  “I don’t misunderstand anything! I’ve put up with a
  lot of crap from you, Benedict, but this tears it.”
  I struggled to get my anger under control. Maybe I
  was a little relieved to see him, but I wasn’t about to let
  him know it. If he started talking, I’d probably go all
  soft, and that would be the end of it. Well, he wasn’t
  going to get away with bailing out on me that easily.
  “Please,” he said.
  This was a red-letter day. Benedict didn’t use that
  word.
  “Please, what,” I said nastily.
  “Please let me try to explain.”
  “Explain how you disappeared. Not a word where
  you were or when you’d be back, if ever. You left me in
  the middle of all those crazy villagers. You abandoned
  me, and now I’m just supposed to say ‘It’s okay, Benedict,
  you can come back.’ Forget it.”
  I turned and started to walk away from him.
  He jumped to his feet. The movement was incredibly
  swift. Benedict had never moved that fast, and I’d never
  seen him so angry.
  “Do you think you are the only one who has suffered
  since the rains?” he asked. His voice took on a harsh,
  ugly edge. “You aren’t as I remember you, either. The
  Marka I know is gentle, placid, and tranquil. She would
  never be in the forest alone, armed with dwarvish
  weapons. She would never have done what you did the
  night before I left. She would have waited for me to
  come to her.”
  So that was what was bothering him. Of all the
  Neanderthal ideas. Now I knew I was in the Dark Ages.
  But it might explain why he disappeared, somewhat.
  “Well, I beg your pardon.” My voice dripped with
  sarcasm. “I didn’t realize your delicate sensibilities
  were offended because I initiated sex. Honestly, you’re
  being positively Medieval.”
  He looked puzzled for a moment, then reached up
  and began toying with his hair. That was something
  Benedict did when he was thinking. Then he said
  haltingly, “It has been difficult for me. I am sorry I left.
  I should have stayed. What can I do now?”
  I stared at him. He was right. It had been hard for
  both of us, not just me. Maybe when he left it wasn’t
  malicious, just weak and stupid. A perfectly human
  reaction. Or should I say elfish.
  “Please,” he said. “We have both been confused. The
  best we can hope for is to start again. I am willing. Are
  you?”
  Was I willing to try again? I wasn’t sure — so much
  had changed and I didn’t know what I felt or who I was
  anymore.
  We stood there, opposite each other, motionless, for
  a long time.
  Finally, I broke the silence.
  “I’m willing. A new start, then.”
  He stepped forward, his arms outstretched. I rushed
  into his embrace. I wanted to try and put some of my old
  life back together. My feelings toward Benedict were so
  confused: anger, relief, love. I wasn’t certain what I was
  feeling. As we embraced, the image of Uthorion flashed
  in my mind.
  That’s when the dwarves showed up.
  *    *    *
  Lady Ardinay and I are in a green meadow. I am
  dressed in my finest armor, my family crest tattooed
  into the smooth metal. She takes my hand and leads me
  toward her castle.
  “We have missed you, Noble,” she says.
  My heart pounds. Her beauty is more exquisite than
  I remembered. Her touch is sweet fire on my skin. I pull
  her to me.
  “My Lady,” I say.
  She puts her fingers to my lips.
  “We have work to do,” she says. “Come to Oxford
  and all will be put to right.”
  She kisses me softly. A silent promise. A holy vow.
  “Unhand the lady, or I’ll run you through.”
  *    *    *
  The voice belonged to Diver.
  “I said, let go of her.” His face was flushed red and
  angry furrows creased his brow.
  At the edge of our camp stood the four dwarves.
  They each had a weapon aimed at Benedict. Diver
  looked particularly nasty holding the pistol I’d traded
  him.
  “Diver,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my
  voice. “This is Benedict. My husband.”
  His face looked as though he’d just bit into putrid
  meat. You would’ve thought I told him his own sister
  had married an elf.
  “Martha,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell us your
  husband was … one of those?”
  I could feel Benedict tensing up. Just what I needed
  — a sudden display of male macho. Or was it elf/dwarf
  macho? At any rate, I knew I had to cool things off,
  quick.
  “Well, he hasn’t always been like this,” I said. “This
  just happened when the rains came. Before that he
  looked like me, but with a bad New Jersey accent. I
  mean, he wasn’t always blue.”
  Diver looked unconvinced.
  
  13
  “Do you think I would bring an elf here if I didn’t
  know him? I know how you feel about elves. I swear, he
  can be trusted. Now will you please put down those
  weapons? You’re making me nervous.”
  Diver stood there with his feet planted and his face
  set in a hard frown.
  “As much as I want to trust you, I have no use for
  elves. He can stay, but one false move and we kill him.”
  “Very well,” I said. From the tone of his voice, I knew
  there would be no discussion. I hoped they would see
  that he was my husband and, as such, owed his loyalty
  to me.
  I glanced at Benedict. He was looking at the dwarves
  as if they were something bad he had just stepped in.
  Then he looked at me and smiled, but it didn’t quite
  reach his eyes.
  *    *    *
  “I think you might explain this.”
  Benedict and I were walking alone in the woods.
  Things hadn’t calmed down at all back at the camp. I
  thought a walk would help ease the situation. Instead,
  Benedict was grilling me as if I were a common thief.
  “There’s nothing to explain,” I said. “They’re my
  friends. I met them after you left for parts unknown. I
  had to leave the farm. After you left, the situation with
  the villagers took a turn for the worse.”
  “But dwarves? Really, Marka, you know how they
  are.”
  “No, as a matter of fact I don’t. All I know is they’ve
  been good friends. Besides, I was having these dreams
  while I was at the farm and they’ve stopped now.”
  “Dreams?”
  “Yes. Anyway, the dwarves were heading for Ox-
  ford to help Ardinay and I met up with them and
  decided to go along.”
  “Tell me about your dreams,” Benedict said.
  I hesitated. What I hadn’t mentioned was that the
  dreams had started up again. They weren’t as distinct
  as before, but I could still feel their influence. It fright-
  ened me, like I was losing myself.
  “Just some stupid dreams,” I said. “Really, they
  didn’t mean anything.”
  “We set great store by dreamers.”
  “Is that the royal ‘we’?” I tried to make the retort
  sound flip, but the whole conversation was getting to
  me. The more I thought about the dreams the more they
  held me.
  “Look, could we just talk about something — any-
  thing — else?” I asked.
  Benedict stopped and looked at me intently. He
  reached a hand out and held my arm.
  “We could stop talking altogether,” he said, pulling
  me closer. His skin smelled like a faint memory. His lips
  were a warm shock. I sank into the moment, releasing
  my mind from dark thoughts of Ardinay, Uthorion,
  and Noble.
  *    *    *
  I’m in the field again. It’s raining. There’s no sound
  except for the rain. A figure staggers toward me. I’m
  afraid. I want to run, but my feet won’t obey.
  Everything is moving in slow motion.
  Then, Uthorion is in front of me. His hair is plastered
  to his head. The rain washes fresh spurts of blood from
  a cut on his face.
  “Martha,” he says. “Help me.”
  I start to pull away, but his grasp is strong. Panic is
  circling around in my stomach. I can’t breathe.
  “You’re not real,” I say. “Leave me alone.”
  “Martha, please, you’re my only hope.” The rain
  washes more blood off him. I can smell its hot, copper
  scent.
  “Go away.”
  He pulls me closer. His hand slips up to my breast.
  Passion replaces fear. We sink toward the sodden
  ground, but he pulls away.
  “Soon,” he says. “You know what you have to do.”
  He leaves me there kneeling in the wet earth, hungry
  for him. Wanting.
  *    *    *
  Benedict woke me.
  “You were having a dream,” he said.
  I pulled away from him.
  “We should be heading back to camp,” I said. “It’s
  getting dark. I imagine they’re wondering where we
  are.”
  “Why do you care?” he asked. “It isn’t as though
  humans and dwarves have been all that friendly.”
  I shrugged my shoulders. I was feeling strange and
  off-center, as though I were still stuck in the dream.
  Benedict slipped his arms around my waist.
  “We can leave them. Why do we have to stay? We
  could go to Oxford on our own.”
  His voice was low and hypnotic. It would have been
  so easy just to do as he said.
  “No, we at least need to stay together until Oxford.
  I wouldn’t feel right abandoning them like that.”
  I could tell he didn’t like my answer by the way he
  stiffened against my back. I pulled away.
  “I mean, they were really nice to me when you left,”
  I said. I hated the pleading tone I heard in my voice.
  And the sudden weakness I felt, like I was losing
  control of myself.
  “Yes, I understand,” he said. “But after all, they are
  dwarves.”
  There was something about the way he said
  “dwarves.” Bigots had a special way of talking about
  the people they hated, and that’s the way Benedict
  sounded when he said “dwarves.” It broke the tenuous
  peace between us.
  “I didn’t like the way you said that.” My voice was
  tense.
  His Cool, Blue Skin
  
  Dragons Over England
  14
  “Said what?” His voice rose with innocence.
  “Don’t play naive verbal semantics with me, Benedict.
  The way you said ‘dwarves.’ It sounded really rotten. It
  just dripped hostility.”
  “That wasn’t my intention,” he said. “I will confess
  I have no love of dwarves, but … ”
  “Let’s just drop it, okay? I’m not leaving them and
  that’s that. If you want to leave when we get to Oxford,
  that’s fine.”
  I looked at him and he pulled his mouth a funny way,
  like he wanted to say something else, but stopped
  himself.
   “Let’s go,” I said turning to walk back toward camp.
  *    *    *
  The dwarves were sitting around the fire when we
  got back to camp. Wart was skinning a rabbit. Diver
  smoked his pipe, lost in thought. Ferris and Brown Billy
  were taking turns stirring a stew that bubbled away
  over the hot coals. There was a nip in the air that chilled
  me, reminding me that autumn was approaching. When
  Benedict and I came to England it had been the middle
  of summer; time had slipped away so quickly, I hadn’t
  even noticed the change in the season until now. I
  walked over to the fire, welcoming the chance to warm
  myself. Benedict seemed indifferent to the cold.
   The dwarves stood as we approached.
  “Hello,” I said.
  They just nodded.
  “I know this, uh, dwarf-elf thing is an awkward
  situation,” I said. “So we’ve decided that once we get to
  Oxford, we’ll split up.”
  “If that is what you desire,” said Wart.
  “I think it would be for the best.” I couldn’t look Wart
  in the eye when I said it because he would know I was
  lying.
  Wart held his hands up as if to say, ‘What can I do?’
  then turned his attention back to the rabbit. I looked up
  and saw Benedict poking through his pack. He was
  angry. I could tell from his gestures.
  “Someone went through my pack,” he said. “One of
  you filthy dwarves was trying to rob me.”
  Diver started to rise, but Wart restrained him. Brown
  Billy and Ferris glanced at each other, then at me.
  “No one here is interested in your pitiful belong-
  ings,” said Diver. “If you want to accuse people of
  deceit, best look to yourself.”
  Benedict’s face was pulled into a mask of rage.
  “Dwarves have always been an ugly scar on the face
  of Aysle. It’s a pity Ardinay didn’t get rid of you when
  she had the chance!”
  “The Lady of the Houses would never harm the
  dwarves, and well you know why,” said Diver.
  “Old legends, little man. Only fools believe them.”
  Benedict smiled then, a thin curving of his lips which
  pulled his face into a feral pose. His eyes were black and
  hollow. I shuddered. He was a stranger to me, yet I felt
  compelled by him.
  “Thieving scum,” Benedict snarled. He pulled his
  sword.
  “Do you think to provoke me?” asked Wart. “You
  know that is the coward’s way, not the action of a True
  Son of Aysle.”
  Benedict held his sword at his side.
  “Are you implying that I am not a True Son of Aysle
  — midget?”
  I could tell from the expression on the dwarves’ faces
  that this was a horrible insult.
  “You know the legends as well as I. The creators
  made the dwarves, but there is no mention of elves. No,
  your kind are not of Aysle and never will be. It is no
  wonder you have aligned yourselves with that viper
  Uthorion.”
  “What lies you dwarves tell! It is no wonder the gods
  left after creating you!”
  Everything was frozen for a moment after Benedict
  said that. Then the dwarves rushed him. Their short
  knives looked so small I thought for moment they
  wouldn’t have any effect.
  It was all over so quickly.
  Benedict was bloody, his skin pale. I rushed to his
  side, kneeling as I touched his neck to find a pulse.
  There was none.
  “Oh my god,” I wailed. “What have you done?”
  Then a veil seemed to settle over my mind and the
  world was tinged in black and red.
  I cradled Benedict’s head in my arms, but it was
  heavy and kept slipping down out of my grasp.
  “We had to,” Wart said. “He was helping Uthorion.”
  “Liars!” I shouted. My voice sounded strange. Ev-
  erything seemed to be taking place three feet away
  from me, like I was watching all this happen to some-
  one else.
  “Listen to us,” Diver pleaded. He sounded like a
  small child.
  “Why should I?” I was on my feet now. I didn’t
  remember standing.
  “Because we’re your friends. We were sent to look
  after you. To help you. But you’ve been, well, a little
  strange. In fact we were going to tell you about your …
  husband and his association with Uthorion when he
  showed up. Uthorion has been trying to use you to get
  to Ardinay. His spy was your husband.”
  “Bastards,” I said. “Liars.” My sword was in my
  hand. I didn’t remember drawing it. I wanted to stop
  the pain in my heart, in my soul.
  I was surprised at how quickly it was over. Again.
  One swing and Wart’s head hit the earth with a soft
  thunk. Brown Billy and Ferris tried to run, but I was on
  them in a flash. They were harder to kill. I stabbed at
  their backs, but made little headway. Eventually I ran
  them down. They cried out for mercy, but the rage was
  in me now, demanding and consuming. Mercy was an
  emotion I wasn’t going to indulge.
  
  15
  Sweat trickled down my face, burning my eyes, as I
  ran back toward camp. I’d expected Diver to run, but he
  was still there.
  “It was stupid of you to stay,” I said.
  “I’m your friend,” Diver said. “I couldn’t leave you
  now.”
  “You just saved me the trouble of hunting you
  down.”
  “Listen, you’re being used,” he said. His voice was
  rushed as though he knew he only had a moment to
  speak. “Your husband was an agent of Uthorion. I don’t
  know why, but you’re important. Uthorion has been
  trying to overthrow Ardinay for some time now.”
  “Wart already said this,” I replied, “but I don’t
  believe it. I’m not significant to anyone anymore. You’ve
  seen to that.”
  I took a deep breath. The adrenalin was fading. I
  began to feel weak and trembly.
  “Martha,” he said. “Haven’t you noticed how you’ve
  changed?”
  “Of course,” I snapped. “That’s obvious. Everything
  has changed. I’m tired of talking about this.” I raised
  my sword.
  “I am sorry we have to part this way,” said Diver. His
  voice was sad.
  Parries, ripostes, leaps, and bounds, thrusts, jabs, as
  though he knew this was for the last time. I had never
  seen him so graceful. But I knew I would win. After ten
  minutes, he was tired. I was barely breathing hard.
  Twenty minutes and it was easy to finish him.
  I wiped my blade on the grass. My heart was beating
  a mile a minute. Unhooking my scabbard, I collapsed
  on the ground. I knew I had to bury Benedict, but I
  didn’t have the strength to start.
  I rested. I’m not sure for how long. The hammering
  in my chest subsided, but it was replaced by a dull ache,
  as though someone had hit me, hard, and left a bruise.
  I felt like crying, but I couldn’t. There wasn’t a tear left
  inside me. I was dried up and hollow as an old husk.
  I stood up and walked over to where Wart lay.
  Retrieving his severed head, I placed it at the top of his
  neck. I folded his arms over his chest and put his legs
  together. Then I got the rest of the dwarves’ bodies and
  laid them next to each other in a neat line.
  “Four little dwarves in a row. Ho, ho, ho,” I sang. I
  began to hum a little ditty to myself. Humming had
  always cheered them up.
  “Now stay there. Don’t run away,” I said.
  I turned back to Benedict’s body. His arms were
  splayed at bizarre angles. His legs looked as though he
  were about to run. Gently, I straightened his limbs. His
  clothes were twisted about. I knew that would bother
  him. He had always been neat about his appearance,
  even after he turned into an elf. So I carefully tidied up
  his garments.
  My hand brushed against something in his vest
  pocket. At first I thought it was an amulet, but the shape
  was wrong. I pulled it out. It was a carefully folded
  piece of parchment.
  Curiosity killed the cat …
  “Satisfaction brought him back,” I said out loud.
  I opened the parchment and read Uthorion’s words
  to Benedict.
  The paper fluttered from my hand. I couldn’t catch
  my breath. Something was squeezing all the air out of
  my lungs. I put my head between my knees until the
  feeling passed. I wasn’t going to let this overcome me.
  I wouldn’t allow it.
  I pulled myself together and went on. The sun had
  long since set when I finished their cairns. That night
  there were no more dreams.
  *    *    *
  It took another two days, but I reached Oxford.
  It was astonishingly easy to get into Ardinay’s castle.
  She was as beautiful as I remembered. Or at least as
  Noble remembered. I wasn’t sure whose memories
  were mine anymore.
  “My lady,” I said as I knelt before her. She peered at
  me as I rose.
  She search my eyes for a moment.
  “So it is you,” she said. She reached up and removed
  her crown from her brown. Relief swept her face, as if
  a heavy burden had been laid aside. “I’ve been waiting
  for you.”
  “And I have been searching for you.”
  “Have you come here to kill me?”
  I was surprised by the question. So blunt and to the
  point.
  “No. I discovered Uthorion’s intentions and have
  come to tell you that the threat to your safety from me
  is over. But how did you know about his plans?”
  “His Darkness Device helped reveal his plans to
  me,” she said. “That is why Noble was sent on this
  mission — to prevent Uthorion from taking control of
  this Storm Knight.”
  “You knew?” I was stunned. “You knew that Noble
  would be placed in my body while I was still alive? You
  condemned him to this?”
  Ardinay shrugged her shoulders. And I grew cold.
  “Oh, my god. He didn’t know that I would still be
  alive, did he? He thought he was coming into an empty
  body, but you knew. You knew I was alive and what
  would happen to Noble if we were to occupy this body
  at the same time.”
  The shock I was feeling — was it mine or Noble’s?
  “I had no other choice. Time was of the essence. He
  volunteered. ‘Anything for you, my lady.’ Those were
  his very words.”
  There was a mocking tone in her voice.
  “What kind of person are you?” I whispered. I was
  filled with a horror I would not have believed possible.
  “He thought he knew you. He loved you. This is some-
  thing Uthorion would have thought up.”
  His Cool, Blue Skin
  
  Dragons Over England
  16
  Ardinay’s eyes flashed.
  “How dare you compare me with that swine,” she
  growled. “I could exile you for such insolence.”
  “There was a time when you welcomed frank speech
  from your subjects. Or so I have heard. Perhaps your
  fascination with Uthorion’s plaything has clouded your
  judgement.” That was definitely Noble.
  “Get out,” she shouted. She regained her composure
  at once. Her voice softened. “I could banish you from
  Aysle forever for saying such vile things, but such is my
  mercy that I will allow you to stay and continue serving
  me.”
  “Serve you? You treacherous bitch, I would rather
  serve the foulest demon in Uthorion’s court than con-
  sent to be under your thumb again,” said Noble.
  “Do not test me further, Noble. It is Noble now, isn’t
  it? You always did have a way with words, much more
  eloquent than that peasant whose body you inhabit.
  ’Tis a shame you ended up in that body; I remember
  well how handsome you once were. And you were my
  favorite. Alas, all things end and so too has this audi-
  ence.”
  She gave a curt gesture of dismissal. I was numb.
  Was she so secure in her power that she wasn’t even
  afraid of me?
  “You may leave,” Ardinay repeated.
  My hand dropped to the hilt of my blade and I knew
  in an instant that I could kill her if I wanted to; it would
  be easy. She was struggling with the dark powers of the
  obsidian crown: Uthorion’s influence was in her much
  as it was in me, and her power was lessened by it.
  Images flashed through my mind. Images of Ardinay
  as Noble had known her with the love he still bore for
  her. And then there were my memories. What I had
  been and what I had become.
  I had had enough of bloodshed. Nothing good had
  come of all these machinations except the loss of lives.
  Benedict for all his flaws had been as much a dupe of
  Uthorion as I had. And the dwarves. I would carry the
  guilt of their deaths for the rest of my life. Though
  Ardinay was supposedly on the side of good, she still
  thought more about the bigger issues than about the
  sacrifices of individuals. I was tired of being at the
  whim of her and her kind.
  My hand slipped off the hilt of my sword.
  “Lady,” I said. “I hope you win your struggle.”
  Her face changed for a brief moment; I saw in her
  then what Noble had loved enough to die for. She
  nodded at me, in agreement, in recognition — I wasn’t
  sure which. I turned and left her, and steeled myself not
  to look back. Not for me, but for him.
  *    *    *
  We stand together in a beautiful grassy field.
  “I must leave,” he says.
  “You can’t,” I say. “That’s death for certain.”
  “I can’t stay here with you, like some parasite in your
  mind. I cannot be a voyeur in your life. Not alive, not
  dead.”
  “Where will you go?”
  “The wind.”
  “You’ll die.”
  “Perhaps.”
  “Don’t you want to finish what you began?”
  “Of course, but here I am powerless.”
  “Maybe there is a way,” I say.
  “How?”
  I take his hands in mine.
  “Come with me,” I say. “I’ll show you.”
  *    *    *
  I travelled north for many months. It was almost
  time. The faeries will be coming. They were right, there
  was a little one. A babe. And he’ll look just like his father
  with azure skin and dark eyes. Eyes black as the night.
  I’ll name him Noble.
  Our present to Uthorion.
  Our revenge.
  
  Being a Chronicle of the Voyage of the Good Ship Daria
  Marie, late of Haven, through Treacherous Seas and Great
  Perils, as Chronicled by Robin Treveylan, Second Mate
  I was a lad of but two and twenty years when first I
  signed on board the Daria Marie, a frigate of no small
  reputation among those who ply the Trade Seas of
  Aysle. I had spent my youth as a farmer’s son on the isle
  of Liandar, the last refuge of that once-great House,
  now reduced to so piteous a state as to be forced to
  subsist on alms from the Bendes clan. My family’s
  fortunes mirrored those of the Liandars — each suc-
  ceeding generation found life a harder burden to bear,
  as the Dark encroached from every direction.
  By the time I had reached young manhood, I could
  see that little future awaited me in my homeland. I saw
  my father toiling each day to coax a few sickly plants
  from the blasted and barren soil, his calloused hands
  working pick and shovel in an endless struggle with the
  earth. He was bound to that ground by a thousand
  years of blood and sweat, but I felt no such ties  — when
  the sun slipped from the sky, I would make my way to
  the water and dream of lands that lay beyond.
  My opportunity to escape the island of my birth
  came one evening, late in the month of Endrak, when I
  made one of my infrequent journeys to the village.
  Living in so bitterly cold a region as we did, we could
  ill afford to run low on furs or flint, so I traveled to
  purchase supplies. But when I reached Ekim, I heard
  the sounds of great revelry coming from the tavern. My
  heart knew what that meant — a vessel must have
  docked, and its crew would be drinking ale and sharing
  stories of the sea’s wonders.
  My purpose in coming to town all but forgotten, I
  stole up to the door of the inn and peered inside. The
  spacious room was filled with the smoke of a hundred
  pipes, the air rich with the scent of exotic tobaccos from
  Elvenport and Vareth. In the far corner, a dwarf made
  sweet music on his pipe while an elven maid danced
  sinuously to the strains. My father would have deemed
  the goings-on no more than efforts to tempt the wrath
  of Dunad, but in my eyes, the tavern seemed the first
  sign of light and life I had seen in many a year.
  A glance told me that the seamen who sang so
  boisterously and capered about the room were no
  pallid merchants or grim explorers. Their colorful garb
  marked them as Corsairs, the Coast Brethren who were
  the terror of the Trade Seas and the subject of a thou-
  sand legends. Most were the descendants of Crown
  War veterans, born and bred to the life of the sea; some,
  no doubt, were much like myself, men grown dissatis-
  fied with their lot in life and willing to risk storm, sea
  monster and Viking attack to obtain a bit of freedom.
  I longed to hear their tales but was at my wit’s end
  how to approach them. No doubt they would laugh at
  my eagerness to leave Liandar and speak of terrible
  vortexes that waited to swallow land dwellers who
  The Voyage of
  the Daria
  Marie
  Greg Farshtey
  
  Dragons Over England
  18
  dared venture out on to the waters. I was turning to
  depart when I felt a hand easily twice the size of my
  own clamp upon my shoulder. The next moment, I was
  dragged inside with seemingly no more effort than if I
  were made of straw.
  “We have a spy in our midst, fellows!” my captor
  bellowed, as his companions laughed heartily. “What
  should we do with this stripling, eh? Who’s for keel-
  hauling and feeding his guts to the gulls?”
  A hearty chorus of “Ayes” went up at that, and in
  truth, I feared they might well be serious about their
  intentions. If so, I was prepared to make the cost of my
  life a dear one for them to pay. I turned to look at the
  pirate who held me fast and was surprised to see that he
  towered above me. His face bore the brutish features of
  a giant and he bared his teeth in a savage grin that sent
  a chill through my bones.
  “Perhaps we should feed you to the Aquaticas, my
  fine lad,” he snarled. “After all, you could as well be an
  agent of the Dalerons, come to lead us all to hanging.”
  I felt the blood rush to my face and anger crowd out
  all fear. There was no fouler curse that could be hurled
  at a follower of the Liandars than the name of Daleron,
  the family responsible for our exile to this miserable
  rock.
  Heedless of my own peril, I lashed out with my foot
  and elicited a howl of pain from the brute. His com-
  rades seemed to find this very amusing, one of them
  shouting, “Beware, Lon, this minnow has a bite!”
  The giant’s smile was gone now and he raised a fist
  to cuff me, a blow I felt sure would take off my head. I
  braced myself for oblivion and am certain I would have
  found it had not a booming voice cried out, “Hold!”
  Instantly, all noise stopped in the inn. Lon released
  me without even a snarl, dropping his hands to his
  sides in what I imagined was the closest a Corsair could
  come to an attentive pose. I turned my head to see what
  had so affected the sailors, and so had my first glimpse
  of Captain Basil.
  As I remember it now, it was the eyes which first
  struck me. Slate gray, like chips of stone, with a piercing
  gaze that would give a dragon pause. His round face
  was ringed by a black beard, and though no giant, he
  left the impression that he could best any and all the
  men in the room.
  He turned his glare upon me and rumbled, “What do
  you want here, boy? This is no place for the likes of
  you.”
  I do not know what made me say it — I had not come
  to the inn planning to sign aboard ship. But somehow
  I knew I was being extended an invitation I would
  surely regret refusing.
  “I … I wish to join your crew, sir,” I stammered,
  drawing myself to my full height. “I can work harder
  than any man and would ask nothing in the way of
  wages.”
  “That’s all to the best, as I pay none. Every man-jack
  gets his share of the plunder we take,” Basil said,
  grimly. “Is life on Liandar so bad, then? Would you
  leave your home and family, likely never to see them
  again? Think well on it, for we have no time for squall-
  ing babes on the Daria Marie — long for your former life
  but once in my presence, and you’ll be naught but
  added weight for our anchor.”
  “I have no love for farming, sir,” I said, with convic-
  tion born of observing the futility of my father’s efforts.
  “I’ll not shame your vessel, nor water the ocean with
  my tears, that I vow.”
  Basil approached me then and clasped my hand in
  his, with a grip sufficient to grind my bones to dust.
  “You have a strong hand, boy,” he said, still unsmiling.
  “It so happens one of our lads was swept overboard in
  a storm near Scania last month and I had put in here in
  hopes of finding a likely sailor to take his place. Would
  that be you?”
  “Aye, Captain, that it would,” I said, thus writing the
  first page of my life’s volume.
  Basil allowed me to return to my home and bid
  farewell to my parents, though he forbade me to tell
  them upon what ship I would be sailing. Were it known
  the Daria Marie were in these waters, the Houses might
  well dispatch vessels to hunt it down. I moved like the
  wind down the pathways to the farm, all the while
  dreaming of discoving exotic lands and great treasures.
  To my father’s credit, he made no attempt to stay my
  departure. He walked with me to the edge of our land
  and said, “This farm has been a harsh mistress, Robin,
  my boy. It asks much of us, and gives back damned
  little. I have heard much the same said of the sea — but
  I am not fool enough to ask a man to turn a deaf ear to
  the song the waters sing. Go with Dunad, son, and may
  you find what you seek.”
  At dawn the next morning, I carried my few belong-
  ings on to the Daria Marie. It was a large ship, crewed by
  well over a hundred men and bristling with cannon. It
  flew the crossed swords of the Tancreds from its mast,
  but I well knew that banner would be replaced by the
  skull and bones of the Corsair as soon as the ship was
  safely out of port. As I smelled the salt sea air and felt
  the deck move beneath my feet, I found myself wishing
  we were already at sea.
  I was stowing away my belongings in the cabin I
  would share with Lon (my company perhaps seen as a
  punishment for the giant) when I heard the voice of
  Captain Basil raised in anger. I hurried on to the deck,
  only to see the ship’s master striking a crewman with
  brutal force. Already, one eye of the mariner’s had
  swollen shut and blood was streaming from his nose
  and mouth. Scattered about the deck were feathers and
  stones the like of which I’d never seen before.
  “I’ll feed your miserable carcass to the kraken, I
  will!” Basil shouted, his face crimson with rage. “I’ll
  
  19
  have no sorcery on board this ship! By Rak and Ugorl,
  I’ll beat the life out of you if need be!”
  He might well have done so had not the first mate, an
  aged pirate named Arden, drawn him away and paci-
  fied with a few low-spoken words. The unfortunate
  sailor was led away by his fellows, and the objects
  which had apparently prompted the beating were cast
  overboard as if somehow unclean.     That night, as the
  tropical breezes sped us toward distant Pelk Cove, I
  asked Lon about what I had witnessed.
  “The Captain, he hates mages and their like,” the
  giant said. “He won’t bring the ship nowhere near the
  Mage Islands if he can help it. The Daria Marie is the
  only ship I know of that doesn’t have a wizard to help
  fill the sails.”
  I was at a loss. “But surely to forbid the use of magic
  is akin to ordering his crew not to breathe,” I said.
  “What could prompt a sane man to lay down such a
  law?”
  Lon gestured for me to lower my voice. “There’s a
  tale I heard told in Haven once, long ago. Captain
  Basil’s wife, they say she was a witch-lady. She wanted
  the Captain to settle down on an island with her and
  spend his days digging in the dirt. She thought if he
  were rich, he would be content to stay  — so she tried to
  conjure up a mountain of gold. When the Captain
  returned home, he found a Viking’s treasure and her,
  raving and screaming. Her mind had broken, you see,
  from the strain of the spell.
  “From that day to this, Captain Basil’s carried a
  hatred of sorcery in his soul. It’s worth your life even to
  sharpen your blade by magic on this ship.”
  “But what if we should be attacked by wizards?” I
  protested. “How would we defend ourselves?”
  Lon smiled. “Don’t you worry about that, boy. Cap-
  tain Basil always says he’s never met a mage who could
  cast a spell with cold steel sticking in his ribs.”
  Four years were to pass before the events which I
  will relate here. I worked my way up to the position of
  second mate under Captain Basil, learning much of the
  sea and sharing in a wealth of plunder during that time.
  I had begun to dream of one day having a ship of my
  own, and so set aside much of my gold toward the end
  of purchasing a sloop one day.
  I also worked to become proficient at magic, despite
  Lon’s misgivings and the feelings of the Captain. Though
  it was difficult to learn and impossible to practice in the
  open, we occasionally captured a merchant or a mage
  who would share some of his knowledge for an extra
  glass of ale or crust of bread. In that way, I eventually
  attained a small degree of mastery of the art, and felt
  more secure knowing I had a weapon so powerful and
  so easily concealed at my command.
  There had been many changes in the Coast Brethren
  in recent years. The Council of Captains had been split
  as to whether to follow Lady Pella Ardinday’s armies to
  the new world called Earth — Basil, of course, had
  voted nay, calling the strange bridge that linked our
  seas to theirs “more damnable wizardry.” When
  Ardinay began calling for peace, civil war spilled from
  Earth back to Aysle, and Basil called for the crew to vote
  on which side to back, as is the Corsair way.
  The men who sailed the Daria Marie were not cow-
  ards, but they were practical and they were pirates.
  They voted to support neither side, but take the money
  from either whenever it was offered. I was dismayed by
  this — having voted to work solely with the forces of the
  Light — but then I recalled that I worked alongside
  Corsairs, men who had no country or House to which
  they owed allegiance. Their only concern with the wars
  of others was how best to profit from them.
  An opportunity to do just that arose some months
  later. We had looted a merchant vessel two days from
  Tradeport and the men were looking forward to spend-
  ing their ill-gotten gains in the inns of Haven. It had
  been many weeks since we had put into shore, for there
  were few safe ports remaining. The return of Tolwyn of
  Tancred to Aysle, and her raising of an army to chal-
  lenge the might of her brother, had led to every vessel
  that approached the continent being suspect. Tancred
  privateers were everywhere, and it seemed the Daria
  Marie would soon be forced to take her chances in
  Viking waters.
  We were skirting the coast of Vareth lands when the
  seaman on watch reported a harpy approaching from
  the direction of the Folk star. It was odd indeed for a
  half-folk to fly so near a human vessel, for they were
  considered ill omens by sailors and were often shot for
  sport. At the look-out’s first cry, three or four of the
  crew had moved to the starboard rail and were loading
  powder and ball into their rifles.
  Viewed from the quarter-deck, it seemed certain that
  the creature was making for the Daria Marie, albeit
  unsteadily. I peered through my glass and saw that it
  carried a scroll in one claw. With both Captain Basil and
  Arden below decks mapping out our course, the matter
  was left to me.
  “Lower your weapons!” I shouted to the crewmen,
  who turned to look at me in surprise.
  “It’s a halfling, sir!” one of them replied. “It’s bad
  luck to let one too near the ship!”
  “Nevertheless, you will not shoot,” I said. “I believe
  that creature bears a message for the Captain — would
  you be responsible for its failure to deliver that message?”
  The image of Basil enraged was sufficient to give
  them pause. Reluctantly, they allowed the harpy to
  approach unmolested. It swooped toward where I stood,
  weariness etched into its hideous features, dropped the
  scroll and soared back toward the shore.
  I retrieved the paper and brought it to the Captain,
  who read it with great interest, then passed it to Arden.
  “We’ve been asked to transport some cargo, Treveylan,”
  Basil said. “The money’s sufficient for the task.”
  “Shall I see to the hold, sir?”
  The Voyage of the Daria Marie
  
  Dragons Over England
  20
  Basil laughed a short, harsh laugh. “Would that it
  were so, Robin. No, turn men out of three cabins and
  ready the quarters for visitors. And order the helm to
  bring us about toward the Metal star — we’re making
  for Vareth.”
  It was later that day that I learned from Arden what
  the strange message had contained. The people of
  Earth’s kingdom called England were fearful, for the
  war went against them, and they desired to cement an
  alliance with the folk of Aysle. Accordingly, an ambas-
  sador and a small number of advisors had been
  smuggled up the bridge and were in hiding on the isle
  of Vareth, homeland of the Dark dwarves. The Daria
  Marie was to ferry the group to Elvenport to meet with
  the leaders of the elves and sign some sort of pact.
  The amount of trades they offered was truly stagger-
  ing, but did little to ease my mind. In my years at sea, I’d
  had little contact with the elves. It was said they were
  not a seafaring race, preferring to keep to themselves
  and be left alone by others. Elvenport was the only port
  of call for Freetraders in that part of the world —
  beyond that, the waters were filled with unknown
  perils, not the least of which were the elves themselves,
  who were said to sink every vessel that approached
  their lands.
  Like most mariners, I had little trust in elves. They
  did what they wished, never sharing their reasons
  with others — it was said they would rescue you from
  the sea only to drown you the next eve. Many a man
  swore that their women were the most beautiful in all
  of Aysle, but Captain Basil dismissed that as the results
  of enchantment.
  I had been among the Corsairs long enough to know
  that one did not refuse treasure when it was proffered
  — but I knew I would rest far easier when the familiar
  coastline of Haven was once more in sight.
  We dropped anchor off the coast of Vareth when the
  night was some hours old. We dared not come too close,
  lest the dwarven frigates chance to be in the area. As it
  was, the dwarves among our crew were restless and
  agitated. Many of them had become Corsairs after
  having escaped the Vareth slave pens and disliked
  drawing so near the site of their former misery.
  As prearranged, I lit a lantern and swung it three
  times over the railing, then doused its flame. The an-
  swering signal came immediately thereafter, followed
  by the soft sound of a rowboat moving through the
  water. Captain Basil ordered the ladder lowered to
  receive our guests.
  They were indeed unique visitors in the annals of the
  Daria Marie. The first was an elf, tall and handsome with
  the trace of arrogance in his smile so common to that
  race. The second was Ayslish, clad in green and brown
  and sporting three stars on a patch above his heart. This
  marked him as a servant of House Gerrik, a noble clan
  of which my father had always spoken with the utmost
  respect.
  But it was the third whose appearance struck the
  crew like a thunderclap. A woman, clad in raiment that
  I would wager was unlike any seen before in Aysle. Her
  dress and jacket were of dark material and finely cut
  and seemed to accentuate the lines of her body, yet did
  not seem intended to seduce. Her skirt revealed far
  more of her legs than was common among ladies, but
  her manner was cool and dignified just the same. Her
  hair was a fiery red, her features chiseled from ivory,
  and she wore spectacles with metallic frames.
  If the men were speechless at this vision, Captain
  Basil was not. He turned angrily upon the Gerrik man,
  saying, “You did not tell me you would be bringing a
  woman aboard ship, Devin! I’ll not have it!”
  The elf interceded. “If I may, Captain, my name is
  Berut, a member of a faction in Elveim that wishes to see
  the Dark expunged. This woman is Catherine Sinclair,
  a representative of Queen Elizabeth II of Britain. It is my
  understanding that passage on your vessel to Elvenport
  had been obtained, and I must confess I fail to see where
  the question of gender enters into the matter.”
  I could see Arden moving through the crew, calming
  those already thinking of feeding the presumptuous elf
  who dared to lecture their captain to the sharks. For his
  part, Captain Basil was having none of Berut’s manner.
  “You don’t see because you’ve never set foot on a
  sailing ship, elf,” Basil said. “Women on board ship are
  a curse, particularly when there’s danger involved. If
  you think —”
  “We do, Captain, but perhaps you do not,” Catherine
  Sinclair said. If the crew was shaken before, they were
  doubly shocked to hear a woman — a woman — dare
  to speak thus to a Corsair. “You have been paid in full,
  in advance, for the use of your vessel. Whether I am
  man, woman or a Hebrides goat is irrelevant. And
  while I freely admit I have never sailed on so … quaint
  a ship, I was born and raised in Dover. I daresay I know
  as much about the sea as any man aboard.”
  With that, I was quite prepared to throw the lass
  overboard and be done with it. But Captain Basil looked
  her up and down and actually smiled. “Aye, my Maggie
  would have said much the same. Very well, you may
  come aboard — but mind you, the first sign of trouble
  from any of the lot of you, and I drop you on the nearest
  sandbar and leave you behind!”
  His warning given, Basil turned toward the crew-
  men on deck. “Why are you standing here? Hoist
  anchor and let’s get underway — I want to be well away
  from here before sunrise.”
  I was given the “honor” of escorting our guests to
  their quarters. I found myself embarassed at the condi-
  tion of the cabin Miss Sinclair was to occupy — a room
  that seemed perfectly fine for a seaman appeared at the
  same time to be no fit place for a lady, and I said so.
  “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Treveylan,” she said,
  smiling. “I’ve stayed in worse places. Ever hear of
  Beirut?”
  
  21
  “You mean, your elven companion? No, I —”
  My words were cut off by her laughter. “Forgive
  me,” she said. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just the
  absurdity of this whole situation. If anyone had told me
  five years ago I’d be living an Errol Flynn movie, I’d
  have had them locked up.”
  It seemed clear that our conversation would of ne-
  cessity be a limited one, since I did not know who Errol
  Flynn was or what, exactly, a “movie” might be, al-
  though I assumed it was some form of barque. In
  addition, I was beginning to find the scent of her —
  something much like the flowers that struggled to
  bloom in my mother’s garden — distracting. Thus I
  wished her good evening and repaired to my cabin,
  there to spend a restless night dreaming of elves, am-
  bassadors, and, to my surprise, the island of Liandar.
  The swiftest way from Vareth to Elvenport was
  straight through the Living Sea, past the Mage Islands
  and then into the Trade Sea. But we were not to go that
  way — Devin Gerrik had cautioned us that enemies of
  the Light were aware of Miss Sinclair’s presence in
  Aysle, and would surely be lying in wait for us along
  that route. This, coupled with Captain Basil’s notori-
  ous dislike of the Mage Islands, led us to devise a
  course toward the Aquatic star and Tradeport. It would
  mean a far longer trip, but that could not be helped, it
  seemed.
  The initial weeks were pleasant and uneventful. The
  warm weather typically found in the Trade Sea seemed
  to cheer our guests — all save Berut, who spent much
  time at the rail, perhaps thinking of home. Catherine —
  as I had been granted the privilege of calling her —
  often spoke of how pleasant the climate was here as
  compared to her native London. She seemed not at all
  nervous about her upcoming meeting with the elves,
  comparing their confusing behavior and complicated
  customs with certain Middle Eastern tribes she had
  encountered in the past.
  We were flying the leonine banner of the Bendes, a
  family whose vessels could normally sail unmolested
  save by some rogue Vikings and the occasional Corsair.
  We saw few vessels beyond merchantmen — indeed, it
  seemed at times we had the entire sea to ourselves.
  It was three weeks into the voyage when I came upon
  Catherine watching the sun slip into the Land Between.
  She never ceased to be amazed by Aysle, and was
  constantly questioning me about the stars and what lay
  on the other side of the world.
  “You know, I think I will be sorry to leave here,” she
  said, as the waves lapped against the hull. “This is
  really a very beautiful place.”
  “Aye, it is, and you’ve but seen a little,” I replied.
  “But it would be far more beautiful if we had peace.”
  Her face clouded, and I regretted what I had said.
  “You sound like Devin. I think Oxford insisted he come
  to make sure I remembered my duty.”
  “I do not think you would forget.” Indeed, I had
  rarely seen a woman so committed to a task. “And what
  of Berut? Does he not serve as a reminder?”
  “There are times I think he would rather the whole
  mission be abandoned,” she answered, to my surprise.
  “I’m convinced he sincerely wishes an alliance, but he
  is doubtful one can be achieved between two so differ-
  ent cultures. And if I fail, well, I’m sure he will be
  considered shamed by it.”
  I considered this carefully. “Then do not fail,” I
  stated at length. “Make your argument with the same
  force and clarity you used on the Captain to obtain
  passage on this ship. Elves are not skilled at debate —
  they have grown accustomed to others simply doing
  what they say because they wish it. You will be an …
  experience for them.”
  Catherine laughed. I had begun to like the sound
  very much. “I have been called many things in my time,
  Robin, but never before an ‘experience.’ I — Robin,
  look!”
  Her expression had changed on the instant to one of
  fear. I looked toward our wake and saw that the sea had
  begun to churn, as if preparing to spew forth a great
  evil. I had seen that sight only once before, and knew all
  too well what it portended.
  “Get below!” I shouted, pushing Catherine toward
  the hatch even as I rang the bell that would summon the
  crew.
  “What is it? What’s the matter?” she protested.
  She had her answer in a moment. The waters seemed
  to explode and the hideous head and serpentine neck of
  a Draconis Aquatica reared up before us. Its scales
  glistened in the fading light, and Catherine’s scream
  was lost in the horrifying screech of the creature.
  Captain Basil and the rest of the crew had made it to
  the deck now, and I heard a volley of rifle shots from
  above. As the balls glanced off the monster, I thrust
  Catherine through the hatch and down the stairway
  leading to her quarters.
  The ship shuddered as the dragon slammed its mas-
  sive tail against the port side. It was a full-grown beast,
  perhaps 75 feet in length, resembling nothing so much
  as a huge snake. It was the terror of sailors everywhere,
  and this night the men of the Daria Marie had good
  reason to fear.
  I raced below-decks to aid a gunnery crew in the
  loading of  their cannon, then touched match to fuse to
  spark the explosion, even as my comrades did likewise.
  A score of cannonballs flew from the vessel, at least a
  few striking the beast and leaving it shaken. It dove
  beneath the waters and then rose up again, a sweep of
  its tail splintering the starboard railing.
  Praise to Dunad, we had a strong wind and a fast
  ship. While the monster prepared for another attack,
  Basil ordered the ship turned about so that the port
  guns could be turned on the monster. A second cannon-
  The Voyage of the Daria Marie
  
  Dragons Over England
  22
  ade drove the beast back beneath the waves and this
  time it did not rise again.
  Damage to the ship had not been serious, but the
  price of our victory in lives had been dear. I found
  Captain Basil standing at the shattered railing, gazing
  into the depths.
  “Twelve men, Robin. Twelve men stood at this rail
  and fought to defend their ship, and now all are gone,”
  he said mournfully. “Swept into the sea in the blink of
  an eye.”
  “But they have been avenged,” I said, attempting to
  comfort him. “The monster is dead.”
  Basil shook his head. “Would that it were so. But I
  saw little blood where it was wounded, and no serpent’s
  corpse floats upon the waves. No, it’s been hurt, but not
  slain. We can only pray that it has tasted enough of our
  steel.”
  Basil was not a man to place his trust in the gods,
  however — he ordered a doubling of the watch for the
  duration of the time we would spend in the warm
  waters of the Trade Sea, where the Aquatica thrived.
  Carpenters were set to work repairing the rail, while
  leaks in the port side were patched.
  I was detailed to ensure that our guests were un-
  harmed and found them to be so, if greatly shaken.
  Berut, in particular, seemed intensely disturbed by the
  incident.
  “Perhaps Captain Basil was correct,” he muttered.
  “Perhaps this was a poorly conceived plan.”
  “Aquaticas are native to this portion of Aysle, and they
  will attack virtually any vessel. We were extremely fortu-
  nate not to suffer more damage than we did,” I said.
  “Will we be so fortunate a second time?” Berut
  demanded, now pacing the cabin. “If Miss Sinclair
  should be killed while en route to Elvenport, think of
  the damage that would be done to human-elf relations?
  It would be catastrophic!”
  “No one else will be killed,” Devin Gerrik assured
  him. “Captain Basil knows what he is doing and will
  make certain we are all safe.”
  But Berut was not to be mollified. “This is your fault,
  Gerrik! You were the one who warned of hidden en-
  emies, and said we could not take the most direct
  route!”
  “Gentlemen! Stop it, now!” Catherine shouted.
  “We’re all under strain, but bickering among ourselves
  serves no purpose. Mr. Treveylan says that such at-
  tacks, while … unsettling … are a common occurrence
  in these waters. But I have faith that the Daria Marie and
  her crew can get us to Elvenport safely. If either of you
  wishes to debark, I’m sure Captain Basil could find a
  nice sandbar somewhere around here.”
  Catherine’s words served to calm her attendants,
  but did little for her own nerves. She confessed later
  that the appearance of the dragon had frightened her
  out of her wits, but she knew from previous experience
  that it would not do to show that.
  “I’ve survived as a diplomat because I know how to
  act as if nothing surprises me,” she said. “I could have
  sat down with that dragon and negotiated a peace
  treaty, if need be. Then I would have gone somewhere
  and had a nice, quiet nervous breakdown.”
  “Your speech is strange, Catherine, but I believe I
  understand your meaning,” I said. “When first I came
  aboard the Daria Marie, I had a great deal to learn — and
  the first lesson was not to let on just how ignorant I was
  of the sea and her ways.”
  “Did it work?”
  “With all but Lon and the Captain,” I replied. “Cap-
  tain Basil knew a green youth when he saw one and
  took it upon himself to teach me all he knew of Aysle’s
  waters. Lon saw to it that I did not get myself killed
  needlessly, say, by calling a fellow pirate a ‘dirt farmer’
  in the heat of anger.”
  She smiled her first true smile since the dragon
  attack, and I wished I could make it last. Then I noticed
  she was turning over a large splinter of wood in her
  hands, probably left over from the carpenter’s work.
  Once certain there was no one about, I took it from her
  and promised her a miracle.
  This would be my first effort at sorcery before an-
  other, save for my “instructors.” It would be but a
  minor trick, but more than enough to get me hung from
  the yardarm if Captain Basil caught me. I concentrated
  harder than I ever had before upon the stick of wood,
  and to my delight, tiny buds began to spring from the
  splinter. In another moment, flowers were blooming
  from what had been no more than a rotten remnant of
  the railing.
  Catherine’s eyes grew wide as first one, then another
  rose appeared, as beautiful as any ever grown in a
  garden. Hesitantly, she reached out and lifted the wood,
  then sniffed the scent of the flowers.
  “They’re wonderful!” she said, happily. “I’ve seen
  your people do magic before, but never anything like …
  they’re so beautiful, Robin.”
  Suddenly, I wanted very much to have her in my
  arms, to rain kisses upon her face, and the Corbaal take
  all of Aysle. “They pale beside you,” I whispered,
  reaching for her.
  Her smile faded and her face seemed to grow very
  sad for a moment. Then her lips met mine in a kiss both
  sweet and tender.
  Much later, I bid her good evening and joined Lon on
  the quarter-deck for our watch. The giant was mutter-
  ing a prayer to Ugorl when I approached, so out of
  deference to him, I did not announce my presence until
  he had finished. Lon had never been a religous man, in
  my experience, but our encounter with the dragon had
  many of the crew turning to their gods.
  “You’re late,” he said when finally he saw me. “I was
  about to find someone to replace you.”
  “I was … detained,” I answered. No gentleman —
  not even a Corsair — would relate to another the words
  
  23
  spoken between Catherine and I that eve. Lon seemed
  to be satisfied with my answer, at least he did not press
  the matter. He turned his attention to the stars that
  danced overhead.
  “They care little about the stars in Lower Aysle, lad,”
  he said. “They serve merely to light the way on a hunt
  or watch over the camp when the Dark things are about.
  Up here, folk read much into their positions in the sky
  or which was ascendant at birth. Tell me, Treveylan,
  under which star were you born?”
  “My mother bore me in mid-Endrak, under the Fire
  star,” I answered. “She said she knew the star whose
  gifts would be bestowed upon me, for it was fiercely hot
  that day.”
  Lon laughed. “Perhaps, little one, when we are back
  in Haven, you may wave your hands and light all the
  torches in the village, eh?”
  I looked at him in surprise. It was unusual to find a
  giant — particularly on Captain Basil’s ship — so well-
  versed in the magic skills one gained by birth. It was
  true that I had from childhood a talent for conjuring fire
  from nothing, one only harsh discipline at the hands of
  my father taught me to control.
  I turned to answer Lon’s jest and saw that he had the
  glass to his eye. He was looking off the starboard bow,
  but I knew not at what. Finally, he handed me the
  instrument and said, “There is something there,
  Treveylan, but I only get a fleeting glimpse.”
  I looked out into the darkness and immediately saw to
  what he referred. Out amid the waves a shape was
  moving, first rising, then falling, only to appear again.
  The motion was smooth and unhurried, and it reminded
  me uncomfortably of a revenant stalking its prey.
  “Sound the bell, Lon. We’d best be prepared for
  whate’er may occur.”
  Captain Basil knew at once that a Draconis Aquatica
  followed hard on our heels, and in the first light of
  dawn, the scorch marks on its scales became visible. It
  was the same creature that had attacked us before,
  come back to send us all into Dunad’s embrace.
  The cannon were readied and a hundred pairs of
  eyes watched anxiously as the serpent drew near and
  then retreated. It did not strike at us — strangely, it kept
  a distance between itself and our vessel, following in
  our wake for many hours. It would vanish for a time,
  only to reappear again, and we dared not let down our
  guard lest it seize the moment and destroy the Daria
  Marie.
  For days on end, it remained thus — the dragon
  taunting us from just beyond the range of our cannon,
  the men slowly growing hollow-eyed from lack of
  sleep. Occasionally, the nerve of one would break and
  Basil would order him confined to quarters. Tension
  charged the air and small disagreements between ship-
  mates became serious quarrels.
  Mindful of the danger, Basil offered to put Catherine
  and her party off at Tradeport, but she would have none
  of it. Her spirit seemed to rally some of the men and we
  passed the home of the merchant fleet in better spirits
  than we had enjoyed in some weeks.
  Alas, her bravery did not seem to extend to her com-
  panions. Berut continued to complain that the trip was
  folly, the dragon a sign from Elmiir that all would end in
  disaster. Devin Gerrik called upon the Captain to send a
  hunting party out to confront the dragon (a suicidal
  course, as any mariner knows), and resisted the idea of
  leaving the warm waters of the Trade Sea and risking
  coming under the eyes of the Vikings. Basil insisted that
  we would maintain that course, for Aquatica favored
  warm waters above all, being one of the few creatures
  capable of surviving in the Boiling Sea.
  On the ninth day of Mesus, five months after we left
  Vareth, we came in sight of the isle of Skani, home of the
  Viking race. No sooner had our lookout made that
  known than a longship appeared on the horizon, bear-
  ing toward us with doubtlessly hostile intentions.
  It is doubtful there is a sailor in all of Aysle who has
  not had dealings with the Vikings on some dark day.
  Fierce warriors who care little for their own survival in
  combat, they regard all vessels that pass into their
  waters to be forfeit. It is for that reason that merchants
  began to navigate to Elvenport via the Elemental star, a
  longer trip but one that kept one’s goods out of Viking
  hands.
  We still flew the Bendes flag, but little good would it
  do us now, it seemed. The Viking ship moved as if it had
  wings and was upon us long before we could make
  speed to flee. Indeed, the winds seemed to have died
  completely around our vessel, and Captain Basil paced
  the deck cursing the foul sorcery of the Vikings that had
  made it so.
  Fear of the dragon was lost in the wash of hatred for
  Vikings that every Corsair feels. Cannons were loaded
  and sabres drawn from their scabbards as the longship’s
  horrible dragon figurehead came into view. I stood at
  the rail, Berut and Devin by my side, their mistress
  already in her cabin with our best pistol shot as guard.
  “They will demand a ransom, no doubt,” Berut said.
  “I am sure we could meet their price.”
  “Vikings do not accept tribute from such as we,” I
  responded. “They will capture the ship intact, if pos-
  sible, slay the men, and take Catherine as a slave. Once
  they have stripped the Daria Marie of all its cannon and
  brass, they will send her to the bottom. That is the
  Viking way.”
  “This is why I called sailing these waters madness!”
  Gerrik snapped. “We could have slipped past Scania in
  the dead of night, with no Viking being the wiser!”
  “We might also have sailed via the Mage Islands,
  had you not insisted we come this way, Gerrik!” Berut
  hissed. “Perhaps we could have avoided these past
  months of having a dragon as a companion.”
  At that, I ordered them both below. Neither looked to
  be worth very much in a fight, save when the opponent
  The Voyage of the Daria Marie
  
  Dragons Over England
  24
  was the other. We could hear the war song of the Vikings
  clearly now, almost drowning out Captain Basil’s exhor-
  tations to run the sea red with Viking blood. The winds
  had risen again, now pushing us toward the longship
  despite our best efforts to tack away.
  It was then I saw a sight more bizarre than any in my
  years at sea. The dragon surged past us on the port side
  and rose before the Viking ship, its mighty tail smashing
  into the hull and sending a hundred warriors into the
  water. A blast of steam from its mouth seared those who
  stood against it, sending them too over the side to seek
  relief in the cool deep. Spears flung by the Vikings were
  useless against the beast, who seized the figurehead in its
  jaws and dragged the ship under water as a prize.
  The instant the vessel disappeared beneath the waves,
  the winds returned to normal. Viking corpses, many in
  pieces, littered the waves, a grim reminder of a fate that
  might well still be ours.
  Captain Basil had moved beside me at the rail and
  there was a gleam in his eyes I had not seen before. “It
  seems we have a protector, Treveylan,” he said quietly.
  “The dragon hunts us, harries us, yet will not let us
  come to harm at the hands of another. What does that
  suggest to you?”
  “Perhaps the monster is mad,” I offered. “It wants
  revenge upon us for its earlier defeat and will stalk us
  until the proper moment.”
  Basil nodded and drew upon his pipe. “Perhaps that
  is correct, and perhaps there is more here than we
  know. Bring us around to a new course — toward the
  Water star.”
  I confess to some surprise. Traveling that way meant
  turning back upon ourselves and moving between
  Holm and Bar’aan. There was no land there upon
  which we could safely deposit our passengers and we
  would be even deeper into Viking waters.
  “You wonder if too many years at sea has driven me
  mad, eh, boy?” he said, a smile that made him look like
  Corbaal himself playing on his lips. “After you have
  seen to the wheel, bring Mistress Sinclair and her party
  to my cabin.”
  I did as I was bid, prepared for virtually anything to
  pass from Captain Basil’s lips save for the words that
  were to do so. Catherine was puzzled by his decision,
  but I had explained that the dragon’s leaping to our
  defense defied all legend and experience. The creature
  had returned to stalking us and seemed content to do so
  until Anglach Dornin, if need be.
  Berut was convinced the Captain had come to his
  senses and would be turning back, a move he heartily
  endorsed. Gerrik was furious and demanded to know
  the meaning of the course change.
  “First you defy all logic by leaving the Trade Sea,
  then you drag us even deeper into Viking waters. How
  much have the Dalerons paid you to betray us, man?”
  I had heard all I cared to from Devin, who seemed to
  me more of a strutting fool than a true warrior of the
  Light. I brought my dagger to his throat and whispered
  harshly, “Remember where you are and with whom
  you sail, dirt lover. Better men than you have regretted
  speaking thus to the captain of the Daria Marie.”
  Captain Basil seemed unconcerned about Gerrik’s
  words, however. He unrolled a chart for all to see and
  pointed to where we were at present. “For your benefit,
  Miss Sinclair, and the peace of mind of my Second Mate,
  I am going to explain our present route. As Mr. Treveylan
  could no doubt tell you, a Draconis Aquatica is many
  things, but it is not a hound — it need not track a vessel
  across hundreds of miles to find worthy prey, nor would
  it do so merely to gain vengeance for a few cannon shots.”
  “Then why has it been chasing us?” Catherine asked.
  “Not us, madam; you. I am convinced that, through
  sorcery, this dragon has been induced to torment us
  and force us to turn back to Vareth,” Basil said, his
  hatred of all things magical evident in the tone of his
  voice. “Were we to come within sight of Elvenport, I
  have little doubt it would attack and attempt to sink us.
  But for now, its master wishes only your defeat, not
  your death — that is why it slaughtered the Vikings
  before any here could come to harm.”
  Berut looked unconvinced. “And who is this myste-
  rious ‘master,’ if I may be so bold as to ask?”
  Basil fixed him with a glare. “When that is discov-
  ered, the sharks will feast well, elf. For now, we are
  going to dispose of our shadow in the only way I know,
  although it entails some risk to us.”
  Basil went on to explain his plan: Aquatica disliked
  the cold, so the Daria Marie would make for Ice Bay.
  With a strong wind, we would make it by the end of
  Borl when the ice floes would be moving to cut off the
  waterway.
  “If the Aquatica follows us in there, it will be slowed
  by the cold and eventually trapped when the floes lock
  together,” Basil finished.
  “As will we, Captain,” Gerrik put in. “How will the
  ship escape the bay once the ice is in place? Or are we to
  make a life among the nomads of the Frozen Land?
  Perhaps a treaty of alliance could be signed with them?”
  Catherine cut off his diatribe. “Devin, we knew there
  was a risk in undertaking this mission. If it means
  freeing ourselves from that creature, I deem the risk an
  acceptable one.”
  Perhaps only I could see the concern she concealed.
  I realized once again that such a woman, if born in
  Aysle, would surely have ruled a House by now.
  The passage to Ice Bay did not go smoothly. The
  dragon made numerous attempts to turn us from our
  course and many a man perished in defense of the Daria
  Marie. But Basil would not be dissuaded from his plan
  of action and ordered a watch put on Gerrik, Berut and
  Catherine whenever they were not in their cabins to
  prevent sorcerous sabotage.
  The air turned bitterly cold and, not for the first time,
  I wondered how those known as the Ice Nomads man-
  
  25
  aged to survive in this region. No resident of my home
  isle could be unaware of the mysterious tribes that
  stalked the Frozen Land, as House Liandar was said to
  be the only one to have made any contact with the
  Nomads. No one knew where their loyalties lay, for few
  had the courage to venture into their domain.
  Finally we saw the ice floes ahead, gleaming like
  diamond chips in a setting of blue water. Captain Basil
  took the wheel and, with consummate skill, led us into
  the mouth of the bay and brought us about. We had
  arrived later than had been hoped due to the dragon’s
  predations, so already the ice was beginning to drift
  together. Soon it would be impossible for the ship to sail
  out of the bay again for some months.
  Now began the wait to see if the Aquatica would
  follow us. To do so might well mean its doom, thus I felt
  certain it would turn away and wait for us to emerge
  again. And to the dismay of Basil, that is exactly what
  it did, more evidence of a man’s intelligence behind the
  beast’s actions. We now had seemingly no choice but to
  return to the sea and battle the beast, or else risk being
  trapped in the bay until the thaw.
  Captain Basil retreated to his cabin for some hours,
  then emerged and called for volunteers for a hunting
  party. I offered to accompany him, but was refused.
  “Someone must look after our passengers,” he said,
  by way of explanation. Also refused were Devin Gerrik
  and Berut, for reasons Basil would not deign to state.
  The party was gone for much of one day and they
  returned with the meat of winter wolves as well as hare
  and a species of bird with which I was not familiar, but
  which tasted quite good. Captain Basil also announced
  that he had made contact with the Ice Nomads and they
  had agreed to shelter us until the thaw or, if we wished,
  to guide us overland across the wastes to the vicinity of
  Elveim. This news was met with much rejoicing among
  the crew, but the diplomatic party seemed less than
  enthused. Catherine feared for her ability to survive so
  long a trek and felt certain her government would feel
  some ill had befallen her after so many months. Berut
  said much the same, and Gerrik simply muttered that
  savages like the Ice Nomads were not to be trusted.
  For myself, I was fascinated by the prospect, if aware
  of the hardships an overland journey would entail.
  That night I visited the Captain and asked him how he
  had found the Ice Nomads to be and when we might
  expect to depart.
  “We’ll be leaving as soon as that dragon’s dead,
  Treveylan, and not before,” he answered, putting away
  the paper upon which he had been scratching with his
  quill. “I never saw an Ice Nomad the whole time we
  were hunting, nor was I looking for them.”
  “But you said —” I sputtered, now quite certain the
  old man had lost his mind.
  “For the benefit of our guests, my boy,” he answered.
  “If you wish to be a Corsair captain one day, you must
  learn the advantages of dishonesty in its proper place.
  “If I am correct and one of the members of Miss
  Sinclair’s party does not want her to reach Elvenport,
  he must act now before we can abandon ship and meet
  with the Nomads. That means the dragon must enter
  the bay and our original plan can proceed. The alterna-
  tive is months spent in this barren hell, one to which I
  would not consign my worst foe.”
  After relating that to me, Basil swore me to secrecy.
  Only the other members of the hunting party were
  aware that no Nomads had been encountered and they
  had taken blood oaths not to breathe a word of it.
  I left the cabin with a new respect for Basil and a new
  feeling of certainty that we would survive to make our
  way to Elvenport. The former would last for many
  years — the latter would be dashed in an instant, as I
  stared out to sea and saw the ice beginning to choke off
  the mouth of the bay.
  *    *    *
  Well into the hours of darkness that eve, the lookout
  reported that he had lost sight of the dragon. Immedi-
  ately, men moved to the rails all over around the ship,
  lanterns in hand, looking for the slightest disturbance
  in the water that would indicate the monster’s pres-
  ence. We waited an hour, then two, with no sign.
  Then the ship rocked, as if struck from the bottom. It
  was not unusual for such a thing to happen in these
  waters, where chunks of ice slammed into the hull all
  too frequently. But this felt most unlike that, more as if
  something were trying to raise us out of the water.
  Captain Basil ordered spiked nets to be lowered into
  the water and swept to and fro, in hopes of snagging the
  dragon.
  “We’ve got something, Cap’n!” one of the men sang
  out, struggling to hold the net in place. A second later,
  the huge battering ram of a tail the Aquatica possessed
  broke the water and then slammed down again with
  tremendous force, sending a wall of spray crashing on
  to the deck.
  “Release the nets!” Basil shouted, an order heeded
  by all but one, who had become entangled in the mesh
  and was fighting to keep from being dragged over-
  board by the angry beast. Without waiting for the
  command, I sprang down the ladder, cutlass in hand,
  and sliced through the netting that held my shipmate.
  He collapsed in my arms, bloodied by the spikes, as the
  net flew into the bay.
  The dragon’s head next appeared, to be met by a
  volley from the starboard cannons. It responded by
  blasting blistering hot steam at the guns, turning them
  red hot and eliciting screams of pain from the men who
  manned them.
  But it did not take a man of science to see that the
  Captain’s plan was working. The beast was not slough-
  ing off the shot as it had been before and its movements
  The Voyage of the Daria Marie
  
  Dragons Over England
  26
  were stiff and labored as the cold began to take effect.
  A sweep of its tail cracked one of the masts and sent it
  crashing down, trapping unfortunate men beneath it.
  At the rail, Lon readied harpoons. The giant had
  been practicing for much of the voyage, swearing he
  would ram the wicked spear down the monster’s throat
  if he had the chance. He let fly with his and it buried
  itself in the soft flesh immediately beneath the creature’s
  right eye, green blood spurting sickeningly from the
  wound.
  I threw mine and saw to my delight that the dragon’s
  efforts to dodge the missile were impeded by chunks of
  ice which had trapped the beast between them. My
  harpoon found the creature’s eye as well, effectively
  blinding it on its right side.
  “Fire!” Basil shouted, and the starboard guns that
  still functioned unleashed a deadly barrage at the crea-
  ture. The dragon used its steam breath once more, but
  this time it was directed at the ice that had it pinned. The
  monster succeeded in melting much of the floe but fast
  upon it was more ice.
  Lon and I launched harpoons anew, mine glancing
  off the scales of its neck and Lon’s finding the inside of
  its jaw. The monster was now thrashing about wildly,
  blood and spray flying everywhere and the ice relent-
  lessly crushing its body even as it threatened to do the
  same to our ship.
  Again, the cannon roared and this time the monster
  seemed to have no will to resist the hot steel. With a
  screech, it twisted at the impact and then fell, the upper
  half of its body slowly sliding off the ice and into the
  water. All that remained behind was the bloody mark
  of its passing on the floe.
  A yell went up from the Corsair crew as the dragon
  died, yet not all voices were raised in joy. I know not
  how, but my ears detected a scream that could only
  have come from Catherine. Snatching up a harpoon, I
  flew to the port side, all but abandoned as the crew had
  moved to see the beast expire.
  A moment later would have made all the difference.
  Catherine — my Catherine, as I now thought of her —
  was locked in a struggle with a man and was slowly being
  forced over the rail. Though she fought bravely, strong
  hands were squeezing the life from her throat. There was
  no time to reach her — I hurled the spear with all I had in
  me and watched it tear through the side of her attacker,
  the force flinging him the length of the deck.
  I was upon him in a second, wrenching the wheel
  lock he had drawn from his hand. In the light of the
  ship’s lantern, I could see the bloody face of Devin
  Gerrik, his features twisted with hatred.
  His scream of pain had brought Captain Basil and
  some of the others. Catherine choked out that he had
  assaulted Berut and left him for dead, then attempted to
  murder her when he saw the dragon had failed.
  “Why, man?” Basil asked the dying betrayer. “You’re
  a Gerrik — does the name mean nothing to you?”
  “Why should it have any meaning?” he spat. “We
  have no riches, our lands are foul. We are forced to turn
  to the Bendes for aid. The Tancreds promised me I would
  rule House Gerrik if the Dark were victorious. They did
  not ask so much … the defeat or death of a Core Earth
  witch and a shipload of murdering pirates. When the
  deed was done, a simple spell would have summoned a
  vessel to my aid and transported me home.”
  “Damnable sorcery!” Basil raged as life slipped from
  Devin Gerrik. He bent to his body and retrieved an
  amulet with the figure of a dragon upon it, then cast the
  charm into the sea. “See how it twists a man and
  blackens his heart!”
  But I was no longer listening. I had taken Catherine
  in my arms and would hold her until the months of
  tension and grief had all spilled from her eyes.
  Dawn found the situation even worse than I had
  feared. The bay was well and truly packed with ice and
  it seemed there would be no escaping for the Daria
  Marie. The days spent waiting for the dragon’s attack
  had cost us dearly and it now seemed as if we would fail
  at our task to deliver Catherine and the recovering
  Berut to Elvenport.
  “I put it to you men, as has always been the way of
  the Corsairs,” Basil said to the crew that day. “We can
  attempt to force our way out and risk scuttling the ship;
  or we can cross the floes and take our chances in the
  Frozen Land until the ice breaks. Which shall it be?”
  No one seemed enthused about either prospect and
  I was on the verge of volunteering a third course of
  action when Lon stepped forward. “There is another
  way,” the giant said, glancing in my direction.
  “Aye?” Basil answered.
  “Treveylan was born in the month of Endrak. He has
  the fire knowledge, Captain.”
  I silently blessed the loyalty of the old giant. He must
  have known I would offer to use sorcery to free the ship,
  and face certain hanging if Basil chose to enforce his
  strictest rule. Thus Lon had made the suggestion, offer-
  ing to sacrifice himself on my behalf.
  “Is this true, Mr. Treveylan?” Basil said, hell and
  damnation in his voice.
  My mouth went dry. “Aye … aye, Captain. I was
  born with the fire knowledge and I have … some
  knowledge of its use.”
  “You know how I feel about sorcery on this ship,” he
  said darkly.
  “You may cast me to the kraken when we are free of
  this bay, Captain, but I will do what I must to save this
  ship and its crew.”
  “You threaten mutiny?” he demanded, slamming
  his hand upon the rail.
  “No, Captain,” I responded, feeling much like the
  young farmer who had confronted a sea captain in a
  tavern so long ago. “I plead for a hundred lives.”
  That afternoon I stood at the prow, Catherine and
  Lon by my side. Captain Basil himself manned the
  
  27
  wheel and at a nod from him, I stretched my hands
  toward the expanse of ice between our vessel and the
  sea. Mustering all my will, I shot streams of flame from
  my fingers on to the ice, rapidly melting it.
  The wind was strong at our backs and the ship
  moved swiftly through the channel I carved, inch by
  painstaking inch. The ice reformed behind us an instant
  after we passed and it took more strength than I thought
  I had to keep going. At last, with a crack like a rifle shot,
  the last floe split apart and allowed us to leave the bay
  and steer into the Frozen Sea.
  My last memory of that day was Catherine’s smile as
  the cheers rose from the crew. Her face dimmed before
  my eyes and I fell to the deck, exhausted.
  It would be two days before I awoke again, to find us
  well on our way to Elvenport.
  *    *    *
  There is little left to tell of my story. The Daria Marie
  docked in Elvenport in the early days of Asten, much to
  the dismay of several Freetrader vessels already there.
  Berut immediately departed to notify his superiors of
  our safe arrival, while Catherine stood at the gangplank
  to bid me farewell.
  “My work here is important, or else I would not
  leave you,” she said. “Will we see each other again,
  Robin?”
  I kissed her gently and ran my hand through her hair
  of flame. “Perhaps you might ask that the Daria Marie
  be hired to bring you back to the shores of Aysle,
  Catherine.”
  She smiled. “But next time, we go the short way.”
  She reached out and held me close to her. “I never
  thought I would fall in love with a pirate. It’s so …
  Hollywood. And when my task is done here, I’l’l have
  to go back to London and somehow I know my old life
  will seem unreal after this. Do you … do you think you
  will ever come to my world?”
  I looked at her and wondered if I could exchange the
  sparkle of the sea for that which I found within her eyes.
  “I fear it will be a long war, my love. And if the seas of
  Earth have need of one more Corsair, then I would be
  a fool to deny them.”
  We parted then with a pledge to meet again. The ship
  returned to Haven for repairs and much celebration of
  our victory over the dragon and the Dark. In the months
  that followed, Captain Basil and Arden would retire
  from the sea to live off their fortunes, leaving me master
  of the Daria Marie.
  And on nights when the stars dance in the skies, I
  find myself wondering when the message will come
  that Catherine waits in Elvenport. And more, I wonder
  about the world that waits on the other side of that
  strange bridge of water.
  The Voyage of the Daria Marie
  
  A rumble of thunder faded in the distance. In its
  wake lay a hush, punctuated by the fall of droplets from
  rain-washed leaves. The last beams of a summer sun
  slanted across the glade, filling the air with golden
  light. They lay in amber streaks across tree boles, and
  sparkled like candle flames on the wet grass. In their
  glow, the profusion of wild blossoms dotting the clear-
  ing seemed nearly to burn against the green of its lawn.
  In the center of the glade, hovering lightly on drag-
  onfly wings, a fairy maiden danced. She was hardly
  more than a handspan tall, clad in wisps of spider silk,
  through which her pale skin shone like luminous pearl.
  Her hair was dark as night clouds. Her arms gestured
  skillfully as she spun through a complicated series of
  pas de chat from classical ballet, but her legs hung limp
  and her face was lined with pain.
  Abruptly, she halted her dance. Sighing, she gazed
  about the clearing, uncheered by its wealth of color and
  life. Eyes downcast, she fluttered to a mossy boulder set
  in the middle of a toadstool ring, and settled clumsily
  upon it, using her arms to arrange her crippled legs
  before her. Then, hands clasped in her lap and head
  bowed, she wept, quietly, while the sun set behind her
  in a blaze of copper clouds.
  *    *    *
  “The problem with most people,” Duncan said, “is
  that they are like a watercourse, always taking the path
  of least resistance.” A youngish man, no more than
  thirty, he rode his black mare with the easy grace of an
  expert horseman — reins held loosely, back straight,
  head high, rolling with the motion of the horse’s gait.
  His gray cloak and hose were clean and well mended;
  the setting sun shone on his helm, chain mail shirt, and
  spurs, betraying their meticulous care. A dark, smoothly
  trimmed beard adorned his solid jaw, and brown eyes
  gazed coolly upon the surrounding woods from above
  a Roman nose. A bastard sword hung across his back,
  atop the cloak, its hilt within easy reach above his right
  shoulder. The handle of a long dagger hid among the
  folds of cloak at his left hip.
  “But God,” he continued, “wants us to stand firm,
  like lighthouses built on solid rock. That’s all a hero is,
  Philip, just a person who stands firm in the face of
  trouble.”
  A few paces behind, a gangly youth rode astride a
  spotted mule. He too wore gray, but with no arms or
  armor except a dented buckler and ancient short sword
  hanging together from the pommel of his saddle. His
  cloak, tunic, and hose were at the same time both too big
  and too small. They hung loosely upon his bony frame,
  but his sleeve ends rode several centimeters above his
  wrists, and the cloak, while billowy, ended just below
  his knees. While he sat bolt upright in a flawed imita-
  tion of Duncan’s nonchalance, his blue eyes darted
  frequently to the growing shadows beneath the trees,
  Child of
  Thunders
  Lester Smith
  
  29
  and strands of black hair clung to the sheen of nervous
  perspiration on his pale forehead.
  “Yes, my lord,” Philip stammered. “But — well, it’s
  all very well to stand firm, but how does a person know
  for sure when he’s standing for something right? Ev-
  eryone always seems to think what they’re doing is the
  right thing. How can you tell when you’re right and not
  just being pigheaded or stupid?”
  Duncan reined his horse around and glowered at his
  young squire. “You study. You listen to your elders,
  and you search your own soul. Eventually, you come to
  know for sure what’s right and what’s wrong. Trust me,
  people don’t have as much trouble telling the one from
  the other as they’d like you to believe. Their real trouble
  is in not being brave enough to stand up for what they
  know is right, but spending all their effort instead on
  trying to justify the easy way out. But the easy way
  always leads to damnation.”
  The mule halted. Philip dropped his eyes and flushed
  beneath Duncan’s fierce gaze. “Yes, sir,” he said.
  Duncan nodded, gave a grunt of approval, then
  turned his face toward the sunset. “Night’s falling, but
  the moon’s already high,” he said, looking upward at
  the pale wedge hanging in the sky above the trail. “We
  have several more hours with enough light for our
  search. We’ll keep going until we absolutely have to
  stop.”
  He fumbled in a pack for a moment, then drew out
  a bullhorn. He stared at it for a bit, turning it over in his
  hands as if reminding himself of how it functioned: a
  chemical reaction in the batteries would push an elec-
  trical current through a coil that caused the horn to
  resonate with an amplified version of whatever sound
  was fed into the microphone at the narrow end. He
  flipped the on/off switch and there was a satisfying,
  amplified click, followed by a slight ringing of feed-
  back. Lifting the bullhorn to his mouth, he shouted,
  “Camigwen!”
  The name boomed beneath the trees like a thunder-
  clap. Philip flinched.
  *    *    *
  Eventually, she slept and dreamed. In the dream, she
  was eleven years old, living in Dublin. She was a pretty
  girl, though small for her age, with a dancer’s posture
  and a poet’s eyes. Her mother took her to see The
  Nutcracker Suite, and, noting her breathless fascination
  with the dancers, promised afterward to talk to Father
  about enrolling her in ballet classes.
  Her father, a big, gruff fellow with a florid complex-
  ion and the manner of a ruffled crow, a man who eked
  out a meager living as “Reverend” O’Neil, pastor of a
  tiny Methodist church in the city, exploded.
  “That’s all the girl thinks about!” he shouted, tossing
  his arms in the air as he stalked back and forth across the
  scarred floorboards of their tiny kitchen. “Frivolity. It
  isn’t enough that she spends her every waking moment
  with her nose buried in fairy tales. Now she wants to
  waste even more time, and our hard-earned money, on
  another frivolous pastime. When is she going to grow
  up and realize that you have to work hard to accom-
  plish any good in this wicked world?”
  Her mother hadn’t answered, but simply sat grim-
  lipped, staring fixedly at her hands clasped on the
  kitchen table before her, quietly weathering the storm.
  “And what good has dancing ever done anybody?”
  In her dream, he leaned forward and shouted directly
  into her face. “I’ll tell you what it’s done; it’s led weak
  people to worship false gods, and to rut like animals
  before them!
  “Life isn’t about all play and fun, missy,” he said.
  “It’s a testing ground. Those who take it seriously and
  devote themselves to good works will end up with God
  in Heaven. But sluggards and dreamers will find them-
  selves dancing right down the wide road to Hell!”
  Eventually his tirade had finished, and her mother had
  gone the next day to work out a bargain with a dance
  studio, whereby they would give dance lessons in ex-
  change for her mother’s work as a janitor. Though the girl
  threw herself into the classes, she always felt secretly
  ashamed that her mother had to make such a deal.
  *    *    *
  Philip clutched the ample folds of his too-short cloak
  about himself and shivered. Roughly an hour had
  passed since sunset, and the damp night air was turn-
  ing cooler. But it was the sight of the corpse that truly
  chilled him. He stood holding the reins of both mare
  and mule while Duncan crouched to examine the body.
  Both animals were skittish. They tossed their heads and
  pawed the earth, ears flicking at the slightest whisper of
  wind.
  “A messy death,” Duncan said. The words came out
  in something of a hush. He stood, cleared his throat
  noisily, and continued in a more normal voice. “He was
  a traveling tinker, from the looks of things.” Duncan
  gestured toward a ragged pack lying a few yards away
  from the body, with several dented copper pots and a
  few tools spilled out. “I’d guess he died sometime this
  afternoon. Must have met up with a bear, the way he’s
  been mauled. His rib cage has been crushed like he was
  hugged to death.”
  Philip’s eyes flashed white as the mule’s. “Why’s his
  skin so pale?” he asked.
  Duncan glanced at the boy, then back down. He let
  out a deep breath. “Blood loss,” he suggested finally,
  “and shock.”
  Philip shook his head mechanically, his eyes fixed
  upon the corpse. “It’s all shriveled and puckered, too.
  Like all the juices have been sucked out.” He shivered
  again.
  “And look at the tracks.” He let go his cloak to point
  at the earth around the body. It was torn and broken, as
  if a great spiked wheel had rolled across it.
  Child of Thunders
  
  Dragons Over England
  30
  Duncan bent and pulled a thorn out of the victim’s
  clothing, compared it with another he plucked from the
  broken earth. “Not a bear, then,” he said. “No matter.
  We’ll deal with it if we have to.” He took the mare’s
  reins and remounted. The animal sidestepped ner-
  vously, but quieted a bit when he patted its neck. “Right
  now, we have a mission to finish. We’ll stop and bury
  the body on the way back.”
  Philip tore his eyes away from the dead man, looked
  up at Duncan, then at his mule. Stiffly, he walked to its
  side and hoisted himself into the saddle.
  Duncan gave him a reassuring smile, then turned the
  mare and headed onward down the trail. The mule
  lurched forward, trotting to catch up.
  *    *    *
  In her dream, years passed. She lay in a hospital bed,
  awash in a haze of pain. Her father was speaking again
  … something about mercy. Slowly, the words solidi-
  fied.
  “All discipline seems harsh at the moment,” he said.
  “But in the end, we see it as God’s mercy.” His voice
  trembled somewhat, and he cleared his throat loudly.
  She struggled to remember what had happened. She
  heard the sound of pages turning, then her father’s
  voice again, this time more formal, more mechanical.
  “‘Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be
  joyous, but grievous,’” he read, “‘… nevertheless after-
  ward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness
  unto them which are exercised thereby.’”
  She had been somewhere. She remembered staring
  out the window of a train. Going where? The rest of the
  dance troupe had been with her. They were going to
  perform somewhere … in Belfast! She remembered the
  station, the crowds of people, the anticipation of seeing
  the city.
  She remembered the bomb blast. The people scream-
  ing. “That’s how you have to think of this,” her father
  said. “I know it’s difficult right now, but you’ll come to
  see God’s wisdom in it. It’s just a way of getting your
  attention, of removing the temptation to waste your
  life.”
  She tried to lift her head. A blaze of agony flashed up
  her neck and detonated inside her skull, then ran back
  down into her shoulders. Her spine felt on fire. Her
  arms pulsed with pain. She couldn’t feel her legs.
  Her heart seemed to stop when she realized the fact.
  “But it’s not the end of the world,” her father was
  saying. “You’ll see that. There are a lot of good works
  for you to do even from a wheelchair.”
  She screamed …
  *    *    *
  Philip looked again at the sky. The moon had crawled
  its way down the heavens. It hung on its side like the
  hull of a gleaming silver ship sailing the rustling tree-
  tops of the wood. The course they followed had grown
  wilder. The trees crowded closer to it on either side. It
  was dark beneath them, and patches of shadow spilled
  out across their path, masking stones and roots that
  made their mounts stumble.
  “Are you sure we’re headed the right way?” he
  called toward Duncan’s back. “If we are, your sister
  sure picked an awfully out-of-the-way spot to live.
  There haven’t been any lights of houses or smoke of
  fireplaces, no signs I could see that anybody at all lives
  anywhere around here.” He raised his voice again,
  called “What should I be watching for?”
  “She has to come to us,” Duncan answered. “There
  won’t be any house or fire to see.” He halted the mare,
  took the bullhorn from his pack again, and examined it
  before turning it on and shouting into it, “Camigwen!”
  The night’s raucous chorus of crickets and tree frogs
  immediately fell silent as if the bullhorn had stricken
  them dead. Only the whispering of leaves in the evening
  breeze remained. Duncan sat with his head turned to
  one side, straining to hear any reply to his call. Philip
  licked dry lips and peered intently at the trees all
  around, watching for signs of anything approaching.
  His hands clenched the mule’s reins.
  One by one, the frogs and crickets regained their
  voices. Philip let out the breath he had been holding.
  Duncan glanced at him, cleared his throat, and clucked
  to the mare, turning her head once more down the path.
  “We’d best make what distance we can before the
  moon sets completely,” he said over his shoulder as the
  mare resumed her gait and Philip kicked his mule into
  motion.
  They rode on in silence for several minutes, during
  which time Duncan glanced back repeatedly at his
  squire. Philip followed gamely, but the boy’s tension
  and fear were evident in the manner in which he sat
  atop the mule, the way he clutched the reins, the jerking
  of his head when a startled rabbit skittered through the
  underbrush. It was obvious that the battered corpse
  they had found earlier in the evening had spooked
  Philip considerably.
  Duncan drummed his fingers on his saddle, rubbed a
  hand along his bearded jaw. “I suppose I ought to explain
  about Camigwen …” He spoke loudly, to carry back over
  his shoulder above the clopping of hooves and the rasp-
  ing of crickets. “… why she’s out here, why there’ll be no
  house or fire to spot. It’s something of a story.”
  Hearing no reply, he continued. “Camigwen is my
  junior by nearly ten years. I was out of the house, off to
  seminary, before she had grown very old, so there
  wasn’t much chance of us being close. She was some-
  thing of a dreamer, never seemed to have her feet quite
  on the ground. It rankled our father something fierce.
  He was a preacher, a stern man, full of fire and brim-
  stone, but his heart was in the right place — though
  Camigwen could never see that. As she came into her
  teen years, they clashed quite a lot, neither one really
  hearing the other, just generating a lot of heat.
  
  31
  “She was always our mother’s darling, though.
  Mother said Cami had a spark of something few people
  possess, that she saw deeper than most. The way Mother
  put it, ‘Many people don’t even look for Heaven. Of
  those who do, most settle for just a hope of it. But
  Camigwen actually catches glimpses of Heaven now
  and again, whether or not she recognizes it as such.’
  “So from the time Cami was seven or so, Mother did
  what she could to provide the means for her to explore
  whatever current interest she had, whether it was mu-
  sic lessons, or art supplies, or dance classes. And as
  Cami got older, and Father grew more impatient with
  her flightiness, Mother did what she could to defuse
  their fights.
  “It was dance that most captured Cami’s heart,
  though. By the time she was seventeen, she had become
  quite accomplished — good enough, in fact, to join
  Dublin’s most prestigious dance troupe. Mother died
  shortly thereafter — a heart attack — and Father and
  Camigwen seemed to take their pain out on each other.
  Father disapproved of Cami’s dancing, said it was
  irreligious, and they fought about it frequently and
  bitterly. Finally, Cami moved out of the house and in
  with another member of her dance troupe — a male
  member. I think she did it just to revenge herself on
  Father.
  “Then the dance troupe went to Belfast to perform,
  and an IRA bomb exploded in the train station when
  they arrived. One of the other dancers died; my sister
  suffered burns over thirty percent of her body and a
  spinal injury that left her legs paralyzed.
  “She took it hard. Father went to see her a couple of
  times at the hospital in Belfast, but she threw such a fit
  that they had to insist he stay away. I had been to
  Indonesia, working with a missionary group, and came
  back to see her, but she made them turn me away too.
  When her burns had healed, they moved her to a
  private facility to treat her for clinical depression. I
  stayed on with Father in Dublin, hoping we could all
  patch things up eventually.
  “Then the invasion came, and as you know, the
  world changed …”
  *    *    *
  The battered gray cab had dropped them off across
  from the Bond Street Private Hospital. While Duncan
  paused to pay the cabby, his father found a seat on a
  public bench and sat frowning across at the facility, his
  big, age-freckled hands resting heavily on the head of a
  scarred oak cane. When Duncan finished, he helped the
  old man to his feet and escorted him across the street,
  through the wrought-iron fence, and up the path to the
  hospital’s lobby entrance.
  “I’m going to see her this time,” his father said, half
  to himself. “I don’t care what the doctor says. It’s about
  time she faced up to reality. No more of this molly-
  coddling.”
  Duncan just nodded. Once inside, he seated his
  father and went to the desk to announce himself. The
  receptionist rang up a nurse, who went to tell Camigwen
  O’Neil she had visitors.
  All too soon, the nurse returned. “I’m sorry,” she
  said, “but Camigwen still refuses to see you. We had
  hoped that maybe this time…. But we can’t force her.
  You understand, I’m sure.”
  The elder O’Neil’s face began to turn livid. “Father
  …” Duncan began.
  “No!” cried the older man. “I’ll not be turned away
  again like some beggar on the doorstep! Tell me which
  room she’s in, missy, or I’ll search every one of them till
  I find her.” The nurse shrank back as he brandished his
  cane at her.
  Duncan laid a hand on his shoulder, but the old man
  shook it off. “I mean what I say! Someone had best take
  me to her right now!”
  “Please, Mr. O’Neil, calm yourself” the nurse said.
  Duncan saw the receptionist watching the altercation —
  and then she picked up her phone. He tried to usher his
  father to a seat, but the old man would have none of it.
  “‘Honor thy father and mother,’ the Book says!” The
  elder O’Neil was shouting to the lobby in general now;
  he trembled with rage.
  Duncan saw a pair of orderlies enter from a hallway.
  Their eyes were on his father. Vainly, he tried again to
  calm the old man but was shaken off. The orderlies
  were getting closer.
  And then a ripple seemed to pass through the air.
  Duncan felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. All
  movement froze for just an instant, then resumed, but
  with differences. One of the orderlies stumbled, caught
  himself, began shrinking in stature even as his limbs
  and torso thickened, splitting the seams of his uniform.
  The other orderly shouted in horror at the sight, then
  fled. Duncan heard people screaming at a distance, but
  his eyes were on his father.
  When the wave passed over him, the Reverend
  O’Neil stiffened with a jerk. His eyes rolled back in their
  sockets, all the color drained from his face, and then he
  simply folded up like a marionette whose strings had
  been cut. His cane clattered noisily to the floor. Duncan
  caught the old man as he fell, knelt holding him to his
  chest. Stunned, he felt for a pulse — there was none. In
  stupefied shock, he scanned the lobby for someone to
  help — it was empty. He couldn’t seem to catch his
  breath; he didn’t know what to do. A sense of isolation
  crushed him down like a huge weight. Then he remem-
  bered: Camigwen was somewhere nearby. I have to
  find her, help her, he thought. Laying his father on the
  floor, he went to the abandoned receptionist’s desk and
  flipped through the registry till he found the entry
  “O’Neil, Camigwen, 103.”
  Something heavy struck the front of the building,
  and bits of plaster fell from the ceiling. There was a
  squeal of pain from just outside the main door, fol-
  Child of Thunders
  
  Dragons Over England
  32
  lowed by a rumble of wicked laughter. Duncan ran
  back toward the stairs, fought his way up them through
  a scattering of panicked people coming down. By the
  time he had climbed the flight to the first story, the
  whole building was shaking with repeated blows from
  various sides. He caught a glimpse of a huge head and
  shoulders through a window at the end of the hall and
  wondered, dizzily, if he were going insane. But he
  pressed on toward room 103. The only thought in his
  mind, through all the madness, was the absurd notion
  that he must reach Cami before she left her room.
  Of course she hadn’t. When he entered, she was
  sitting in a wheelchair, staring out her window. But the
  light seemed to play tricks with his eyes. There was a
  prismatic glow radiating all around her, and she was
  constantly changing sizes. Before he could say any-
  thing, before he could move, she settled on one. He
  blinked, and she became a tiny thing hovering in the
  window, with the light glinting on a pair of dragonfly
  wings sprouting from her back. Then she flew out and
  away, while Duncan hung in the doorway, stunned.
  Suddenly, an eye the size of a dinner plate peered in
  the window at him. He grabbed up a straight chair,
  threw it, and fled. Back down the stairs he ran, then out
  a back door. A trio of “men” two stories tall were
  demolishing the hospital with clubs the size of oak
  trees, grabbing up people as they fled the building and
  tearing them limb from limb, or stamping them to jelly
  on the lawn. Duncan prayed fervently not to be seen,
  desperately thought of himself as invisible. Somehow,
  he made it past the giants without being spotted.
  Over the course of the next several hours, he fled
  through a city of nightmare. Fantastic armies of giants,
  dwarves, and even Vikings marched through the streets,
  demolishing whole city blocks, herding the native popu-
  lace before them, or simply slaughtering the people
  where they stood. At the outskirts, Duncan joined up
  with a handful of survivors, most on foot, a few with
  bicycles — engine-powered vehicles had all ceased
  functioning. Together, the refugees fled into the sur-
  rounding countryside, hoping to find aid and maybe
  even some sort of answers to the impossibilities they
  had witnessed.
  *    *    *
  “… I headed back to Dublin, my home city.” The
  moonlight glinted on his helm as Duncan turned to
  glance back at Philip. His saddle creaked with the
  movement. “A few days later, one of Lady Ardinay’s
  aides came through. After talking with me, he told me
  I was a Storm Knight. Then he spent a few hours
  teaching me something of what that means, outfitted
  me with this sword and armor, and assigned you to be
  my squire. I’ve tried to be faithful to that calling.
  “But I didn’t give up on looking for my sister. I’ve
  been tracking down stories of fairies being spotted in
  Dublin, and yesterday I even managed to talk to one of
  the Celosia, the plant fairies. He said that there had been
  a strange fairy in town a few weeks ago, a sad one with
  dead legs. She stayed with the Celosia for a fortnight or
  so, then left town headed west down the trail we’re
  following now.
  “I didn’t get the impression that she was going
  anywhere in particular, so she’s not likely to be travel-
  ing fast. As long as we keep pushing, we ought to catch
  up to her. But I don’t really know what signs to look for.
  I just have to hope that she’ll answer the bullhorn when
  she hears it.”
  Duncan halted the mare and turned in his saddle to
  see what effect his story had had on his squire. Philip
  was staring at him; the moonlit half of his face looked
  thoughtful. Then suddenly his visible eye focused on
  something beyond Duncan and he stiffened.
  Duncan spun, reaching across his shoulder for his
  sword.
  *    *    *
  … Camigwen jolted awake. Hazy nightmare after-
  images clouded her mind, making it difficult to focus.
  Her heart was hammering, and she was chilled. Her
  right arm had fallen asleep where it was curled beneath
  her head. Her wings felt stiff.
  Clumsily, she pushed her torso upright by reaching
  across with her left hand, then began kneading and
  flexing her right arm to restore circulation. Her wings
  snapped open and closed a trio of times in quick succes-
  sion. As the dream images faded, her pulse slowed to
  normal. She rubbed sleep from her eyes.
  Night had fallen. A low crescent moon silvered the
  glade, its light reflected from thousands of separate
  water droplets on flower petals and grass blades. They
  sparkled like stars among the sharp-edged shadows.
  It was a lovely sight, but a lonely one. Camigwen
  sighed. Her heart hurt, and there was no one to talk to
  about it. She was cut off from friends and family by a
  gulf far greater than mere distance. Her mother might
  have listened to the little fairy-woman, might even
  have understood a little, but she was gone. That left her
  father and brother, one too fossilized in his private
  version of Truth to hear her when she was still human,
  the other too … what? Too busy with his own life? She
  couldn’t really say.
  Duncan was so much older than she that they’d
  never been more than strangers spawned in the same
  house. But one thing was certain: Duncan had never
  seen things the same way she had. He had been dutiful
  where she had been independent. Duncan’s had been
  the way of peace, but it seemed so dull to her. Better to
  burn out quickly, painfully bright, she thought, than to
  plod along dumbly like a shackled sheep.
  She smiled wryly at the thought, jeered herself for
  growing melodramatic and alliterative. It always hap-
  pened when she thought about her family. The prob-
  lems involved there changed with a glacial slowness, if
  
  33
  at all, and thinking about the situation was just so much
  useless spinning of wheels on ice. If only she had
  someone to talk to, someone to serve as a sounding
  board for her unspoken thoughts. But that was exactly
  the problem. She couldn’t imagine anyone who could
  hope to empathize with her situation.
  The crippling had been difficult enough, but she’d
  always known deep down below the anger and hurt
  (and the simple, but profound, disappointment of a lost
  career), that there had been other people who had
  suffered similarly. Even though she couldn’t talk to
  family at the time (for fear of their self-righteous pity),
  and couldn’t bring herself to talk to friends (for sheer
  jealousy that they could dance while she no longer
  could), the simple fact that there were other cripples
  living reasonably normal lives at least lent her hope of
  eventually overcoming her helpless rage.
  But this! How did one come to terms with such a
  thing? In the space of a few scant heartbeats she had
  been transformed from a flesh-and-blood human
  woman into a being of sheerest fantasy. What human
  was there in history that she could point to and say,
  “That person understood what I am going through, and
  survived it; therefore there is hope for me”? There was
  no one.
  Worse yet, there were none among the fairie. She had
  gone looking. When the change had occurred, and once
  she recovered from the shock of shedding her wheel-
  chair like a chrysalis and being reborn as a creature of
  flight, she had joyfully searched for others of her kind.
  Finding them had been easy enough — for one who
  knew the signs from a childhood full of fairy tales.
  Joining them had been something altogether different.
  Over the course of her search, she had met fairies of
  earth, of sky, of water, fire, and metal. She had even
  talked with a brownie who had strayed from the invad-
  ing cosm itself. While none had done her lasting harm,
  none had welcomed her either. All struck her as some-
  how less than real, as if they were nothing more than
  personifications of whatever element they were at-
  tuned to.
  The closest she had come to fitting in was when her
  journey led her back to Dublin (drawn, undoubtedly,
  by a subconscious desire to return “home”). She had
  met a band of Celosia there, and captivated by the
  beauty of their work with flowers, she had joined them
  for a while. She had even learned something of their
  magic, as attested to by the richness of the glade she
  currently occupied, by the ring of toadstools that warded
  her from nocturnal hunting creatures.
  But tending garden did not long fulfill her need for
  purpose, nor did the company of the Celosia satisfy her
  desire for companionship. When, out of a desire to
  share another type of beauty, she tried to teach them
  something of classical dance, they had watched her
  movements in total incomprehension. They might as
  well have been nothing more than bees. And if she
  could not share the beauty of dance with them, how
  could she hope to share the pain of her past?
  She sighed, and looked again around the glade.
  Tomorrow would be another day just like today. The
  sun would rise, the plants would drink it in, the sun
  would set — and she would dance and then stop, and
  be sitting here once again, thinking the same thoughts.
  She wondered, idly, how long a fairy lived.
  The still air was suddenly shattered by a shout.
  “Camigwen!” Her thoughts scattered like a handful of
  dropped pebbles. For long moments the fact that it was
  her name that had been called did not even register.
  Then it struck her whose voice it was … and how
  dangerous it was for him to be stomping about this far
  from civilization in the middle of the night, advertising
  his presence to everything with ears and some few
  horrible things without.
  Spitting a curse, she leapt into the air and flew
  toward the sound of her brother’s voice.
  *    *    *
  Duncan pulled his sword clear of its scabbard and
  brought it up to a ready position as he twisted in the
  saddle. The mare turned in response to a nearly uncon-
  scious pressure from his knee. He cast about for any
  sign of threat, wondering what it was that had caused
  Philip to react, and remembering all too easily the
  mangled body they had discovered earlier.
  Then he spotted it — something tiny and luminous
  coming through the trees ahead and to the right of the
  path. From the way it bobbed about, it could easily have
  been a lantern. A very dim one, perhaps. Before long, it
  reached the path, and then it came more rapidly toward
  him. If it was a lantern, he couldn’t make out the shape
  or size of whomever was carrying it. Then he recog-
  nized the source of the light and lowered his blade.
  Camigwen halted a meter beyond his mount’s head,
  hovering on a level with his own eyes. Though he could
  not make out the finer details of her face, he clearly
  recognized the angry hiss of her voice, even above the
  furious buzzing of her wings. Her fists were clenched
  tightly on her hips as she spoke.
  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Duncan,
  heart pounding at the look of her, considered how best
  to answer the question. Before he could settle on a
  reply, she continued.
  “Is it that you’re trying to get yourself killed, and that
  poor boy behind you? There are wild things out here,
  Duncan, and you’re plodding along in your usual
  ‘damn-the-torpedoes’ manner, shouting through a
  bullhorn, for Christ’s sake! Why not just tie the boy to
  a tree and cut his throat, then strip yourself naked and
  lie down to sleep beneath the body? Something
  entertaining’s bound to find you then!”
  Despite himself, Duncan flushed at her ridicule. He
  could hear Philip shifting uncomfortably in his saddle,
  then the sound of the mule being guided to a more
  Child of Thunders
  
  Dragons Over England
  34
  respectful distance. His ears began to burn, and he was
  thankful that the darkness hid the fact.
  “I came looking for you, Camigwen. And now I’ve
  found you,” he said simply.
  “What made you think I wanted to be found?”
  Duncan didn’t answer the question. “Father’s dead,
  Cami,” he said.
  She dropped several centimeters in response to that
  blunt statement, then returned to her original eleva-
  tion. But he noticed that her glow had dimmed some-
  what and her arms hung more loosely. Her eyes were
  downcast.
  He continued, “There’re just the two of us now. I …
  I don’t want either one of us to forget that we’re family.
  So I’ve come to take you back to Dublin with me.
  There’s work to be done there; we’re fighting the inva-
  sion, and we could use your help.”
  Her glow regained some of its intensity, and she
  squared her shoulders defiantly. “I’ve already had one
  father, Duncan, and believe me, that was more than
  enough. Nothing I ever did — no, nothing I ever was
  met with his approval. I’m not about to subject myself
  to another twenty-some years of seeking yours.”
  He frowned and raised his left hand from his sword
  hilt in a gesture of negation. “I don’t know what you’re
  talking about.”
  “No? You’ve always been so sure of yourself, Duncan
  — and that’s damned irritating to those of us who see
  life as a mystery. Your kind wants to put fences up
  around everything. ‘This is okay to think about, but that
  isn’t.’ Or maybe it’s just that you want to put everything
  in a box, to say that you have all of existence nicely
  labeled and separated into two camps — Good things
  on one side, and Evil on the other. And the funny thing
  is, your worst enemies are all just like you. You preach
  conformity to a religious truth, they preach it to a
  scientific one, or to a social one, or whatever.
  “Well, I don’t find life so conveniently divisible. And
  I don’t want to. I don’t trust your labels. I don’t trust any
  of your answers. I want to be free to find my own. And
  I’m sick to death of that desire for freedom being
  characterized as ‘rebelliousness,’ or ‘intellectual lazi-
  ness.’ I’m sick of people preaching at me. All I want
  from all of you is to be left alone.”
  Duncan simply stared at her. He sighed. “Are you
  quite finished? I have no idea where that all came from,
  but if it’s a theological argument you want, I’m ready to
  give it to you!” His face heated in the darkness. He
  hadn’t expected this kind of reception, but he certainly
  knew how to handle it.
  “Have you really searched your heart, Cami? Have
  you seriously thought about your motives? Is it that
  you aren’t sure of what’s right? Or could it be that
  you’re afraid to come back with me?” He paused,
  thoughts coming together into an inevitable truth.
  “Afraid because you think that if we defeat the invasion
  things will return to the way they were, and you’ll be
  back in a wheelchair?”
  Camigwen glared at him. When she spoke, her voice
  was low and fierce. “I am not so stupid, nor so self-
  centered as you seem to think, Duncan. I didn’t say I
  don’t care about right and wrong, but that I don’t trust
  your definitions of them. That you could even think I
  might be so shallow just proves how far apart we are.”
  She gritted her teeth. “So why don’t you just turn your
  horse around and get the hell back where you belong?”
  Duncan clenched his jaw, then shook his head. “All
  right,” he said, “I will. If you’re so blind with resent-
  ment that you can’t recognize the significance of the
  trouble I’ve gone through to find you, then there’s
  nothing I can do. I’ve got work to do in Dublin, and it’s
  time to be getting back to it.”
  He wheeled his mare about and started back down
  the path the way he had come. “Let’s go, Philip,” he said
  as he passed the boy.
  “What about that thing that killed that man back
  there? It could be prowling around someplace nearby.”
  Philip said.
  Duncan halted his mount and spoke back over his
  shoulder. “If you’re worried about Cami, she said she
  doesn’t need us, that she’s perfectly able to take care of
  herself. And I’m not afraid of it, so don’t worry about
  traveling by night.”
  “Well … that’s not what I meant,” Philip said. “I
  meant … shouldn’t we do something about it?”
  Duncan remained facing toward the east and Dublin.
  Cami flew past him and turned to look in his eye. “What
  ‘thing’ is he talking about, Duncan?”
  “It’s just a bear,” he replied quickly. “It mauled a
  traveler a few kilometers back. We found the body. But
  I’m sure you can handle it without our help.”
  Camigwen’s voice was icy. “If it mauled a traveler,
  you can’t just let it to run free. It’s sure to kill someone
  else. Yes, I can take care of myself, but destroying a
  rogue bear is a bit beyond my abilities.”
  Duncan crossed his arms across his chest. “Are you
  suddenly dictating to me what I should do, after argu-
  ing so eloquently against people shoving ‘right and
  wrong’ down each other’s throats? I have other, more
  important duties.”
  Philip again withdrew to a discrete distance as
  Camigwen glared at Duncan. The buzzing of her wings
  grew more furious. Tension hung thickly in the night
  air. Duncan glared back at her, then cleared his throat
  as if to speak.
  Philip screamed. Cami made a startled leap back and
  upward. “A Green Man!” she shouted as Duncan
  wheeled his mount around. The mare caught a glimpse
  of Philip’s assailant and reared in panic, tumbling
  Duncan out of the saddle to land heavily on his back.
  The impact knocked the wind out of him. His dia-
  phragm locked up, and an ache began building toward
  
  35
  a crescendo in the region of his kidneys. Dimly, he
  could hear the retreating hoof beats of the mare in one
  direction and of the mule in the other, could hear
  Philip’s desperate pleas for help and the sound of
  something crashing through the underbrush. He rolled
  to hands and knees and forced himself to stand, fight-
  ing for breath, and feeling like a total fool.
  “Stay back, Cami,” he managed to gasp, but she was
  already following the retreating sound of Philip’s cries.
  Duncan launched himself after her.
  Branches tore at his cloak as he ran, choking him. He
  reached up with one hand and ripped the ties loose, let
  the cloak fall, ran on. Now the branches slipped across
  his chainmail without finding purchase, but left
  scratches on his face and the backs of his hands. He
  didn’t slow his pace. Philip’s cries were growing nearer
  — and more desperate.
  Soon, Duncan could see a figure bulking blackly
  ahead of him. It broke into a clearing, and the last of the
  moonlight fell upon its mossy back. Its armed were
  wrapped around a human-sized bundle, carried like
  one might carry a baby … or a haunch of beef.
  Duncan put on a last burst of speed, raised his sword
  above his head with both hands, and swung it down
  with all his might.
  It was like chopping into a tree trunk. The blade
  wedged deep into what felt like wood. Then the crea-
  ture dropped Philip and spun about to face him, and the
  sword was wrenched from his hands.
  The Green Man looked like a walking stump, its
  surface scabbed with cracked, barklike skin and patches
  of unhealthy looking moss. Its face was hideous —
  entirely too large for its body, with ragged-edged knot-
  holes the size of Duncan’s fists for eyes, and a snarling
  mouth whose corners reached down well into what
  should have been its chest. Its short legs and feet were
  gnarled and spiked like clustered roots, and its arms
  were twisted limbs with multiple long, twiggy fingers
  that sprouted wicked-looking thorns, many of which
  glistened darkly with Philip’s blood. Duncan could see
  the point of his sword projecting upward and forward
  on one side of the creature’s head like some sort of
  bizarre pencil tucked behind its ear.
  Snarling, the Green Man took a rapid step toward
  him and swung with its right arm. Duncan ducked, but
  one of the twig fingers lashed across his face, leaving a
  bloody gash that narrowly missed his left eye. Mean-
  while the creature had stepped forward once again,
  closing with him — it was quicker than he would have
  suspected. As it lifted its right arm to hammer down
  upon his head, Duncan reached out with his mind to
  feel the possibilities surrounding him. He seized one.
  When the blow landed, he had leaped safely to one
  side. The Green Man recovered and turned toward
  him. Again Duncan seized a possibility, and again the
  creature’s blow missed. But Duncan knew he couldn’t
  keep this up forever. Eventually he would use up all his
  “luck,” and the Green Man would crush him.
  Twice more it swung, and each time he manipulated
  reality in order to evade it. Each time grew more diffi-
  cult; Duncan could feel his grasp of possibilities dull-
  ing. He tried once to tear his sword free and received a
  ragged gash across his palm for his trouble. But he
  knew the sword would be of little use against the
  thing’s tough hide anyway.
  Now the creature began to stalk him, convinced of
  his helplessness against it. Duncan retreated slowly.
  Resolving to drag things out as long as possible, he
  worked to stay just out of its reach, and hoped desper-
  ately for a miracle. His ability to shape possibilities was
  nearly exhausted, but he racked his brain for some last
  trick that he could pull to seriously hurt the thing.
  Unexpectedly, he felt another force drawing possibility
  energy into itself. For a moment, he feared that it was
  the Green Man.
  Then he spotted Camigwen hovering in the center of
  the clearing. Her normal pale luminescence had inten-
  sified to a brilliance that rivaled the moon’s. Even from
  a distance, Duncan could clearly see her features locked
  in concentration, and he could feel the possibilities
  being siphoned into her being. The distraction cost him,
  however. The Green Man lashed out again and struck
  him on the helmet, sending him sprawling. The blow
  made his head ring, and he felt blood running from his
  nostrils. Duncan blinked his eyes to clear his vision,
  tried futilely to lever himself up from the ground. His
  head threatened to come apart as he did so. Helplessly,
  he heard the creature’s heavy tread approaching, saw
  its rooty foot rise, watched in horror as prepared to
  stomp down on his ringing head.
  Duncan braced himself to die. Suddenly, a green
  nimbus sprang into being around the creature’s rear
  leg. Camigwen flew closer, gesturing downward with
  splayed fingers, and the rootlets of that foot began
  burrowing into the soil beneath. Duncan forced himself
  to roll onto his belly, just out of reach of the other foot
  as it struck the ground. He took a ragged, hopeful
  breath — Camigwen was using the plant magic of the
  Celosia to root the creature to the ground! Painfully, he
  began struggling to his hands and knees.
  The Green Man gave out a booming howl. It turned
  to face the fairy, took a step toward her with its free foot,
  then that one too rooted itself to the earth. Cami gri-
  maced in fierce concentration as she drove the roots
  deep into the soil. Then, with a cracking sound, the
  creature’s legs began growing together, forming into a
  trunk.
  But the Green Man had not given up. Fighting the
  growing rigidity of its body, it reached painfully back-
  ward and grasped the hilt of Duncan’s sword, working
  the blade free from its lodgment. Determinedly, it
  twisted its torso to face Duncan again, then strained
  Child of Thunders
  
  Dragons Over England
  36
  both arms upward to lift his weapon high in the air,
  intent upon bringing the sword forcefully down upon
  him. Duncan knew that when the blow landed it would
  cut him in two, but his aching head could not force his
  limbs to move him any further out of range.
  But Camigwen was fairly crackling with energy
  now. Though she was eclipsed by the Green Man’s
  bulk, her fairy glow blazed like a corona with the
  possibilities she was manipulating. Even through his
  haze of pain, Duncan could feel the electricity in the air.
  Dimly, he recalled her reading him tales of Cinlums, the
  fairies of elemental air, summoning storms to destroy
  crops. He wondered if a gust of wind could blow him
  beyond the sword’s reach.
  The sword began its downward rush, but the Green
  Man was too late. With a deafening crack of thunder, a
  bolt of lightning arced from Camigwen’s body to
  Duncan’s sword. Duncan was blinded by the flash.
  A few minutes later, when his vision returned,
  Duncan saw the Green Man’s smoking remains, a wide
  crack splitting the thing in two from top to base. Its
  arms had been burned to mere stubs, and the only sign
  that remained of his sword was a scorched hilt smoking
  in the grass before the blasted stump.
  Duncan scanned the area for Camigwen and soon
  spotted her glow, quite diminished now. She was lying,
  dazed, off to his left, just a few meters away. He crawled
  to her on hands and knees, saw that she was breathing
  normally. A few minutes later, when he had recovered
  enough to stumble back to where Philip had been
  dropped, he discovered to his relief that the boy was
  still alive though bleeding from dozens of cuts and
  punctures. Retrieving his discarded cloak, Duncan be-
  gan tearing it into strips and binding the worst of the
  wounds.
  By the time he had finished, Camigwen had recov-
  ered. He found her staring at the Green Man’s remains.
  “That was a wicked thing,” she said, her voice re-
  minding him of the little sister he had barely known so
  long ago. Duncan nodded, then regretted it. He won-
  dered if his head would ever stop pounding. When the
  throbbing had subsided to a dull ache, he turned to-
  ward his sister. “You’re a stormer, Camigwen,” he said
  softly. “You shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
  She looked him in the eyes, something odd and
  tender in her expression. “What about you?” she said.
  “You’re a stormer. Will you let that go to waste?”
  He started an angry retort, then bit it back. He
  suddenly knew exactly what she meant, and it galled
  him. Finally he gave a bitter laugh. “The brave hero,” he
  said. “I told myself my duties as a Storm Knight were
  too important to waste time on a rogue bear. I knew it
  couldn’t be a bear. I … I was just afraid, I guess.” He
  looked up at her, eyes glistening in the light she cast.
  “That’s not like me, Cami.”
  “I think it is,” she said softly. “I think you’ve been
  afraid all your life — afraid of father, afraid of standing
  up for yourself. That’s why you’ve followed so closely
  in his footsteps. You’ve used ‘duty’ as an excuse to
  avoid doing a lot of things.”
  He remembered his boastful words to Philip earlier
  that evening. “I guess I’m hopeless,” he said sadly.
  “No!” she cried fiercely. “No! I saw you be brave
  when it mattered. The world has changed completely,
  and we all have another chance. I said you’d once
  chosen to be like father, but it’s not too late to take a new
  direction … to try something daring.”
  He smiled with genuine pleasure. “I think you’re
  right.” He stood, feeling strength come back quickly to
  his aching limbs. “I’ll find the horse, and take Philip
  back to Dublin. He’ll help me remember how to be
  brave.”
  Cami lowered her eyes. Eventually she sighed. “I’ll
  need both of you to help me to remember myself.”
  “What?”
  She looked up again. “You were right, a little, about
  me — about the … the wheelchair. My wanting to stay
  here is the same as your not wanting to deal with the
  creature of the woods.
  “Look, enough idle chitchat.” Her wings buzzed
  with renewed vigor. “We need to get Philip back to
  Dublin, and you look the worse for wear yourself.
  There’s blood all over your face, and your eyes are
  turning black. Don’t worry, I know the way.”
  “But —” Duncan said.
  “You stay here,” she added. “I’ll go fetch the mounts.
  Fairy charms are useful for such things.”
  Duncan smiled.
  
  “. . . now that a people have come amongst us who know
  how to make them, we shall have martyrs aplenty.”
   — The Archbishop of Cashel
  “Ye’ve lost yur mind, Letitia Blossomwalker!” the
  leprechaun known as Leafflyer shouted. “First, ye make
  a friend o’ one o’ the Big Feet, then ye bring her to our
  clan counsel, an’ now ye want to make a deal with a
  dragon an’ use leprechaun gold to seal the bargain!
  Ye’ve lost yur mind, Letty.”
  “Hush yurself, Leafflyer,” Letty shot back. She ges-
  tured at Elizabeth O’Cleary, the human sitting beside
  her on the fallen trunk of an ancient oak. “This lass
  could no more harm us than she could turn into a bird.
  She has some magic in her, aye, like her people once had
  before they turned away from the land, but she does’na
  understand it. She couldna use the magic to harm
  someone even to defend her life. I’m tryin’ to tell ye that
  the land is in danger an’ —”
  “If so, the danger comes from where it’s always come
  from — the Tall Ones, like her!” Leafflyer shouted,
  pointing an accusing finger.
  Elizabeth cringed. Why was Letty’s friend yelling at
  her? Everyone seemed to yell now, ever since that mean
  priest Mr. Tourret came to town. Was it a sin to think a
  priest was mean? Well, he was mean, even if he was a
  priest like Father Ryan. Father Ryan yelled now, too,
  even during Mass. I liked it better when he talked about
  loving each other and everybody left the church smil-
  ing. I don’t like going to Mass anymore. Forgive me, Jesus.
  She crossed herself reflexively.
  She was still wearing the dress and jacket she had
  worn to Mass that morning. Her feet dangled a few inches
  above the ground as she sat on the oak trunk. At nineteen,
  her body was slight, but she still towered over the lepre-
  chauns gathered about the clearing. Her flat face, slanted
  eyes, and wide lips showed the features common to
  those, like herself, born with Down’s syndrome. Ner-
  vously, she began twisting a strand of her short, brown
  hair. Tears sparkled in her slanted eyes.
  “Ye’ll be leavin’ Elizabeth alone, Shamus Leafflyer,”
  Letty said, noticing the tears. “If I hadna met her, I
  mightna have heard o’ this Tourret until it was too late.
  When he speaks, I hear a winter without end rise up
  howlin’ an’ shriekin’ in my breast, an’ a demon voice
  speaks along with him. The land sent Elizabeth to us for
  a reason. Now hush an’ listen!”
  “Dinna be hushin’ me, Letitia. I knew ye for a thou-
  sand seasons before we all laid down to take our great
  nap an’ — ”
  “Please listen to her,” Elizabeth said, the tears no
  longer held in check. “Please listen about Mr. Tourret.
  Well, he’s really Father Tourret; I mean he wears a collar
  and says Mass, but he doesn’t act like Father Ryan. But
  Father Ryan doesn’t act like he used to and now
  something’s happening to Mr. M’Kenna, too, and he was
  already so sad, and that Jeremy Bratton scares me and …”
  Warriors of
  Destiny
  G. D. Swick
  
  Dragons Over England
  38
  Confused by her racing thoughts, her tongue unable
  to keep pace, she lapsed into silence and sat staring
  down at the oak trunk, tears sliding along her cheeks.
  There was a shamed silence from the other lepre-
  chauns. “Elizabeth,” Letty said, laying a reassuring
  hand on her friend’s arm, “why dinna ye make some
  flowers, the way I taught ye to? I’ll make these contrary
  old fools listen.”
  Elizabeth nodded and stared at her cupped hands,
  trying to concentrate on roses so she could make one
  appear between her fingers, but instead, she kept see-
  ing what had happened at the churchyard in Neary’s
  Parish that morning. Around her, the arguing began
  again. This wasn’t like the other times she had sat here
  with Letty, just the two of them. It used to be so nice
  here, she thought, her mind drifting away from the
  shouting leprechauns …
  *    *    *
  Elizabeth walked through the fields west of Neary’s
  Parish under a robin’s-egg sky and clouds like great
  balls of cotton. As she left the last of the houses behind,
  she remembered what Letty had taught her about
  walking and, closing her eyes, imagined her feet get-
  ting lighter and lighter. Soon she was barely skimming
  the grass, pretending to be a butterfly borne lightly
  along on the breeze.
  When she reached a stand of trees near a bend in a
  small stream, she slipped beneath their branches and
  sat on a carpet of leaves.
  “Letty, I’ve got breakfuss,” she called, her wide,
  thick tongue slurring the words.
  There was the smallest stirring of leaves in a patch
  of flowers and the tiny woman, wearing a dress and
  jacket of emerald green, emerged to climb onto a
  root beside her.
  “Good mornin’ to ye, Elizabeth.”
  “Good mornun, Letitia. See what I’ve got?” Eliza-
  beth asked, handing a pastry to her friend.
  “Aye, wait a moment,” Letty said, breaking a leaf
  from a mint plant and dipping it into the pouch slung
  on her belt. “Chew on this, lass, just like before so we
  can speak in the proper old language instead o’ that
  abomination yur people came up with while mine were
  nappin’.”
  Elizabeth took the leaf into her mouth. She knew her
  friend wasn’t making fun of her talking, the way some
  children had done as she was growing up. Letty had
  explained to her that leprechaun ears were sensitive
  enough to hear the voice of the land, and the “abomina-
  tion” of English was not pleasing to those ears.
  Together they munched their breakfast, Elizabeth
  finishing what Letty couldn’t hold. Afterwards, they
  sat in the shade while Elizabeth dripped multicolored
  stars from her fingertips, watching them sparkle and
  disappear in the sunbeams that danced through open-
  ings in the branches.
  “Teach me how to make flowers again, Letty. I
  forgot.”
  “Now, lass, it’s just like makin’ those stars or walkin’
  proper. All ye have to do is picture what ye want — a
  rose or whatever — an’ then imagine it bloomin’ be-
  tween yur hands.”
  Elizabeth thought. She imagined the roses that grew
  in the churchyard, small red blooms with golden crowns
  in their centers. In her mind one such rose opened from
  dew-speckled bud to full blossom. An identical flower
  began to appear, dimly at first, then ever more brightly,
  between her cupped palms. The rose’s petals turned
  blue, then deep purple. Its golden center took on a
  velvet red appearance.
  “I’ve never seen a flower like that one, lass, but it’s a
  beautiful thing.”
  “I wanted it to be special,” Elizabeth said, “‘Cause I
  wanted to give it to you.”
  The leprechaun looked away and ran a hand across
  her cheek. The rose disappeared as Elizabeth became
  engaged in trying to make flowers with stars on the end
  of their stems.
  A shadow crossed over them, chilling the glade
  where they sat. Tree limbs shook wildly, leaves dipping
  and swaying like mad ballerinas. Through breaks in the
  leafy canopy, they could make out a long red body and
  the movement of great canvas wings.
  “So the dragons have returned, too. Ah, that I could
  have lived without,” Letty said.
  “What’s wrong with dragons? I thought it looked
  pretty, what I could see of it.”
  “Oh, I suppose dragons are all right in their own
  way,” Letty replied. “Some are good, some are bad. But
  no leprechaun likes to see those great worms pokin’
  about. They’re fond o’ gold — an’ so are we.”
  “I think I remember Father Ryan preaching about
  gold once. He thought it was a bad thing.”
  “Among yur kind an’ the dwarves, I suppose it
  might be, for ye’ve forgotten why ye want it so much.
  Even before our people started our nap, yurs had
  turned gold into somethin’ to trade amongst yurselves,
  to buy trinkets with, forgettin’ why it was so valuable
  to begin with. An’ the dwarves were even worse.”
  “Why do you want gold?”
  “Because it’s magic, lass! It is the most beautiful of all
  metals an’ as such it has magic powers. It’s gold dust I
  dip the mint leaves into so ye can speak in the proper
  old language. Leprechauns remember the value of gold
  — an’ so do dragons.”
  “Father Ryan sometimes tells me stories about magic
  silver.”
  “Oh, aye, trust the Tall Ones to corrupt the real magic
  an’ then try to make somethin’ out o’ second best. That’s
  what happens when yur built so far from the ground.
  Ye lose sight o’ the true nature o’ things.”
  “Do fairies like gold? I’ve seen fairies dancing in the
  meadows at night.”
  
  39
  “Fairies, ha? Those bubbleheads don’t keer for nought
  but their dancin’. Gold means no more to them than it
  would to a butterfly. Come to think of it, a butterfly
  probably has more sense. It certainly can pay attention
  longer. An’ lass, ye be keerful about bein’ outdoors at
  night. There’s more than leprechauns an’ fairies waitin’
  in the mists. M’ cousin Grassweaver saw a banshee a
  fortnight ago an’ I’ll bet m’ pouch o’ gold that come
  winter, the pooka will be roamin’ the hills causin’
  mischief again. We little folks have nought to fear from
  them, but ’taint safe for Big Feet like yurself.”
  “Letty, how come I never saw fairies or leprechauns
  before? Mama and Papa told me stories about them, but
  I never saw one until I met you.”
  Letty sighed. “The magic went away for a time, lass.
  No leprechaun wants to live in a world without magic.
  But we trusted the land to return things to their proper
  order an’ we just lay down to sleep until it did. Now an’
  again, some o’ us would wake up and wander about for
  a bit to see if the magic was back, then return to the
  dreamtime. But recently, we all began to wake up, like
  flowers peekin’ out through snow in the spring. We
  could feel the change. The magic isna as strong as it was
  before, lass, but I feel it growin’.”
  Elizabeth thought about that, her face tight with
  concentration.
  “Could you teach me how to use magic to make
  Father Ryan laugh again? He used to smile and joke
  with me when I cleaned the rectory for him. Now he
  almost never smiles and on Sundays he shouts a lot
  during his sermon. People used to leave Mass happy,
  but now they look like they do when they leave a
  funeral. It’s been like that since Mr. Tourret came to
  town. He scares me.”
  Letty hugged herself, as if warding off a sudden chill.
  “What’s this Tourret like?”
  “He looks mad all the time, like Mrs. O’ Dell’s mean
  bulldog. He talks to Father Ryan a lot and afterwards,
  Father starts to look mean, too.”
  The leprechaun pulled her arms tighter together.
  “The land is tryin’ to tell me somethin’, Elizabeth. I’d
  like to get a look at this Tourret. Where d’ye think I
  might find him?”
  “He’ll probably be at Mass on Sunday. Can lepre-
  chauns go to Mass?”
  Letty laughed heartily. “Lass, the religion hasna
  been thought up yet that can hurt a leprechaun. Ye wear
  somethin’ ye can hide me in an’ meet me by the bush
  that hangs over the wall in the corner o’ yur church-
  yard. Now ye’d best be gettin’ home, but take the leaf
  out o’ yur mouth first. Yur people dinna appreciate
  proper talkin’ these days.”
  *    *    *
  “By this time, it was gettin’ stuffy under Elizabeth’s
  jacket inside her church,” Letty told the other lepre-
  chauns. “I had to get a breath o’ air, so I peeked out.
  “The Tall One that Elizabeth sets such store by —
  Father Ryan, she calls him — was speakin’. At first, he
  sounded pairfectly normal. At first …”
  *    *    *
  “Much has happened in recent months,” Father
  Ryan was saying, “to challenge what we accept as true.
  We have learned that life does exist on worlds beyond
  the Earth, worlds that now claim part of our planet as
  their own. Even here in Ireland, mythical creatures
  walk the land. Acts of magic have stepped out of
  children’s fairy tales to become a part of daily existence.
  All of this has forced us to accept possibilities that once
  we would have scoffed at.
  “I have come to believe we live in a new Age of
  Miracles, a time when God will speak directly to His
  servants as he did to Moses and Abraham, a time when
  faith can move mountains literally as well as meta-
  phorically. This time of tumult challenges us all to re-
  examine ourselves and the world around us with an
  open mind. Remember that as you listen to our guest
  from France, Maurice Tourret.”
  Tourret, dressed in black robes, stood in a smooth,
  flowing motion. His tall, slim body gave him the look of
  a ferret standing on its hind legs, sniffing the wind.
  Long, black hair did nothing to dispel the image. His
  feral eyes glinted in the light, black and deep as the
  bottom of a well. When he spoke, his English seemed
  tinged with a hint of Irish brogue, despite his French
  origins.
  “Brothers and sisters, you will find little comfort in
  the sermon today. Comfort and complacency lead to
  the fires of Hell itself! It is indeed an Age of Miracles you
  now live in, miracles long denied you by villains I will
  soon name. I have been sent to lead you into the fold of
  the GodNet, where you will hear the voice of God, not
  just in your hearts, but with the same clarity you hear
  my voice now.”
  Trust him. He speaks the truth.
  Letty bit her lip to keep from screaming in pain. A
  second voice was tearing at her eardrums, cold and
  lifeless, coming from everywhere at once in a crackling,
  grinding echo. If the Tall Ones’ machines could speak,
  she told herself, surely this would be their voice. But no
  one else seemed to hear a thing.
  Trust him. Follow him.
  Tourret raged on, spewing anger and damnation,
  and always the metallic, grinding voice demanded
  Trust him. Follow him.
  “Oh, God,” he beseeched, “these humble people
  have sinned, led astray by false prophets. Give them a
  sign, Lord, to show them the truth of the message that
  I bring to them. Steer their great faith onto the right
  road. Give them a sign!”
  From somewhere within the church came a loud
  gasp, followed by a shriek. Other voices quickly
  joined in.
  Warriors of Destiny
  
  Dragons Over England
  40
  “The cross!”
  “Blood! Blood on the cross!”
  A great rustling from the sudden stirring of hun-
  dreds of bodies echoed through the room. On the wall
  behind Tourret’s head hung a crucifix. A dark red
  liquid was sliding in rivulets across it, creating large
  drops that vanished as they fell. Throughout the church,
  worshippers were on their knees, crossing themselves
  and appealing to a variety of saints.
  Trust him. Follow him.
  “Yes, blood,” Tourret shouted, pointing at the cruci-
  fix. “First the blood, then the faith. It has been ever thus!
  In blood you shall be redeemed! I come to bring you the
  message that has been hidden from you. You shall
  break the limitations of the body of Adam through
  cybertechnology and find the powers the Lord intends
  for those who follow the True Way of the Cyberpope.
  You will speak directly with God. Father Ryan, are my
  words true?”
  The Father leapt from his seat as if catapulted. “Yes,
  oh, yes, it is the truth! The Voice of the Burning Bush,
  The Voice that gave the plans for the Ark, has spoken to
  me. It foretold the arrival of Brother Tourret and spoke
  of how Neary’s Parish shall be the birthplace of a new
  and greater hope for all Ireland. God can and will speak
  to the ears and not just the hearts of those who trust in
  Him and his true servants. This is the new Age of
  Miracles of which I spoke, and we shall spread its
  message across the land!”
  Sobs, joyous shouts, and frantic questions mingled
  noisily.
  Trust him. Follow him.
  “Follow us now to the churchyard,” Tourret shouted,
  “and you will see even greater miracles!”
  With Father Ryan beside him, Tourret led the congre-
  gation into the churchyard. A young man stood among
  the tombstones, a dark figure under a grey sky, his jacket
  gleaming wet in the drizzling rain. As he turned to face
  the crowd, there were gasps of recognition.
  “Jeremy Bratton,” someone muttered.
  “Yes,” Tourret said, “Jeremy Bratton of your own
  village. One of your own lambs, gone from your flock
  nearly ten years, now returns as a ram to lead you to
  better pastures.
  “Brother Bratton has already converted to the True
  Way. He stands before you as living proof of the strength
  and power that await all who will open their eyes. God
  gave us a brain to develop the technology that now leads
  our bodies and minds to a higher evolution. It is only due
  to a plot of deception, an abuse of your faith, that this
  information, this higher calling, has been denied you.
  Jeremy, show your friends what gifts await them.”
  Slowly, with a sly grin, Bratton removed his jacket,
  then his shirt, his undershirt, to stand bare chested
  before the crowd. No hair grew upon his torso, no scar
  or wrinkle marred its perfect surface. His face was
  unnaturally smooth with no lines of worry or laughter
  to hint at what lay behind it.
  Finally, he removed his gloves. The sharp intake of
  breath into a hundred lungs created a hissing sound in
  the stillness. Bratton’s left hand was a metal claw,
  glistening blue-black in the pearly light.
  From beneath his robes, Tourret produced a throw-
  ing knife and hurled it at Bratton’s chest. It struck
  between his breasts, bouncing off harmlessly. Without
  a word, Tourret pulled a wheellock pistol and fired. The
  bullet flashed as it ricocheted from Bratton’s torso. The
  crowd muttered like rising waves hissing onto shore.
  “Interdermal plating,” Tourret shouted, sweeping
  his arm toward Bratton. “A Heaven-sent gift to make
  human flesh as strong as the Will of God!
  “Behold now the wonders of the left hand of God!”
  he shouted, tossing a stone to Bratton. In seconds the
  stone was powder, crushed in the unrelenting vice that
  was Jeremy Bratton’s left hand.
  “Behold God’s Right Hand as it will mete out justice
  to the unrighteous!”
  Bratton pointed his right index finger at the base of
  a bush overhanging the wall around the churchyard. A
  quick series of flashes from his fingertip were accompa-
  nied by a flat CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. The bush
  toppled, hung for a moment on the ancient stone wall
  like a drowning victim going down for the last time,
  then tumbled out of sight behind the moss-covered
  stones. Silence and a burning smell hung in the air.
  Bratton turned to face the crowd again.
  “You all remember me,” he said. “I grew up here
  among you, before I went north to work in the factories
  and see a bit of the world. Well, I worked and I saw.”
  He slammed a fist into the claws of his other hand
  with a sound that reverberated against the church
  walls.
  “I saw that no Irishman is ever truly free as long as
  our country is divided, with someone not of Irish blood
  sitting on the other side of the Irish Sea and deciding
  Ireland should be split in two. And I saw that others felt
  as I did. I joined them and we made things unpleasant
  for Englishmen and Orange alike, unpleasant enough
  that I had to flee to France or rot in an English prison.
  For years I stayed there, staring across the grey water
  and dreaming of my green home and cursing the En-
  glish who kept me from returning to it.
  “Well, now the English know what it’s like to have
  someone sitting above them and determining their fate.
  Pella Ardinay dropped her Maelstrom Bridge on them
  and brought her dwarves and elves and all the rest from
  Aysle to make England her colony. If England was all
  she wanted, I’d say let her take it and best wishes. But
  she dropped a bridge into Belfast too, and that belongs
  to Ireland! With the help of God, we’ll throw out these
  new invaders and the damned English, and Ireland will
  stand free and united!”
  
  41
  “What are you offering, lad, the IRA?” someone
  asked. “It’s been dead around here since before you
  were a gleam in your father’s eye.”
  “Not the IRA! No, Neary’s Parish will be the birth-
  place of a new hope with an old name — a new Fianna
  Fail — the Warriors of Destiny!
  “This time, we will win the war, for God will truly be
  on our side. Brother Tourret,” he growled, “continue
  your sermon.”
  “Your old friend and my new one speaks the truth,”
  Tourret said, pacing among the headstones. “Although I
  am not of your soil, I share your country’s long hatred of
  those who seek to impose their will on others by force.
  Did Lady Ardinay ask the permission of a single Irish
  soul before dropping her bridge on your green island? Do
  you think she’ll ask permission whenever she wants to
  rearrange your land and your water, your people so that
  Ireland will be ‘a little more like home’ to her and her
  kind? Do you think the masses who fled their homes in
  Belfast to live in tent cities left behind all they owned
  without good reason? They were fleeing Lady Ardinay’s
  terrors — terrors that will soon come to your village, to
  your wives and children, unless you stop them where
  they are and then drive them into the sea!”
  There was muttering among his audience. Some
  shook their heads in agreement.
  “Pella Ardinay does not fight alone. She is aided in
  her dream of conquest by your unseen enemy, a glib,
  scheming mocker — the false pope of Rome, who gives
  his evil blessing to those who oppress you!”
   “You can say what you like about the English or that
  woman Ardinay, Frenchman,” growled a middle-aged
  shopkeeper, “but we’re pious people here, loyal to God
  and loyal to the Church, for they’re one and the same!
  And don’t you be forgetting that again, blood on the
  cross or no.”
  “Hear him out, Laurence Pearse,” Bratton said
  quietly.
  “Thank you, friend Jeremy,” Tourret continued. “I
  do not question God nor your faith in Him, but your
  trust has been shamefully abused. Did the Church you
  placed your faith in ever aid you in overthrowing your
  yoke of English slavery? When your brave ancestors
  were defeated at the Boyne, did not the Vatican rejoice
  for your oppressors with a High Pontifical Mass and Te
  Deum for bloody William of Orange? Do you think
  Rome will help you now? Has a single Pope ever called
  upon the good Catholics of England or any other coun-
  try to rise up for you?
  “No? You were told the meek shall inherit while
  others stole what was yours. Now, at last, the Cyber-
  pope, Jean Malraux I, has come with a flaming sword to
  drive your enemies from your land like sinners from
  the Garden of Eden!”
  “I’ve heard enough,” said Laurence Pearse. “The
  rest of you can listen to this heretical blather if you
  want, but I’m leaving. I’ve trusted in the Catholic
  Church all my life and I’m not about to change just
  because some Frenchman wants me to.” He started
  away from the crowd, toward the road.
  No one was certain how Jeremy Bratton got to Pearse
  as quickly as he did. One second he was standing near
  Tourret, the next he had a hand around Laurence
  Pearse’s throat, holding the stout shopkeeper six inches
  off the ground. Pearse’s feet churned and he dug at the
  vise-like fingers while his face flushed dark red.
  “Release him, Jeremy,” Tourret said. “Let the Hand
  of Righteousness fall upon him that he may see his error
  and repent.”
  Bratton opened his fingers and Pearse dropped to
  his knees, gasping for air. Tourret approached, grasped
  the man’s head and, looking skyward, prayed.
  “Oh, God, this man knows not his folly for he has
  long been misled by the heretics of Rome. Show him the
  suffering that awaits him if he refuses the truth of Your
  Word as revealed through the Cyberpope Jean Malraux
  I, Vicar of Christ.”
  Suddenly Pearse stiffened. His eyes widened as
  spasms rippled across his face. A few of his neighbors
  started forward to help him but were restrained by
  others when Jeremy Bratton stepped forward.
  “No, no,” Pearse muttered, “please, no, no, nuhaahh!”
  His scream continued to rise until the cyberpriest
  released him and he fell face down into the wet grass.
  “Better a man should see Hell while he lives and turn
  from it than to live in ignorance and learn too late his
  soul is eternally damned. Brother Pearse will recover to
  tell you what awaits those who refuse the True Word.”
  As he spoke, Tourret moved among the crowd, which
  quickly shifted to give him room. He stopped in front of
  William M’Kenna, a large man in his early forties who ran
  a bakery. M’Kenna’s ruddy face was lined with deep
  wrinkles, like barren ground cut by dry creek beds. His
  clothing bore stains and signs of recent neglect. It was
  obvious his shoes hadn’t seen polish in months.
  “Brother M’Kenna, you were good enough to come
  this morning after all.”
  “You and Tim Ryan pestered me enough this past
  week. I told you I’d come to your Mass and I came. But
  I also told you I’d been Protestant all my life and when
  I needed God, He was busy elsewhere. I won’t be
  troubling Him again, so keep your rosary beads to
  yourself. And don’t waste your time showing me Hell.
  I’ve already seen it.”
  “We of the GodNet can show Heaven as well, brother
  M’Kenna,” Tourret said softly. He placed his hand on the
  baker’s head. Moments later, M’Kenna began smiling.
  Joyous tears sparkled in his eyes, and a half-laugh, half-
  sob, escaped his lips. Then he wrenched his head free.
  “Don’t ever do that again, Tourret,” he gasped,
  trembling. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I’ve
  lost, to make me see what I can’t touch. Keep your
  Heaven because I don’t give a damn what you papists
  do. Or the Protestants or the bald-headed Hare Krishnas,
  Warriors of Destiny
  
  Dragons Over England
  42
  for that matter.” His eyes darkened. “But if it’s war
  you’re going to, give me a gun and I’ll join your bloody
  army. If I’m to worship a god, then I’ll serve Mars. At
  least in war death makes some kind of sense, doesn’t it?
  Doesn’t it?”
  “First the blood,” Tourret whispered, “then the faith.”
  *    *    *
  Letty paused for breath before continuing.
  “An’ through all this was the demon voice tellin’ one
  an’ all ‘Trust him, follow him,’ but ye’d have sworn I
  was the only one hearin’ it for all the attention the Tall
  Ones seemed to give it.”
  “I never heard it,” Elizabeth said.
  Letty twisted to face her.
  “Are ye certain, lass?”
  Elizabeth thought. Sometimes remembering was so
  hard. It was like there was a big black stone in her mind
  and when she tried to remember things, they hid be-
  hind that stone.
  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think I heard it. Are you
  mad at me for not hearing it, Letty?”
  “No, lass, o’ course not. Perhaps only leprechaun
  ears could hear it, although it was worse than a banshee
  to me.”
  “Demon voices,” Leafflyer said. “Flesh that canna be
  cut or hurt. Blood flowin’ without flesh around it. Ye
  may be right, Letty. This is unnatural even for the Tall
  Ones. But to ask the aid o’ a dragon an’ to pay the beast
  with gold …”
  “Not all dragons are evil, Shamus, but I’ll not be
  beholden to any o’ them, good or bad. A debt owed to
  a dragon is a terrible thing, for they always collect their
  due one way or t’other. We’ll pay this dragon up front
  an’ honest, because we canna fight this fight by oursel’s.
  We’ve all amused oursel’s playin’ tricks on the Tall
  Ones at times, but like Elizabeth’s, our magic willna let
  us do real harm.
  “This is no game. I feel it as surely as I can feel a
  change o’ weather comin’. There’ll be no place for
  leprechauns in the land this man desires. An’ I’d rather
  deal with an honest, gold-lovin’ dragon than see the
  land die under creatures that speak like machines.”
  In the end, she had her way. Negotiators were dis-
  patched to find the dragon’s lair and arrange the least
  odious deal for the great reptile’s aid.
  *    *    *
  Jeremy Bratton, Maurice Tourret, and a second
  Frenchman sat inside an abandoned farmhouse. A
  variety of electronic equipment surrounded them.
  “I still say this is the wrong place to begin our
  revolution,” Bratton said. “These people are too set in
  their ways. We may win over a few, but in the cities
  we’d find hundreds to rally to the cause.”
  “No, Jeremy,” Tourret responded, “your tiny home-
  town is a perfect base. Here, we will be near the southeast
  coast in an unassuming area between the ports of Arklow
  and Wexford, which will make smuggling our equip-
  ment much easier. ‘Tourists’ travelling to the resort at
  Courtown northeast of here won’t be questioned for
  carrying large amounts of luggage, and the Wicklow
  Mountains to the west are a traditional haven for those
  who seek shelter from the queen’s minions. This is a
  perfect place for us to begin. Besides, Jeremy, you forget
  your Irish legends. Was not Saint Patrick rumored to
  have landed near Arklow? I’m certain we can turn that
  tradition to our favor at the appropriate time.”
  “Alec,” he continued, turning to their companion,
  “your hologram of blood dripping from the cross was
  most effective.”
  Alec nodded in response. “The locals have been
  suitably impressed today.”
  Bratton gave a dry chuckle. “Especially when
  Maurice’s ‘miracle’ fingers made that fat fool Pearse
  think he was staring into Hell.”
  “What is Hell if not our worst fears come to life?”
  Tourret responded airily. “Using electronic impulses to
  stimulate the subconscious, producing hallucinations
  based on personal phobias, offers a unique new tool for
  converting heathens. I’m proud to say I am one of the
  pioneers in this area of holy research. Of course, plea-
  sure centers can also be stimulated, as I tried to demon-
  strate with brother M’kenna.”
  “Why did you single out William M’kenna? When I
  lived here, he was the most peace-loving man in the
  county and Protestant to boot.”
  “Have you ever looked into the eyes of an animal
  lying dead beside the highway, Jeremy? Vacant eyes,
  without a trace of light or life — M’Kenna’s eyes. He is
  not the man you knew. He is an empty vessel and we
  shall fill him. Is that not the mission of The Church? In
  fact, it would be a Christian act for you to visit him this
  afternoon. Take him his weapon.”
  When Bratton had gone, Tourret reached beneath
  the long hair covering his neck. From an input jack
  concealed there, he removed a chip that allowed him to
  speak in acceptable Irish brogue and to summon mil-
  lions of bits of information on Irish history, customs,
  and culture in nanoseconds.
  “Ah, it is good to speak in a civilized tongue again,”
  he said in French. “So, Alec, what is the status of your
  surgical equipment?”
  In answer, Alec lead him into another chamber
  where aged brick walls now enclosed an impressive
  operating room.
  “I’ll have finished the last tests in a day or two. The
  generators and backup generators all survived the trip
  in fine shape.”
  “So you are nearly ready to begin the conversions?”
  “Soon, although I still have my doubts about operat-
  ing in this hovel under such primitive conditions. This
  is more like a back alley hack shop than the cyber-
  conversion chambers of The Church’s hospital in
  
  43
  Avignon. We may lose our first few converts until I can
  work out the bugs.”
  “Then we must not perform the first operations on
  those we deem most important. In fact, I think I have the
  perfect subject for your first surgery — that idiot girl who
  cleans the rectory. Implant whatever cyberware you
  choose in her, so long as it doesn’t make her dangerous,
  of course. Perhaps in some small way she can serve The
  Church. If there is a flaw in your system, best we find out
  with one whose loss will be of no consequence.”
  “Exercise caution, Maurice. These people have not
  had the benefit of our enlightenment and do not see her
  imperfections as an affront to God. Her death could
  work against you.”
  “Then I must not be the one who is blamed. How
  long has it been since God spoke to Father Ryan?”
  Alec grinned. “Several days. I’m sure the good Fa-
  ther is fervently praying for the next visitation.”
  “Then, by all means, let us answer his prayers.
  Reveal God’s plan for Elizabeth O’Cleary to him
  tonight.”
  *    *    *
  Elizabeth struggled to count the coins in her hand,
  wrestling with change a third grader could have handled
  with ease.
  “Huere,” she said triumphantly, handing over the
  coins, her thick tongue giving the word two syllables.
  M’Kenna took her offering, giving in return a bag of
  pastries and the only genuine smile he was likely to
  have that day.
  “Tell your parents I said Hello,” he told her.
  “I will. Hullo, Doctor O’Donoghue,” she said cheer-
  fully to the short, grey-haired man entering the bakery.
  Doctor Gavin O’Donoghue lifted his hat and smiled
  in response as she left with her bag of cheese pastries
  tapping against the leg of her corduroy jeans.
  “You know, William, a small preservation spell, like
  many housewives use these days, would keep your
  pastries fresher than those bags.”
  “It’ll be a cold day indeed when you find me using
  magic, Gavin, I’ve seen what happens to those who use
  it — they change.” M’Kenna said. “Speaking of change,
  how’s Pearse?”
  “He’ll live, although I doubt he’ll ever talk above a
  whisper again. It’s the damage to his mind that worries
  me. He’s nearly comatose from shock. If I had better
  control of magic, I suppose I might know how to cure
  him, but by the time I learn what spell’s applicable, it
  may be too late to repair the damage.”
  “You put a lot of bloody faith in something you
  never had till recent times, Gavin. If your magic is so all-
  powerful, why don’t you use it to give that sweet child
  that just left here a more normal life?”
  “I wish it were that simple, William. But her problem
  is a form of Down’s syndrome called translocation. One
  of her chromosomes is joined to another, giving her an
  excess of genetic material, causing mild retardation.
  How could I begin to sort out her genetic makeup? It’s
  not like a broken arm where I can cast a mend spell and
  join the bones back together. Or like a tumor, where I
  can reverse a growth spell to make the tumor shrink
  away to noth —”
  He paused, saw the pain in his friend’s eyes, and
  looked away. “I’m sorry, William. I didn’t mean …”
  “I know what you meant. You meant that now you
  can wave your hands a few times and just magic the
  cancer right out of a body. Well, isn’t that wonderful?
  Too bad your magic didn’t come to you a month sooner,
  now isn’t it?”
  “Will, you know magic’s only been possible since
  Lady Ardinay’s realm came to Earth. I just didn’t have
  this magic skill —”
  “You trusted other magic before, Gavin. You called
  your spells surgery and chemotherapy then and they
  didn’t work near so well. One damned month, Gavin —
  you’d have had your new spells and Janie would still be
  with me. One damned month!”
  “There’s no guarantee of that, William. She was so far
  gone. Sometimes we just have to accept God’s Will —”
  “‘God’s Will?’ I’ve heard that from everyone in this
  town! If God has a Will, none of us are the beneficiaries.
  Suffering, Pain, Despair, and Death —those are the four
  gospels, and I’ll tell you, Gavin O’Donoghue, a time is
  soon coming when a new Acts of the Apostles will be
  written. It’ll be written in blood and leave no doubt in
  anyone’s mind as to what God’s Will is!”
  Abruptly, he left the shop and strode purposefully
  away, leaving the doctor standing sadly in the empty
  store.
  *    *    *
  “They’re goin’ to do what?” Letty asked.
  “Convert me,” Elizabeth answered. “Father Ryan
  and Mister Tourret say it’s a wonderful thing that God
  chose me to be the first. Letty, what’s ‘convert’ mean?”
  “It means no good if Tourret wants it. God chose ye,
  indeed. How do they get that, I wonder?”
  “Oh, God told Father Ryan so. Last night, at the
  rectory.”
  “Humph. When is this ‘conversion’ supposed to
  take place?”
  “Sunday night. Father Ryan is calling another spe-
  cial Mass that evening to tell everyone. I’m not sup-
  posed to let anybody know before then, but I wanted
  you to be there. Do you think God will be mad at me for
  telling you?”
  “I’ll tell ye what, Elizabeth,” Letty said, patting her
  friend’s hand. “Take me inside yur jacket when ye go to
  clean the rectory this week. I’ll jump out an’ wait for
  God to speak to yur Father Ryan again. When He does,
  I’ll ask Him m’self if I can come along. How’s that?”
  Elizabeth nodded happily. “You’re my best friend,
  Letty.”
  Warriors of Destiny
  
  Dragons Over England
  44
  “Aye, lass. Well, there’s no better friend than a
  leprechaun. An’ no more stubborn enemy, exceptin’
  maybe a greedy dwarf.”
  *    *    *
  “It jammed on me again,” M’kenna said.
  He held out a Belgian machine pistol for Jeremy
  Bratton’s examination. Bratton made a show of exam-
  ining the pistol and then handed it back to M’kenna.
  “I told you; you’re firing too long at a time. Use short
  bursts. Soon I’ll have better weapons for all of you,
  direct from the Cyberpapacy’s own suppliers, but these
  will have to do for now.”
  Bratton looked around, reassured himself that his
  other trainees had left the practice field.
  “Tourret wants you to attend Mass again Sunday
  evening and bring your weapon. Conceal it under your
  coat, he said.”
  He held up a hand to stop the questions forming on
  M’kenna’s lips.
  “If you want to go to war, William, you’ve got to
  learn to follow orders without question.”
  *    *    *
  “Without question,” Letty said, “this Tourret won’t
  idly stand by while someone mucks about with his
  plans. If I succeed in stoppin’ him from takin’ Elizabeth,
  it will mean war between us.”
  “Protectin’ the land is one thing,” Leafflyer said,
  “protectin’ yur friend is another.”
  “She’s one o’ the Always Children, Shamus.
  Abandonin’ her would be like abandonin’ the land
  itself, to m’ way o’ thinkin’. I must be with Elizabeth
  that night, doin’ what I can. Is there ought the rest o’ ye
  will do to help?”
  “Ye know we won’t abandon a member o’ our own
  clan. We’ll dance the Sacred Rings for ye that night to
  ask the land to aide ye, but ye’ve said yurself we’re not
  warriors.”
  Just then a mournful, shrieking cry came through the
  mists, bone-chilling in its sheer loneliness. When it died
  away, Leafflyer looked at Letitia.
  “I hope it’s not yur death the banshee is foretellin’,
  Letty Blossomwalker.”
  *    *    *
  Father Timothy Ryan sat on the edge of his bed in the
  rectory, looking about at the mementos of sixty-two
  years of devotion: a small bookcase filled with schol-
  arly theological works; an iron crucifix given to him by
  members of his first of many small parishes; a bottle of
  holy water from Lourdes; a trunk filled with odds and
  ends. With the brevity of phrases chiseled on a tomb-
  stone, his possessions told the story of a quiet, dutiful
  life. Dreams of glory won in service of the Lord that had
  filled his head as a young man had been stored away
  long ago in a musty, dust-covered corner of his mind.
  Until The Voice came.
  Like summer thunder, The Voice had come to him
  one night, foretelling the arrival of Maurice Tourret and
  holding forth a shining promise. The holy army of his
  youthful dreams would become real. Led by Saint
  Timothy Ryan, it would sweep the devil’s legions be-
  fore it like leaves before a whirlwind.
  His reverie was broken by a knock at the rectory
  door. He opened it to admit Elizabeth O’Cleary and her
  parents. After Father Ryan reassured them of God’s
  beneficence in choosing Elizabeth for this holy calling,
  her parents left to take their seats in church. When she
  was left alone with the Father, Elizabeth kept glancing
  around the room nervously, as though she were look-
  ing for something. Clearly, she was agitated, perhaps
  even frightened.
  Suddenly, a whispering rush like December winds
  in the dried bones of sinners swept through the rectory.
  Then, The Voice came.
  “Elizabeth, why do you cringe from Me? Have I not
  chosen you from all others to carry out My works?
  Speak, girl.”
  Father Ryan gasped, grabbed Elizabeth’s hand, and
  took them both to their knees.
  “What is it, Father?” she asked, trembling.
  “The Voice of God, child. Indeed, you are chosen.”
  “It scares me. It sounds awful. I don’t want to be
  chosen.”
  “Do not question My choices, girl!” The Voice thun-
  dered. “You were centuries unborn when I came to
  Moses in a flaming bush! I did not consult you when I
  appeared to Saul of Tarsus in a light so bright he was
  blinded! As they served, so you shall serve.
  “Reassure My chosen one, Timothy Ryan, then lead
  her into My holy service.”
  That takes care of that, Alec thought, switching his
  monitor from the rectory to cameras hidden within the
  church. Let Ryan worry about calming her.
  Elizabeth was sobbing.
  “Don’t cry, Elizabeth. You have heard the Voice of
  God. It’s wonderful!”
  “No, it isn’t. It’s scary and mean. I don’t want God to
  sound like that!”
  “Child, child, don’t say such things. The Voice of
  God is great and it promises greatness to those who
  heed it.”
  “It promises to make ye the greatest bloody fool in all
  o’ Ireland, Tim Ryan!”
  The Father leapt to his feet, his eyes sweeping the
  room. Who …
  “Over here.” The small voice was coming from the
  sofa cushions. “Here, tryin’ to keep that great grindin’
  voice yur so in love with from smashin’ m’ hearin’ for
  all time.”
  A tiny woman dressed all in green was glaring up at
  him. Saints preserve us, he thought — a leprechaun?
  “Watch your heathen tongue, woman,” he said, his
  
  45
  faith giving him courage in the face of the unknown.
  “Whatever pagan deity you may worship, you’ll show
  respect for the Christian God here.”
  “I’ve no quibble with yur God, Ryan. It’s the fools He
  suffers to exist that vex me. He must have thrown ye
  together on an off day wi’ whatever leftover parts were
  close t’ hand. Does yur pride deafen as well as blind ye
  or do ye just not care when God’s voice speaks with the
  grindin’ o’ a machine instead o’ the sweet whisper o’
  the land?”
  “Machine? What are you muttering about?”
  “Machine, aye. Ye might ken that yurself if ye weren’t
  puffin’ yurself up like a bullfrog and croakin’ about
  how God drops by to talk to ye personal-like.”
  Righteous anger flashed in the priest’s eyes. He took
  a step forward, one hand poised above his head to
  squash the blasphemous pagan, but Elizabeth darted in
  front of him, dropping to her knees by the sofa. She put
  a protective arm around the leprechaun.
  “Help him to hear, Letty,” she said urgently. “Use
  your magic to let him listen to the land like you do!”
  “You know this creature, Elizabeth?” the Father
  asked, perplexed, his hand still upraised.
  “She’s not a creature, she’s my best friend. Please let
  her put some gold in your ear. Gold isn’t bad, you know
  — it’s magic!”
  “Lass,” Letty said, touching Elizabeth’s cheek, “it’s
  not that simple. I can magic ye to talk the old language,
  but so far as I know there is no spell to hear the land with
  — it’s just a thing I can do. What would I mix with the
  gold to work m’ magic on?”
  Elizabeth bit her lip, then jumped up and ran into the
  bedroom. In seconds, she was back, carrying the priest’s
  bottle of holy water and the crucifix she had lovingly
  dusted so many times while cleaning the rectory.
  “Let me have some gold, Letty. Please.”
  “What are ye thinkin’, lass?” Letty asked as she
  sprinkled gold dust onto Elizabeth’s fingertip.
  Father Ryan, unwilling to further delay the evening
  service by upsetting Elizabeth again, watched bewil-
  dered as she mixed gold dust with holy water in her
  palm. She daubed the mixture on his ears, then put the
  cross into his hands and closed his fingers around it.
  “God made the land, didn’t He, Father? So doesn’t
  the land talk with His voice? Maybe with the gold and
  the holy water and the cross, you can listen to the land
  like Letty does.”
  He sighed and closed his eyes. If pretending to listen
  would calm Elizabeth so he could take her to the
  service, what harm could it do?
  He began to smile. He pulled the crucifix closer, as if
  he were embracing a loved one. His smile widened;
  then, suddenly, he fell to the floor, covering his ears.
  “Stop! Stop!” he screamed, twisting in pain.
  Elizabeth knelt beside him. Seconds later, he stopped
  shaking and looked at them through tear-filled eyes.
  “A miracle! I swear I heard snow melting and the
  sound of seed pods bursting. It was like a symphony
  until another voice nearly burst my eardrums.”
  He screamed again, covered his ears, and curled into
  a ball.
  “Again. A voice repeating Maurice Tourret’s name,
  telling me to trust and follow him.”
  Suddenly, his head jerked up.
  “It’s gone, all of it. I can’t hear the symphony any
  more.”
  “The lass has magic in her,” Letty said approvingly,
  “but she canna make it last long. Still, she let ye hear the
  sound o’ the land — an’ that other raspin’ voice. Now
  tell me, Tim Ryan, which one do ye choose to worship?”
  The priest stared at some distant point for several
  minutes, as if watching a phantom army on a battlefield
  only he could see.
  “Come, Elizabeth,” he said at last. “The congrega-
  tion is waiting.”
  Distractedly, he dropped into a pocket the crucifix
  his first parishioners had given him. Then, taking
  Elizabeth’s hand, he led her from the rectory with the
  leprechaun following.
  “Letty,” a voice whispered as they crossed the
  churchyard.
  “Shamus Leafflyer? What are ye doin’ here?”
  “Ye may be a fool, but I couldna let ye face the Tall
  Ones alone. I’ve seen yur Tourret an’ Bratton now an’
  I’ve heard yur demon voice. It pains me to say it, but ye
  were right about them.”
  “Are the others here?”
  “Nay, they’re dancin’ the Sacred Rings for ye. Calm
  yurself a bit an’ ye’ll feel the land’s heart beatin’ louder
  as they dance. Oh, there’ll be fine magic tonight.”
  “I hope so, for it’s tonight we must end this. Shamus
  …”
  “Aye, I know what must be done. Watch yurself,
  Letty Blossomwalker.”
  He sprinkled gold dust on a large leaf lying nearby and,
  true to his name, rode off on it as it leapt into the wind.
  *    *    *
  Maurice Tourret, watching from an alcove behind
  the altar, was both pleased and annoyed. The church
  was filled to overflowing. Jeremy Bratton and William
  M’Kenna would provide crowd control, if it became
  necessary. But where was Ryan?
  Suddenly, hushed whispering among the wor-
  shippers dropped into silence. Father Ryan had en-
  tered through the main doors and was slowly walk-
  ing down the nave, Elizabeth by his side. They
  ascended to the altar together. Father Ryan gazed
  out across his congregation.
  “In the twenty-fourth chapter of the book of Mat-
  thew,” he began, “we are warned that ‘false messiahs
  and false prophets will appear, performing signs and
  wonders so great as to mislead even the chosen, if that
  were possible.’”
  Warriors of Destiny
  
  Dragons Over England
  46
  Tourret stiffened. What was that fool up to?
  “Like most of us,” Father Ryan continued, “I dreamed
  of being more than the reality of my existence, harbor-
  ing hopes that God’s plans for me would more closely
  match my dreams for myself.
  “So when I heard a thunderous voice calling me to
  the greatness I dreamed of, I was far too ready to let
  myself believe that the God of the Old Testament Who
  spoke directly to servants here on Earth had returned,
  and had chosen me as He chose the prophets of old. I
  didn’t dare look too closely for fear the miracle I had
  hoped for would vanish. I convinced myself my will-
  ingness to believe was an act of faith, instead of pride.”
  Tourret clenched his hands and cursed. What to do
  now?
  “Tonight, one whose childlike faith remained true
  opened my eyes — and ears — to the truth. ‘Where the
  carcass lies,’ Matthew’s gospel also tells us, ‘there the
  vultures gather’ — vultures like Maurice Tourret and
  his Cyberpope! Their ‘religion’ is the way of deception
  and death! Forgive me, dear friends, for what I tried to
  lead you into. Dear God, forgive me.”
  “Heresy!” Tourret screamed, rushing onto the altar.
  “What have the devil and his servants in Rome done to
  you, Father?”
  “It’s you who have done it, Tourret. You and my
  own sinful pride.”
  Tourret turned to the congregation. “Satan has sto-
  len the Father’s soul! The Trickster knows what miracles
  will occur tonight and fights to prevent it!
  “Come with me, girl,” he said, roughly seizing
  Elizabeth’s arm.
  “Let go of her.” Father Ryan placed himself between
  Tourret and Elizabeth.
  “You forget yourself, old man.”
  “That’s true, Tourret. I forgot I swore to serve a
  loving God. But you helped me to forget, didn’t you,
  with your tricky little messages? ‘Trust Tourret. Follow
  him.’ How many times a day do you play that tape?
  Have you had the entire town listening to subliminal
  suggestions that we follow you like lemmings? I have
  heard your message, Tourret. I. Have. Heard.”
  The Frenchman’s lips pulled back in a canine snarl.
  He swung at the older priest, but Father Ryan grappled
  with him and they fell together, struggling on the altar.
  Churchgoers rose from their pews, muttering and
  shouting. Before they could act, William M’Kenna froze
  them by firing a machine pistol burst into the rafters.
  Bratton rose from his seat and stripped off his gloves
  menacingly.
  “Stop!” Elizabeth cried, tears running down her
  cheeks. “Please stop. Why can’t it be like it used to be
  when everyone was happy?
  “Remember how we used to smile and shake hands
  and hug each other after Mass? How we’d help each other
  when we needed it? Remember when Mr. M’kenna used
  to smile and nobody carried guns? We loved each other!”
  Her thoughts whirled as she sought a way to show
  them what she felt. Like makin’ those stars or walkin’
  proper. All ye have to do is picture what ye want. But when
  she tried to latch onto the happy images that had filled
  her mind moments before, they fled to hide behind the
  black stone.
  No, she thought, go away, stone, go away. In her
  mind she flailed at the solid black barrier … and found
  herself moving forward through a thick, dark fog. She
  could see nothing, but from somewhere voices were
  singing in the old language, their rhythm seeming to
  guide her as she moved through the blackness. Then
  she was entering a place of intense light and waiting in
  it like mislaid toys were the images she sought: Neary’s
  Parish before Maurice Tourret came.
  Inside the church, the air began to swim like heat
  waves before the altar. Elizabeth, now smiling brightly,
  eyes closed, moved her hands continuously as holo-
  gram-like scenes began to dance, fade, and reappear in
  the air in front of her.
  The congregation watched a movie in which they
  themselves starred, with scenes of smiling worshippers
  shaking hands at Mass; neighbors working with one
  another to repair a car or plant shrubs; William M’Kenna
  and his wife, Janie, laughing with friends in their bakery.
  With a snarl, Tourret tried to lunge for Elizabeth, but
  Father Ryan held him tightly.
  “Bratton, M’Kenna! Kill the little witch!”
  “Run, Elizabeth! Run for the side door!” Letty shouted
  from hiding. Elizabeth, snapping out of her dream
  state, began to run.
  Jeremy Bratton was charging forward, tossing aside
  those who got in his path.
  Elizabeth ran out into the night air, ran blindly along
  the side of the church, raced smack into a hedge border-
  ing the road in front of the building, and fell to her
  knees. She looked up and saw William M’Kenna stand-
  ing over her.
  “Good job, M’Kenna,” Bratton said, racing up,
  Tourret close behind him. “Now finish her.”
  M’kenna looked down the barrel of his weapon at
  Elizabeth. Elizabeth, the child he and Janie never had. The
  little girl they had saved the largest pieces of gingerbread
  for. The young woman who still brought her childlike
  awe and unquestioning love to him whenever she visited
  his shop. He turned to face the other two.
  “You’ll not harm this child, Jeremy Bratton. Go on
  and fight your war, but she’s not to be a part of it.”
  “Then stand aside and I’ll do the job, M’Kenna. Don’t
  make me kill you, too.”
  M’Kenna laughed ruefully. “So much of me’s been
  dead so long, any wee bit you might finish off wouldn’t
  even be noticed. But you’ll not harm Elizabeth.” As he
  finished speaking, he triggered a burst from the ma-
  chine pistol.
  Bullets ricocheted from Bratton’s interdermal plat-
  ing. A few sent sparks flying from his head, punching
  
  47
  holes through the thinner armor of his cheeks and
  throat and shattering the ball of sensors that served as
  his right eye. The impact knocked him to his knees,
  silicone lubricant streaming down his face like tears.
  Then M’Kenna’s pistol jammed.
  “For that, you won’t die clean, M’Kenna,” Bratton
  said, his voice rasping like a file on metal. He fired the
  flechette pistol built into his index finger. Clouds of
  razor-edged triangles whined through the air, ripping
  into M’Kenna’s legs. As the baker dropped, screaming,
  Bratton turned to Elizabeth.
  Father Ryan, bleeding from a cut on his forehead,
  was running toward them, but Tourret dropped the
  priest with a single blow across the throat.
  “Nothing personal, girl,” Bratton said.
  Suddenly, he was engulfed in flames. Hovering over
  him, a dragon spewed out a fiery breath that fused
  wires with muscle and bone, sending hissing steam
  spiraling into the night. With a high-pitched, keening
  wail of pain, Bratton stumbled out of the churchyard to
  disappear into the village below.
  The dragon hovered, recharging its flame. Atop its
  head, clinging to one large ear, Shamus Leafflyer
  searched for Tourret.
  With a sudden roar, the dragon twisted violently, its
  right eye gone. Below, Tourret stood pointing at the
  flying reptile, pseudoskin removed from one finger to
  reveal the laser concealed within.
  The dragon spat fire as it roared in pain, setting the
  roof of the church aflame. Its tail whipped about, con-
  nected with a corner of the centuries-old structure,
  sending large stones and sections of crossbeams flying.
  One small piece knocked Letty to the ground. A minute
  later, the burning roof collapsed. Screams of parishio-
  ners still trapped inside echoed in the night.
  Wildly the dragon spun about, disappeared in the
  darkness to the west. Minutes later, the ground shook
  violently as it lost its battle to stay in the air.
  Tourret stood silhouetted against the flames of the
  church. In the village below, other fires were springing
  up, spread by the wild beating of the dragon’s wings.
  Behind him, Father Ryan struggled to rise from where
  he had fallen, but Tourret’s attention was fixed on
  Elizabeth crouched at the base of the hedge. A flying
  stone had scraped away part of the Frenchman’s face,
  revealing the cybercircuitry beneath. There was a loud
  click as he closed one hand and three spring-loaded
  blades extended from the back of his wrist.
  Elizabeth searched for magic, tried to make Tourret
  disappear, tried to find anything to make him stop, but
  her mind was again filled with the black fog.
  “You little idiot,” he growled, “you can’t begin to
  know what you’ve done with your half-witted magic.
  I’ll slit your belly like you were a rabbit.”
  “You’ll have to kill me first.”
  The Frenchman spun around. Father Ryan stood
  breathing heavily, clutching the iron crucifix he had
  pocketed earlier, the way a child clutches a teddy bear
  after a nightmare. His eyes had a glazed, half-mad look.
  “I’ll stop your devil’s work even if I die in the
  process. My faith is solid now as the iron in this cross.”
  “The iron of your papacy against the steel of mine, eh,
  Father? I’m sure there’s an allegory in there somewhere,”
  Tourret laughed. In a blur of motion, he swept his arm up,
  burying his wristblades deep in the priest’s side.
  Father Ryan gasped. Blood began trickling from his
  lips.
  “O Lord,” he cried out, “do not desert me as I
  deserted You.”
  He grabbed for the cyberpriest, shoving the crucifix
  into the exposed wiring in Tourret’s face.
  Sparks flew. Electricity coursed through the iron
  molecules of the cross, travelled through the Father’s
  body, returned to Tourret. The cyberpriest stiffened as
  wires short-circuited. Paralysis seized his cybermuscles
  and froze his diaphragm, shutting down his lungs.
  Mouth open, the crucifix burned into his face, he ex-
  pired locked in deadly embrace with the Irish priest,
  both bodies sparking with what some would later call
  electricity and others would swear was holy fire.
  Elizabeth stumbled to her feet. Dazed, bewildered,
  she wandered away from where Doctor O’Donoghue
  was desperately using magic to try to stop the bleeding
  in William M’Kenna’s legs. Picking her way around
  stones knocked from the church, she found Letty grog-
  gily trying to stand.
  “Oooh,” the leprechaun moaned. “What happened?”
  Letty’s face twisted in horror as full consciousness
  came rushing back.
  “Leafflyer!” she shouted. “He was ridin’ the great
  beastie. I’ve got to get to m’ people!”
  Unsteadily, she began staggering toward the west.
  Elizabeth scooped her up and began to run, letting
  herself become the wind, her feet flying over the grass
  below.
  In minutes, they reached what was left of the lepre-
  chauns’ forest glade. Trees were broken and uprooted. A
  long, deep trench showed where the dragon had plowed
  the ground in its crash landing. The trough ran directly
  through the place where the meeting hall had been. Some
  ways off, the dragon’s body lay, parts of trees sticking out
  from its scales, its blood soaking into the soil.
  “Leafflyer!” Letty cried. “Grassweaver! Is anyone
  alive?”
  “Not many.”
  A leprechaun hobbled from under a bush.
  “Grassweaver!”
  “We were dancin’ the Sacred Rings when the beast
  fell among us. A few escaped, but most were right in its
  path.”
  “An’ Leafflyer?”
  “I had a glimpse o’ him ridin’ the creature down,
  tuggin’ on one ear as if he could turn it away from us.
  It was a valiant death he had.”
  Warriors of Destiny
  
  Dragons Over England
  48
  “Letty,” Elizabeth said, “Can I —”
  “Go back to yur people now, Elizabeth.” The lepre-
  chaun wiped away tears. “Go back to yur people an’
  leave me to bury mine.”
  *    *    *
  Elizabeth trudged out of town under a listless grey
  sky, a pack slung over her back. The acrid smell from
  burned buildings still lingered in the air, over a week
  after the conflagration. She passed the church where
  repairs were well underway, supervised by priests sent
  from Arklow. Many new graves lay like raw wounds in
  the cemetery. Two of them contained her parents.
  She had gone to visit William M’Kenna where he
  was recuperating, a sheet laid over the stumps of his legs.
  “Gavin says he’ll soon have the abracadabras cast on
  a platform he’s building for me,” he told her. “Swears
  I’ll zip around better than I did on what he called my
  ‘fat, middle-aged legs.’ Guess I’ll be using magic after
  all, if I want to get about. Some of the townsfolk are
  getting up a local guard to watch the coast road and the
  farms hereabouts, and they’ve asked me to coordinate
  it. They haven’t found Jeremy Bratton’s body yet and
  some of our village lads haven’t been seen since that
  night at the church, either. We’re thinking they may be
  off playing Warriors of Destiny and we don’t want
  them stirring up more trouble around here. Ah, to think
  I threw in with that lot. What would Janie have said?”
  He paused and looked into Elizabeth’s eyes. “I saw
  her, you know, child. Not just a memory like Tourret
  showed me or what you conjured up in the church; I
  really saw her.
  “When Gavin was working on my legs there by the
  hedge, I sort of floated above and watched him for a bit.
  Then I saw Janie, nothing separating us but a wee
  stream, her standing under the trees on the far side. But
  when I went to cross over to her, she just kept waving
  me back, saying ‘Not yet, not yet.’ Then I woke up here
  without my legs. But I almost made it to her, Elizabeth.
  I almost made it to her.”
  She left then and slipped out of town unnoticed. She
  stopped at the ruined glade.
  “Letty, I’ve come to say goodbye.”
  With a rustling of leaves, the leprechaun emerged to
  sit on a jagged stump a little way off.
  “So yur goin’ travellin’?”
  Elizabeth nodded. “I guess so. Maybe the people
  who made us unhappy will do the same thing in other
  towns and maybe I can show people how things used
  to be, like I did here.”
  “Aye, yur a dreamweaver, that’s for sure. An’ a
  powerful one, too. I haven’t seen such a dreamweaver
  amongst yur people since long before ye brought in the
  machines an’ we lay down to take our great nap.”
  “Doctor O’Donoghue says I have some extra some-
  thing in my body. Is that where my magic comes from?
  ’Cause, you know, Letty, I feel different ever since that
  night —” Elizabeth hesitated, looking around at the
  wrecked glade.
  “Anyway, I feel kind of like something inside me
  came unstuck, like water running through a drain after
  you unstop it. I still have trouble saying words some-
  times, but when I try to remember how to do things, it’s
  easier now. Most of the time, anyway.”
  “I suppose the magic might have been sleepin’ in ye
  an’ when ye needed it badly enough, it woke up. Makes
  no difference, long as ye got it.”
  They sat in silence while a butterfly flitted among the
  broken flowers. Elizabeth saw small mounds like the
  new graves in the churchyard.
  “I’m sorry about your people,” she said softly.
  Letty nodded. “The fairies came to dance over them
  an’ helped me plant seeds amongst them. Fairies aren’t
  such a bad lot, for bubbleheads. Even the banshee came
  to sing a dirge.”
  “I heard it.” Elizabeth said, shivering. She lifted her
  pack. “Well, I’d better go.”
  “Where are ye headin’?”
  “I don’t know. That way, I guess,” she said, pointing
  west.
  The leprechaun sighed and climbed down from her
  stump. Silently, she began plucking leaves from mint
  plants and slipping them into the pouch on her belt.
  “What are you doing, Letty?”
  “Well, I don’t intend to put up with that abomination
  yur people speak all o’ the time. It’s bad enough I’ll be
  hearin’ it from the other Big Feet without listenin’ to
  that squawkin’ at night when we’re alone.”
  “You mean you’ll go with me?” Elizabeth was in-
  credulous.
  “Dreamweaver ye may be, but few Tall Ones are
  likely to pay much attention to what a young one is
  sayin’, especially if they think she’s a bit fairy-brained.
  Ye’ll need someone with experience to teach ye the
  ways o’ the world. Besides, without remindin’, ye’ll
  forget how to walk proper an’ go squashin’ every grass
  blade an’ cowslip beneath yur great feet! Now hoist me
  up onto yur shoulder so I can slip into yur pack if we run
  into anyone.”
  From her friend’s shoulder, Letty surveyed the bro-
  ken glade one last time.
  “I would like to return in the Spring, though, to see
  the flowers bloom over their sleepin’ places.”
  “We’ll come back,” Elizabeth said. “I promise.”
  “Like the Fianna, we’ll come home when Eire’s shores
  are safe, eh, lass?”
  “Who were the Fianna, Letty?”
  They started off across the fields.
  “Ah, dinna yur people teach ye nothin’? Let me tell ye
  about when I was a wee bit younger than I am now … ”
  
  “Aye, you’re right, Fred. Gypsor’s in fine form to-
  night.”
  Bakkeris had to scream to be heard above the sound
  of the crowd. He looked up and over the bar, squinting
  to try and see who Gypsor had targeted tonight. The
  smoke from the dwarven pipes interfered with his
  vision of the scene, but from the way Gypsor swayed
  and smiled, bouncing from hoof to hoof, Bakkeris could
  tell that Gypsor was trying his best to make a favorable
  impression.
  Grabbing a pair of freshly washed mugs and trotting
  over to the keg, Bakkeris pulled the handle, allowing
  the ornately carved ceramic mugs to fill with thick,
  brown ale. He had to smile to himself. A filled tavern,
  a happy clientelle, Gypsor in rut again and a full cash
  box. What more could one ask for? “A few more weeks
  like this one, and we’ll be back in the black. Soon the
  Satyr’s Pub will be ours.”
  He looked back over at Fred, one of the regulars at
  the Pub. In the past few weeks, he had become a good
  friend of the barkeep, always drinking enough to jus-
  tify his permanent spot at the bar, and never causing
  any problems. He also had a good nature about him,
  even if he was a little dull-witted and coarse. “I tell you,
  Bakkeris, you let that half-folk pester your paying
  womenfolk like that, and business’ll go bad.”
  “You’re just jealous that the pretty ones pay more
  attention to someone who’s half goat than someone like
  you, who’s half in the bag.”
  “You know, I should rip out your …” Fred’s brow
  creased as he thought about what word would be most
  appropriate. He thought hard. Real hard. “Give me
  another ale, now,” he mumbled as he took a deep
  drought of the beverage, his previous threat now a
  million miles from his inebriated brain cells.
  Bakkeris turned to pull the filled mugs out from
  under the keg, and carefully navigating around the
  slick spots of spilled ale on the floor, he placed the mugs
  on the bar in front of a pair of centaurs. Bakkeris smiled
  at the one on the left, who was older than his compan-
  ion. His hair, both on head and his horse-half, had
  tinges of grey amongst the fine brown. Bare chested,
  and rippling with muscle, he still could stand up to any
  “pups” who tried to give him trouble.
  “So, Adriag, who’s your young friend?”
  Adriag layed a handfull of small silver coins on the
  bar, and took a deep drink from his mug. Sighing with
  satisfaction, he slapped his companion on the shoulder.
  “Bakkeris, always a fine ale here! This young steed is
  Jonn, my brother’s eldest. I’m out here showing him the
  exciting spots of this fair city of Oxford. At least, after
  we’ve had a few here, first. Isn’t that right, Jonny-boy?”
  The younger centaur seemed uncertain of how to
  respond. He smiled sheepishly, and slowly reached out
  to his mug.
  Bakkeris made a slight hand gesture, murmering,
  “here,” and the pile of coins slid toward the bartender,
  Gypsor’s
  Luck
  Bill Smith
  
  Dragons Over England
  50
  off the bar and into a chute running the length of the bar,
  about one foot below the bar’s top.
  “Handy parlor trick you’ve got there, Bakkeris.”
  Bakkeris looked up with a quick smile. “I’m not
  much one for magic, but that little trick just comes
  naturally to me. Birth magic and all.”
  Taking out his bar rag to wipe off some spilled
  liquid, he leaned over to the younger centaur, and
  whispered, “You’d do well to just relax a little. Have
  fun. Have a few too many. And, if its the ladies you’re
  interested in, go watch Gypsor over there. He’ll teach
  you something if anyone can.”
  Gypsor was closing in for the kill. His twinkling eyes
  were always the bait, but that smile just sealed the deal.
  He could tell tonight he would be … doing well. The
  three human young ladies at the table seemed thor-
  oughly entranced; their dates were not nearly so enter-
  tained.
  The humans were all obviously Core Earthers, prob-
  ably college students taking a break from their studies.
  The one woman who Gypsor was most interested in,
  primarily because her date was obviously the most
  distressed of the bunch, was named Karen. Her striking
  blue eyes and light brown hair made her quite pleasant
  in appearance. Too bad she wasn’t more … compatible.
  “… and then, just as it seemed that the guardsman
  was going to fall for it, my friend Bakkeris over there —
  ” pointing a finger at the thin, balding human at the bar,
  who looked up and waved, as if on cue, “— comes
  around the corner screaming, ‘Gypsor, where the hell
  did you go?’ It was all down hill from there, and I ran
  for my life.”
  The women all laughed, and Karen, in a move delib-
  erately calculated to get her date’s attention, leaned
  over and rubbed the satyr’s hand. The glare Gypsor got
  from the woman’s date, Doug his name was, made him
  all warm inside. “Crash and burn” was the oft repeated
  phrase the half-folk had heard, and that’s exactly where
  Doug was headed.
  Gypsor decided to have a lot more fun with the
  situation. Leaning in to the young woman, my, her
  perfume is effective, he offered, “My lass, let me be back
  in a moment. If you’ll excuse. Can I get your friends a
  drink?”
  He quickly nodded to all of the other people at the
  table, while not taking his eyes from hers. Doug
  grumbled something about a strong ale, and the others
  also ordered some of the Pub’s trademark brew. Karen
  simply smiled and laughed some more.
  As he worked his way back to the bar (ignoring all of
  the calls of other patrons; being a barmaster was so
  difficult), he could hear Karen comment to Doug, “He’s
  so funny and charming …” Bingo!
  Leaning up on the bar, he screamed down to Bakkeris,
  “Hey, Bak, get me five ales and a sleeping dragon, Pronto!”
  A human, probably a factory worker by trade, with
  a flannel shirt and worn blue jeans, asked, “So, is she
  yours?”
  Gypsor cocked his head, and asked, “So you noticed,
  huh?”
  The worker laughed and took a deep drink. “No-
  ticed! I’ve got twenty trades riding on you! Go get her,
  man!” Gypsor heartily slapped the man on the back,
  with a deep laugh, grabbed the tray, and headed back
  across the bar.
  “Here we go, an ale for all of you, and a sleeping
  dragon for the lovely lady.” Gypsor put on his most
  charming smile, as he placed the glass in front of the
  woman. Karen was ready to play along.
  “I didn’t order a drink.”
  “No, my lady, it is on the house. I, Gypsor, your most
  humble and unworthy barmaster for the evening, offer
  it to you. Drink it in good health.”
  The satyr heard Doug mutter, “I don’t believe this.”
  Gypsor quickly excused himself from the table, and
  looked over his shoulder. Doug had grabbed Karen by
  the hand, and, quickly scooping up their jackets, was
  leading his friends out of the bar.
  As soon as the group left, the bar seemed to become
  as silent as a crypt. Gypsor seemed to be the center of
  attention, as he just stood in the center, taking orders for
  drinks. Seconds later, when it was clear that Karen
  wouldn’t be coming back, English pound notes, and
  Ayslish trades and lemays started passing from one
  client to the next on virtually every table, amongst cries
  of, “Damn satyr!” and “I knew he would push his luck
  too far! Now, give me the money!”
  As mid-morning rolled into early afternoon, Bakkeris
  examined the pile of bills in front of him. “Look at this
  — ale permits, tax forms, bank agreements, fire insur-
  ance, magic insurance, liability insurance, bills for new
  mugs and napkins and who knows what! Why didn’t I
  think of this before I got into business?” Gypsor casu-
  ally strolled by, puffing on one of the cigars he had
  bought earlier in the morning.
  “C’mon, boss, you knew we were getting into this.
  Besides, how are we doing money-wise?” He turned
  and pulled out a seat, his hooves clacking on the hard-
  wood floor.
  Bakkeris wiped his brow. “We nothing! You know as
  well as I do that your signature isn’t worth a pile of
  dragon spit. We’re getting by — a few more weeks like
  this, and we’ll be in the clear.”
  Gypsor smiled. “Good! How much did we clear on
  the bets last night?”
  Bakkeris pulled out a bulging pouch, holding it up to
  show its heft. “Nearly 300 lemays for each of us. Every-
  one was sure you were going to show that lass an
  unusual time.”
  “And I will yet, I promise!”
  
  51
  “What do you mean? Do you think her boyfriend
  will ever bring her back here again?”
  “He wasn’t her boyfriend, or at least if he was, he
  isn’t anymore. I took her heart, or at least that’s the way
  she feels. I’m irresistible. Proven fact. Law of nature,
  like magic. That kind of thing.”
  “You know you should have been a minotaur. You’ve
  got more bull in you than most cattle.”
  A few seconds later, the door to the Satyr’s Pub
  opened, to let in some of the cool breezes from outside.
  A human, wrapped in a concealing cloak, entered
  cautiously. Gypsor turned to follow Bakkeris’ gaze, as
  the mysterious figure headed straight for the two.
  Quickly pulling off the hood, Karen smiled and nodded
  at Gypsor. “I wanted to come see you. I wanted to
  apologize for Doug. He normally doesn’t act like that.
  You were so nice, buying that drink for me and all.”
  Gypsor flashed Bakkeris a quick smile, and silently
  mouthed, “I’ll be back later.”
  Bakkeris admonished the satyr, “Oh, no you don’t.
  You’ve got work to do.” Then, to Karen, “I’m sorry, but
  Gypsor has work to do …”
  Gypsor literally leaped from his chair, placing him-
  self between the door and the young woman. Putting
  on his most charming smile, he explained, “Karen, my
  dear, I will be free after three this afternoon. May I call
  upon you then, and where?”
  Bakkeris was content to let the satyr finish his plans
  without an observer. Returning to his stack of papers,
  he once again set about tallying the figures from the
  night before. A few minutes later, Gypsor returned,
  bearing a smile a mile wide. “And this afternoon, I,
  Gypsor, will once again have the delights of female
  companionship. Mithorl once again smiles on me.”
  As Bakkeris set back to work on the finances of the
  Pub and Gypsor returned to cleaning up from the night
  before, a trio of dwarves entered the small tavern. There
  were three of them, each with long beards and of
  indeterminable age. Utilizing his most sophisticated
  mannerisms, Gypsor seated them near the fireplace
  and took their orders for lunch, while Bakkeris took up
  his turn, in the back of the tavern at the fire pit.
  Behind the kitchen doors, and far from prying ears,
  Gypsor commented to Bakkeris that these dwarves
  seemed unusual. “I tell you, Bakkeris, they’re not our
  usual customers. They’re wealthier than you or I can
  imagine. Listen to how they talk, and look at what
  they’re wearing. Gold watches on chains! Finely tai-
  lored suits; probably from London! And, I heard them
  talking about their business — I can’t figure out exactly
  what they do, but whatever it is, it’s a valuable piece of
  work. They’re talking about guards and looking out for
  thieves and trouble-makers. And, if they’re so wealthy,
  what are they doing here? We aren’t exactly an aristo-
  cratic neighborhood around here.”
  Bakkeris sighed with irritation. “Gypsor, my friend,
  you worry too much. They’re just here for a lunch. Be
  yourself, and keep them entertained. If they’re as
  wealthy as you say, you’ll receive a good tip for your
  trouble!”
  Within minutes, the dwarves had a fine meal before
  them, and, from what Gypsor could piece together,
  they were merchants on their way back from London.
  Gypsor was trying his best to be charming without
  being overbearing. This was a finely practiced art for
  him, but he hadn’t dealt much with dwarves, so he
  didn’t know their peculiarities, or what kind of humor
  they appreciated.
  While Gypsor prattled on to the travelers, Bakkeris
  went back to his bookkeeping duties. He tried not to
  eavesdrop on the conversation, but here and there he
  picked up a snippet of conversation. The lead dwarf
  was named Dwurgven, while his companions went by
  the names of Hisgarg and Voladikyn. They seemed to
  be enjoying the satyr’s company (it was hard not to
  appreciate his easy-going nature), so he decided to let
  well enough alone.
  With the meal nearly concluded, the dwarves or-
  dered a last round of ales before heading out on the
  road again. Gypsor, in all of his efforts to be impressive,
  found himself concentrating far too much on charm
  and not enough on dexterity. He nearly tumbled a full
  mug of ale on Hisgarg, but his reflexes helped him catch
  the mug, spilling only a few drops and none of it on the
  customers.
  Gypsor, as was his custom, commented, “Mithorl
  once again smiles on me.”
  This comment piqued the interest of Dwurgven.
  Absent-mindedly adjusting his long, stringy black hair,
  he asked, “Who is this Mithorl you speak of, friend
  satyr?”
  Gypsor was taken aback that any folk, such as hu-
  mans or dwarves, would take any interest in a minor,
  and almost forgotten, god of the half-folk. “Mithorl is
  my true god, the god of revelry, luck and happiness.
  The true god of the satyrs. These days, our kind haven’t
  had much to celebrate, but I feel that we must carry on
  his story.”
  Gypsor’s storytelling skills were at their peak, and
  after Gypsor had related his tale, Dwurgven sat back
  seemingly appreciative of the satyr’s unusual beliefs.
  Gypsor was shocked when Dwurgven casually com-
  mented, “You half-folk and your silly gods! Do you
  really believe in him? I’d never heard of him before I’d
  met you.”
  “Well, of course you haven’t. All your lives you’ve
  been led to believe that my kind are little more than
  savages. Ignorance is bliss and all. Not meaning any
  rudeness, but folk like you are the only ones who can do
  something. Look at the condition of my people. The folk
  can’t even see fit to declare us ‘full-folk.’ We are ‘half-
  folk,’ with not even ‘half-rights.’ Think of it — we have
  no rights that you have. It’s an ancient tactic — if you
  want to exploit someone, just make everyone else be-
  Gypsor’s Luck
  
  Dragons Over England
  52
  lieves they are no more than savages. Ignore their art,
  their culture, their beliefs. Portray them as beasts, and,
  sure enough, they will be treated as such!”
  Dwurgven showed no anger, nor any other emotion.
  He just looked at his other friends, and commented as
  if Gypsor weren’t even present. “Well, no wonder they
  are treated so. No ability to talk rationally; always
  getting emotional when cooler heads are necessary.
  And his belief — a god of revelry, indeed! Sounds like
  some myth that would come out of a wild feast or
  orgy.”
  As he headed back toward the kitchen, Gypsor mut-
  tered, “Mithorl wouldn’t have it any other way, either.”
  He noticed that Bakkeris had retreated to the kitchen.
  As soon as he walked into the back room, his human
  friend grabbed him.
  “Hey, Gypsor, calm down. Relax a little.”
  “Well, I know I shouldn’t blame you, but I’ve got
  every right to be angry about this. I only hope someday
  all of the other folk realize how ignorant their attitudes
  are.”
  “Someday they will my friend. But, for now, keep
  your mouth shut. Let me take care of these people! Stay
  in the back.”
  Gypsor’s eyes widened with half-curiousity, half-
  fear. “What is wrong?”
  Bakkeris stepped back, and looked down at the
  floor, unable to look his friend squarely in the eye. “Did
  you not recognize their accents? It took me a while. At
  first, I thought they were from Haven. Then it dawned
  on me. They’re from Vareth. Then I started to listen to
  their discussions about their business. It wasn’t too
  hard to figure out that they’re …”
  “Slavers.”
  As early evening approached, Bakkeris found him-
  self continually looking at his timepiece. “Where the
  hell is that satyr?” Gypsor had been known to be a little
  late, especially when he was out with a woman, but he
  was almost always on time for work. Almost always.
  That was why he still wasn’t worried.
  That is, until Karen came through the door to the
  Satyr’s Pub. She came up to the human and asked,
  “Where’s Gypsor? I’m supposed to meet him here in a
  few minutes.”
  From Karen’s reaction, Bakkeris could tell that he
  wasn’t hiding his concern well. “Gypsor hasn’t been
  back yet. He was supposed to be here over an hour ago.
  I thought he’d still be with you.”
  Karen blushed quickly, but then concern quickly
  returned to her face. “He left my place about two hours
  ago.”
  Gypsor’s first sensation was that of a rocking motion.
  Not the smooth rocking of a ship at sea, but a sudden
  bumping and jolting. His head seemed to pound with the
  uneven rhythm of the bouncing ride. He’d had hang-
  overs like this before — not often, but once or twice. Now,
  as before, he vowed never to drink again. Wait a minute!
  I wasn’t drinking! I was just going down an alley, when I got
  hit over the head. What have I gotten myself into?
  The satyr opened his eyes. It took him a minute to
  focus, but as things came into view, he wished he had
  never opened his eyes. He was in a slave cage wagon,
  nearly twenty feet long, with iron bars every few inches.
  It was barely tall enough for him to sit upright, no where
  tall enough for him to stand. Around one wrist and one
  ankle was a chain, anchored to the floor the cage.
  Gypsor quickly looked around, and even though it
  hurt immensely to do so, pulled his head up straight to
  get a look at his captors. Two horses pulled the heavy
  cage, with four dwarves in the front seats, two acting as
  drivers, and the other two paying careful attention to
  the “passengers” in the cage. There were maybe 20 of
  them in all, mostly dwarves, but a few gnomes and
  goblins were also penned up. All were chained to the
  floor like Gypsor. Most were asleep, or more likely
  unconscious, and probably thankful for it, too. Gypsor
  was the only half-folk of the bunch.
  The wagon was being pulled along a decaying paved
  road, the pot holes accounting for the rough rocking
  motion. A road sign up ahead read “Moorestock —15.”
  It seemed to be morning, but with the thick haze, he
  couldn’t tell for sure.
  Gypsor felt a trickle of water run down the side of his
  head, and reached up with his unchained hand to wipe
  the mist away; his hand came away covered with blood.
  For once, Gypsor was glad that he didn’t have a mirror
  with him.
  Then he took a closer look at the dwarves. He didn’t
  recognize the two guards, although he did recognize
  the weapons they were toting — they were called “AK-
  47’s” and from what he had heard, they were able to
  spit thousands of hunks of metal in a few seconds. The
  dwarves seemed eager to use them. Gypsor decided
  that he didn’t want to learn anything more about them.
  The one driver he didn’t recognize either, but the
  assistant was none other than Voladikyn. As he stirred,
  one of the guards called out, “The halfie’s awake, sir.
  Shall we club him back down?”
  The dwarf turned to face the satyr, a satisfied grin on
  his face. Grooming his thick red beard with his chubby
  fingers, the dwarf laughed. “No, no. He seems docile
  enough now, aren’t you? Aye, Gypsor, Mithorl has in-
  deed smiled upon you. You are now honored enough to
  become one of our slaves! If you had kept your mouth
  shut at your friend’s tavern, none of this would have
  happened. In the future, you should be more careful
  when you share your political thoughts. But, you know,
  a half-folk with a big mouth will never be missed, and no
  one will take the time to investigate your disappearance.
  You brought this upon yourself. Welcome to your fate!”
  Gypsor passed out again, this time with the evil
  laugh of the dwarf echoing in his ears.
  
  53
  *    *    *
  The previous night at the Satyr’s Pub had been hor-
  rible for Bakkeris. All night he had been tortured by the
  thought of Gypsor in trouble, but he couldn’t just close
  the tavern. He was so anxiety-stricken that he couldn’t
  sleep.
  By now, midmorning, he still didn’t know what to
  do.
  As soon as dawn broke, he began his hunt for his
  friend. First, he called on some of the satyr’s favorite
  haunts. Meeting with no success, he checked in with
  Ardinay’s Home Guard. They had no reports of any
  kind, but thanked him for his effort, and promised to
  look into it “once they had a chance.” From their
  manner, he could tell they wouldn’t have a chance for
  days, or possibly weeks. Bakkeris was infuriated — had
  it been a human, an immediate search would have been
  called. Unfortunately, Gypsor was not a human, and as
  far as the Home Guard in Oxford was concerned, he
  wasn’t even a person. His case would have to wait,
  behind the petty robberies and thefts that troubled
  “important folk.”
  With that, Bakkeris had decided to talk to his bank-
  ing representative, in the hopes of getting a small
  extension on his loan payment. An exhaustive search of
  the city would certainly shut the Satyr’s Pub down for at
  least a couple of days, and that income would make the
  difference between covering the monthly payment and
  foreclosure. The loan officer was courteous, and sym-
  pathetic, but nonetheless unable to grant an extension.
  And now, his troubles overwhelming him, and his
  best friend in the world missing, Bakkeris was unable to
  decide what to do.
  “All I ever wanted was a chance to settle down, and
  enjoy my life, instead of scrounging. If I leave to go look
  for him, I’ll lose everything.” And in that moment of
  self-pity, Bakkeris realized that he really had no choice.
  He locked the door as he left the Pub, headed for the
  “Mixed Quarter,” where the dwarves, and some half
  and lesser folk lived. It was as good a place as any, for
  Gypsor had many friends in those neighborhoods. In
  the window of the Satyr’s Pub was a small, hand-
  lettered sign that read, “Closed Until Further Notice.”
  *    *    *
  Bakkeris wished he’d listened more to Gypsor when
  he’d talked about his adventures in the city. Now he
  found himself in the Mixed Quarter, and he was wor-
  ried that his ignorance of the neighborhood would get
  him into trouble — quickly.
  Bakkeris knew that Gypsor was quite an explorer,
  and seemed to know every nook and cranny of the city.
  By contrast, Bakkeris had gotten over his wanderlust
  when he was younger. These days he tended to stay
  close to the tavern and his apartment over the bar. It
  was a quiet lifestyle, and one he much preferred, for
  three years serving under Uthorion in his various cam-
  paigns had quite beaten the adventurer out of him.
  And now, fate was about to force him into that
  lifestyle again.
  When asking directly about Gypsor proved useless,
  Bakkeris decided to start investigating the slaver angle.
  The encounter with the dwarves were the only unusual
  thing to have happened late, and Gypsor knew the
  streets well enough to avoid random crime. This tack
  was either going to work, or get his throat slit.
  As he turned down another darkened alley, on his
  way to yet another meeting with a shifty merchant he
  knew of, he heard a rattle of garbage cans. He took a
  quick step backward, sinking his foot into a deep puddle
  of cold muck, and he remembered the last time he had
  felt so alone and in danger. A quick moving shadow off
  to his left allowed him to see a flicker of light off a knife
  blade. He started looking for defensive positions, or an
  exit.
  Three figures, tall enough to be humans, emerged
  from behind crates. Two were about twenty feet down
  the alley from him. One was barely five feet from
  Bakkeris, and he cursed himself for not being more
  observant. One of the far figures lowered his hood,
  showing himself to be a young human teen, with stringy
  brown hair and a ruddy complexion. “You’re out of
  your neighborhood aren’t you, old man? Don’t know
  where not to go? That’s okay, ’cause we’ll give you a
  lesson you won’t forget.” The man-child then pulled a
  small pistol out from under his cloak, while the other
  two thieves produced  knives from under their cloaks.
  Bakkeris didn’t want to fight, but he knew that going
  down peacefully would still result in his death. On the
  other hand, his combat training would come in useful.
  He tried to back himself around so that he could watch
  all three of the punks at once, but his reflexes were no
  longer what they once were. The youth nearest him
  grabbed him by the neck, and made a quick flick with
  the knife blade, leaving a trail of blood down Bakkeris’
  left forearm. The gun-wielded thief laughed menac-
  ingly, as Bakkeris tried to think of some way to get
  himself out of this situation. He twisted quickly, shift-
  ing the lower half of his body to the right, throwing the
  punk over his hip and into a pile of garbage. The punk
  got one last slash in, and it dug deeply into him, but
  there was one less thief to worry about, at least for the
  immediate future.
  The gun-wielding youth laughed again, with a taunt.
  “So, the old man wants to fight. Cut him, Robert!” As
  the other knife-wielding thief closed in on Bakkeris, a
  blast of light exploded in the alleyway — someone’s
  portable light spell had chosen this moment to mal-
  function and cease working. Taking advantage of his
  tremendous luck, Bakkeris rushed the thief, who was
  momentarily blinded by the flash. Tumbling back into
  the other thief, the knife dropped at Bakkeris’ feet while
  Gypsor’s Luck
  
  Dragons Over England
  54
  the gun went spinning into the air, landing in a pile of
  garbage.
  Bakkeris leaped for the gun, but was tackled by the
  first thief that had injured him. He felt a sharp sensation
  in his back as the boy thrust the blade into him. Blindly
  swiping back with the captured blade, Bakkeris knew
  he made contact as a shrill scream broke the air of the
  alley. Bakkeris tried to see what had happened, and
  saw the boy holding his abdomen. Then, he looked to
  where the gun and landed, and found himself staring
  down the barrel of the pistol, levelled at his forehead by
  one of the youthful punks. Bakkeris prepared for the
  death blow and closed his eyes, but the scream was not
  his. Looking up, he saw that the boy had dropped the
  gun as an arrow had pierced his hand.
  The boys seemed ready to surrender now that an
  unknown foe had joined the battle. They pulled back
  down the alley, as a deep voice announced, “Run back
  to your mothers to nurse your wounds, little human
  pups.”
  With the boys long gone, a solitary figure emerged
  from the shadows, bearing a short bow and a quiver of
  arrows.
  He was a satyr. He had dark brown hair, a little
  darker than Gypsor’s. He was also younger, probably
  not even out of his teens yet. Aside from his bow, he had
  a sword and knife scabbarded about his waist.
  “You almost died, you know. Not even carrying a
  knife. Not a wise thing to do around here.”
  Bakkeris was trying to think of an appropriate re-
  sponse, but all he could get out was, “I know. Thank
  you.”
  The satyr seemed to have a sly grin on his face.
  Extending a chubby hand, he helped the human back
  up to his feet. “I’m Bendas. I noticed you wandering
  around a few blocks back, and figured you might get
  into a … situation like this. You know, you really stand
  out around here.”
  Bakkeris looked incredulously at the satyr. “And
  you don’t? And besides, I didn’t want to come down
  here, but I’m looking for someone.”
  Bendas went to search for the pistol and the dropped
  knives. He found them, and wiping the blood off the
  blades, he handed them to Bakkeris. He pocketed the
  pistol for himself. The satyr’s eyes were lit up with
  curiousity. “That is interesting. You think that if the
  dwarves know anything they’ll tell you?”
  “For a price.”
  “You got that right. Give me a few coins, and I can
  clue you in.”
  “Look, Bendas, I appreciate your help. I’m indebted to
  you. But, I’ve got things I’ve got to do, and I don’t have
  time to play games. So, if you don’t mind, I want to get out
  of this alley before the Home Guard shows up.”
  Bakkeris managed to get halfway down the alley
  when he heard the satyr call out, “It’s about the satyr
  that got clubbed yesterday, isn’t it?”
  Bakkeris turned to face this ever mystifying indi-
  vidual. “You know about Gypsor?”
  “So that’s his name? Yeah, I know something about
  him. You really set the underworld around here spin-
  ning. Asking around about ‘buying a couple of slaves,
  and where you could get one.’ No one’s going to believe
  that someone dressed like you is going to be buying
  slaves. And coming straight to this neighborhood. That’s
  like screaming, ‘Hey, all you dwarves, I know you’re all
  slavers, so come help me or else.’ Not a polite thing to
  do. You were lucky these common thieves got to you
  before some of the hired help found you.
  “Anyway, I found out about what happened. Your
  friend was kidnapped by a dwarven slaving company.
  He’s being sent to the mines of Moorestock, in Wales.
  This wasn’t easy to find out, you understand?”
  “Okay, Bendas, I’m doubly indebted to you. What
  do you want?”
  “Let me help. This may seem strange, but your
  friend is well known among our kind. Think of it as
  kind of my job to make sure he’s okay, at least for now.
  There’s a lot in it for me, so don’t think I’m doing it for
  charity.”
  Bakkeris considered the stranger’s words. “Motiva-
  tion is not what matters, it’s action. I could use your
  help. I guess it’s off to Moorestock.”
  The grinding screech of metal on metal no longer
  registered in Gypsor’s fatigued mind. Between the
  injuries sustained in his abduction, and the fatigue of
  the ten hour work day, he was incapable of anything
  beyond reactive thought. He no longer thought — he
  just understood and acted.
  He pushed another cart up the steep rails. This was
  his tenth trip of the day, his first day in the mines. Each
  journey, over a half mile up an unyielding incline, had
  taken a tremendous toll on the spirit of the satyr. His
  first day. He wondered how many more days there
  would be.
  Each trip brought a fortune of nearly incalculable
  worth to the surface, feeding the coffers of the Vareth
  slavers. The ore carts were filled with precious gems,
  including diamonds, rubies and emeralds, but the satyr
  seemed immune to the charm of the wealth he moved.
  He considered himself lucky. It was grueling work,
  but he could handle it. He was surprised to see how
  quickly his military conditioning returned to him. He
  was thankful as well. He could have been sentenced to
  permanent mine duty, which was even more grueling
  and certainly more dangerous, with hardly any food or
  water, and certainly no chance of escape. Now, with his
  assignment, he might be able to escape.
  He had quickly learned the rules of the slave camp.
  He learned to ignore the pleadings and complaints of
  those around him. The dwarven guards had already
  shown an incredible callousness toward life, from those
  of the dwarves to that of the lesser and half folk. The
  
  55
  guards had made it clear that nothing was to stand in
  the way of production. This was graphically made clear
  to him, and all of the other new slaves, during one of his
  early trips.
  When he arrived at the bottom of the mine shaft and
  began shoveling the gems into the cart, Gypsor saw that
  one of the goblins had fallen. Gypsor could easily see
  the severity of the injury, and the guards had brought
  the poor creature to the rails, near Gypsor’s mine cart,
  where a healer had been summoned. After a cursory
  examination, the healer had declared that the slave
  would die within the day, and it wasn’t worth bringing
  him into town for healing. The guards dragged the
  slowly dying goblin over to Gypsor’s fully loaded ore
  cart, and just threw the body on top of the gems, with
  a gruff, “Get that body out of here before it starts
  stinking up the place.”
  Gypsor heard the dying creature’s dying words.
  “Kalim, help me …”
  Kalim. A lesser folk god of corruption. But, a god
  who had promised to protect the faithful nonetheless.
  Kalim, Dunad, Shali and all of the other gods of Aysle
  … even Mithorl. They had promised to protect. How
  much the people of Aysle had given in the name of
  religion, and how little they had received.
  Where indeed had the gods and their promises of
  protection gone?
  *    *    *
  Moorestock was a small village, with little more than
  a few dozen houses, a small market, and a pair of pubs.
  This particular evening was foggy and damp, and
  Bakkeris felt chilled to the bone, despite the thick cloak
  he wore. Bendas showed no signs of discomfort, but
  instead pranced about with excitement.
  The two of them were an odd combination — one, a
  retired foot soldier turned tavern keeper, and the other,
  a young urban adventurer. Bakkeris was here out of
  duty, friendship and more than a little guilt; Bendas’
  motivations remained a mystery. They had come to
  take on almost impossible odds, to tempt fate and all
  that might be. To possibly die to save a friend. It seemed
  so noble in the myths, and so frightening now that he
  was living the life. One thing that his years of combat
  experience taught him was that skill had very little to
  do with survival on the field of battle. More often than
  not it was pure, blind, stupid luck.
  The worst part of the situation was that they had
  convinced themselves that they were ready to take on
  a group of dwarven slavers, probably sanctioned by
  House Vareth itself.
  Bakkeris could see that the cold had finally gotten to
  the young satyr. “Well, my friend, it seems we have
  arrived. Our best bet is to lie low and stay out of sight.
  Once we spot one of the dwarven slavers, then we can
  simply follow them back to the mines, and proceed
  from there. A good plan?”
  “The best we can hope for.”
  Picking a grove of trees not far from the village, the
  two travelers set up a quick camp. It was far enough
  from the village that a camp fire wouldn’t attract any
  attention, and while they had to walk nearly a mile to
  get close enough to observe the village, the security was
  a fair trade.
  Bakkeris took first watch shift and carefully made
  his way toward the village. After several hours of
  watching through his spyglass, with no sign of the
  dwarves, the town quieted down. He knew that things
  were shutting down for the night and there was no
  point in a continued vigil. Besides, one would have to
  watch the other while they slept so they wouldn’t be
  attacked by any animals or creatures.
   When Bakkeris returned to camp, Bendas’ hunt had
  turned out to be successful and he had already cooked
  a rabbit stew. With the stew and hardtack consumed,
  Bakkeris finally spent some time learning about his
  companion. Bendas seemed to be the most driven indi-
  vidual he had ever met. Most people seemed to wander
  through life, falling into whatever they managed to
  stumble upon. Bendas, from his tales of wandering
  Upper Aysle as a young teenager, to his stories of his life
  in England since the invasion, seemed to have a certain
  sense of destiny about him. It was not that the satyr was
  even aware of this, it was just that his events all seemed
  interrelated somehow, by a sense of constant knowl-
  edge and luck. And, for a satyr, he was remarkably
  sedate.
  Finally the conversation turned to religion. Bendas
  looked at the campfire rather than Bakkeris. “Tell me,
  Bakkeris, whom do you worship?”
  “No one.”
  “You don’t worship a god? That’s unusual for a
  human.”
  “Bendas, from what I’ve seen, I have no reason to
  believe that the gods care about us. I was raised to
  believe in Dunad, and it was explained that it was my
  duty to Dunad to join the armies and fight for the honor
  and glory of Aysle. Little did I know that the honor
  included slaughtering children in their beds, and kill-
  ing enemy troops who surrendered. After that I came to
  the conclusion that the gods, if they existed at all, were
  too busy to care about us. There is too much suffering
  in this, and all of the other worlds.”
  “Bakkeris, you are a bitter man. Do you not believe
  in a higher purpose?”
  “Oh, I believe in a purpose. But it is a purpose that we
  must take upon ourselves. It is entirely in our hands. If we
  become evil, it is not because of the gods; it is because of
  a choice we have made. If we save this world, it is because
  of a choice we have made. I, for one, am done making
  those choices, for they always seem to be the wrong ones.
  And what of you, who do you worship?”
  “In many ways, I feel aligned to Mithorl, the satyr
  god. There is more to it though. I feel we make our own
  Gypsor’s Luck
  
  Dragons Over England
  56
  gods, and, when we do, they are real; they are in us. I
  agree that our fate is truly in our hands and not some-
  one else’s. I must rest now, Bakkeris, my most intrigu-
  ing friend.”
  The night passed uneventfully. As morning ap-
  proached, they took up their positions just outside the
  village. The unlikely partners watched the town for
  several hours, by which time the morning mist had
  burned off. It had turned into a fine, but chilly, fall day.
  Finally Bendas exclaimed, “I think our quarry has
  revealed itself!”
  Bakkeris followed Bendas’ directives, adjusting his
  spyglass to look far down the road. Over his right
  shoulder he could hear Bendas commenting on the
  scene. “It’s those three dwarves coming into town. One
  of them has been injured and must be a slave. Look at
  the rags he wears. I bet they’re bringing him to a healer.
  But look at the other two dwarves — see the objects
  bulging in their packs. You can see the rifle barrels.
  They’ve had to hide them going into town. Fortunately
  for us, it will take them a few moments to get those rifles
  out of the packs.”
  “Bendas, what are you talking about? You sound
  like you want to attack them. That wasn’t the plan!”
  “Come, Bakkeris, look at the situation. The slave will
  be able to guide us there, and tell us what they’re
  defenses are like. Besides, if we can stop them now, we
  won’t have to fight them at the mine. Follow me!”
  Without another word, the satyr was running to-
  ward the road and the hiding spot they had found the
  previous day. Bakkeris didn’t like the idea of changing
  plans like this, but Bendas’ logic sounded reasonable.
  The two companions carefully crept up to an ideal
  hiding spot along the road. A series of high reeds gave
  them excellent cover. Bendas gave Bakkeris the pistol,
  while he notched an arrow into his short bow. Being
  careful to stay out of sight of passing farmers and
  townsfolk, they still had to wait at least an hour for the
  dwarves to return the way they had come.
  The dwarven guards marched right up to the reeds,
  with no awareness of the ambush that was waiting for
  them. The taller dwarf, on the left, was discussing the
  merits of the new slaves that had been brought in. He
  was in mid-sentence when Bendas counted a silent
  “three” and the ambush was sprung. The dwarf on the
  right went down as a bullet struck him just below the
  chin, while the other dwarf was taken out by an arrow
  in the chest. It took less than ten seconds for Bendas and
  Bakkeris to drag the bodies into the reeds, where they
  could be hidden. The startled slave didn’t know what to
  say, but simply nodded when the two attackers told
  him that he had been freed from his slavery. The dwarf
  was still too terror-struck to respond when asked about
  the location of the mine, but after a few minutes, he
  reluctantly agreed to lead the human and satyr to the
  mine entrance.
  *    *    *
  With some prompting from the dwarf, Bakkeris and
  Bendas decided to scout the mine area from a small hill
  nearby. It was close enough to allow observation of the
  mining in process, but far enough away that guards
  seldom patrolled the area.
  As the trio watched the slaves pushing carts filled
  with gems, Bendas realized that he had stumbled upon
  a fortune. He started pumping the dwarf, Indric, for
  information. The poor dwarf barely had time to answer
  one question before another was thrown in his direc-
  tion. Bakkeris quickly learned that the gemstones
  weren’t natural to the area, but there did seem to be a
  wealth of them. He surmised that they were created
  during the axiom wash. Once the gems were discov-
  ered by the dwarves, the Vareths, led by Dwurgven,
  quickly set up a slave mining operation. Dwurgven
  wasn’t actually present most of the time, leaving the
  management of the mine to Voladikyn. There were at
  least a dozen armed guards on duty at all times, with
  about half at ground level and half beneath the surface.
  Bendas noted that the layout of the mine was simple,
  and not truly geared toward defense. The mine itself
  was a simple hole in the ground, with rails running
  from a loading ramp on the surface into the mine. There
  were two modern trucks parked at the loading dock,
  one appearing to be partially full. There were two
  buildings, both approximately the same size. The nearer
  one seemed to be the quarters for the guards, as many
  off-duty guards milled about the area freely. The fur-
  ther building, Bendas surmised, was home to the slaves.
  Ringing the entire area were poles nearly thirty feet tall
  and topped by powerful Earther spotlights. Bakkeris
  spotted the small power generator, situated behind the
  loading ramp.
  About every half hour, a pair of carts would emerge
  from the mine, loaded with gems. It was then that the
  two schemers both spotted Gypsor. “There he is! He
  looks like he’s surviving, at least,”Bakkeris explained.
  Bakkeris quickly formed a plan. “First, we should
  use these new rifles to eliminate the guards on the
  surface. If we are lucky, we can also get Voladikyin. We
  should wait until they are changing shifts, since that’s
  when it will be most difficult for the guards to control
  the slaves. In the confusion, we may be able to sneak
  into the compound. We may have to sweep the mines,
  but if we can set the slaves free in an open revolt, we
  may be able to force the guards to surrender.”
  It was late in the evening before the next change of
  shifts. The dwarves had activated the spotlights that
  ringed the mining camp, lighting the entire area. While
  the dark would provide superior cover for the initial
  assault on the guards, it was quite likely to be a hin-
  drance if they had to fight their way into the mines.
  Bendas checked over both guns, making sure that
  the ammo clips were full and the guns hadn’t been
  
  57
  damaged in the combat earlier that day. He gave
  Bakkeris a quick tutorial in the use of the automatic
  rifle, and hoped the human would catch on quickly. He
  would have to.
  The half-dozen guards suddenly changed their pa-
  trol route, diverting two to the slaves’ quarters, and the
  other four going to the mine entrance. It was then that
  Bakkeris knew it was time to act. Bendas was ready to
  open fire every second, but Bakkeris wanted to wait
  until Gypsor was outside, and out of harm’s way.
  First the slaves coming into work were lead to the
  entrance of the mine. Numbering about fifty, most of
  them were dwarves, although there were a few goblins,
  as well. All of the poor slaves looked to be in wretched
  health, and a few had obvious injuries, as they walked
  with pronounced limps or leaned to one side. They had
  only rags for clothing and were chained together.
  As they reached the entrance to the mine, they were
  released from their chains and forced at gunpoint into
  the mine. Then the workers whose shift was complete
  were brought out, escorted by yet another guard. Bat-
  tered and bloody from their work, many showed inju-
  ries they had received, apparently on that shift. One of
  the dwarves fell to his knees, and pointed to his calf,
  begging for mercy. His leg had a huge wound, and it
  looked like it was becoming infected. One of the dwarven
  guards called the healer over to take a look — and
  circled around behind the dwarf, clubbing the helpless
  slave over the head with the butt of his rifle. That act of
  cruelty was too much for Bakkeris to stand. “This is too
  much. Let us act now.”
  Bakkeris and Bendas sighted their guns, Bakkeris
  taking aim on the guard who had just clubbed his
  fellow dwarf, while Bendas was concentrating on a
  group of five guards standing just outside the entrance.
  They opened fire.
  Gypsor was near the mine entrance, and was looking
  forward to a reprieve from the hard labor. That was
  when he heard the thundershots, which took him a
  second to recognize as shoots from the dwarves’ guns.
  He could see out into the lit compound, and saw three
  guards fall. His fatigued mind raced as he finally fig-
  ured out that the camp was under attack. The slaves
  outside fell to the ground, trying to take cover from
  whatever they could, while the four surviving guards
  pulled back into the cave entrance.
  One guard, seeing the perplexed look on the satyr’s
  face, screamed, “This is none of your concern, dirt
  slave. Back into the mines.” With that, Gypsor felt a rifle
  butt smack him under the chin, and he fell flat on his
  back in the dirt.
  Up on the hillside, Bakkeris saw that the attack had
  started well, but things looked like they might deterio-
  rate quickly. “The slaves are trapped in the open, and
  Gypsor hasn’t come out yet. I thought we’d get most of
  the guards at first. Now what do we do?”
    Bendas, wild-eyed from the excitement of battle,
  ordered Bakkeris down the hill. “We must go around to
  the sides. They can’t shoot us from here, but we can’t get
  them either. We need to draw them out or else it will just
  be a standoff. We need to knock out their lights.”
  Bakkeris led the way, counting on his years of wil-
  derness training to get him through the darkness. The
  guards, still unsure of where the attack had come from,
  hadn’t fired blindly into the darkness. He had to be
  silent, for if he tripped or made any other noise, the
  guards would be able to gun him down. Easing down
  the hill, he checked for roots, loose rocks, or anything
  else that might cause him to trip and reveal his position.
  Bendas seemed to lack his companion’s caution, but
  still managed to navigate the hill with no trouble, as he
  hopped on his goat-feet from rock to rock without a
  misstep.
  As he approached the perimeter of the camp, Bakkeris
  aimed at the power generator and fired. Suddenly, a
  huge explosion lit the night sky, and a ball of flame
  reached skyward. Electrical energy was unleashed in
  the open air, and fragments from the generator cut into
  Bakkeris’ skin. For a second, his position, and that of
  Bendas, was revealed to the guards in the mine, and
  they opened fire on the two attackers. Bakkeris dropped
  to the ground just as the first rounds richoted off the
  rocks behind him. He heard Bendas scream in pain
  behind him.
  As the fire died down near the power generator, he
  screamed back to Bendas. “How badly are you hurt?”
  It took a second, but Bendas replied,
  “It just knocked me silly for a second. Got me in the
  arm. Hurts … but I’ll live.”
  Bakkeris decided that the best cover was available in
  the backs of the trucks. Running at full tilt, he jumped
  onto the side of the truck, trying to scramble over the
  side before the guards in the mine saw where he had
  gone. Just as he threw his left leg over the lip of the
  dump truck, he felt a sharp pain in his right calf.
  Looking down, he saw the dwarven healer had some-
  how snuck up on him, and stabbed him with his dag-
  ger. The surprise of the attack made him lose his grip on
  the truck, and as his rifle clattered into the gems inside
  the back of the track, he fell flat on top of the dwarf.
  Scrambling for the knife, which had fallen out of the
  dwarf’s now-crushed hand, Bakkeris settled for several
  blows to the jaw and temple.
  The battle done, Bakkeris set to crawling back within
  the truck. However, the previous incident revealed his
  position, and as he crawled over the top of the truck, he
  was greeted with several bursts of automatic rifle fire,
  all of which bounced off the side of the truck. Un-
  scathed, but shaken, he landed on a pile of jewels the
  likes of which he had never seen before in his life.
  Gypsor’s Luck
  
  Dragons Over England
  58
  Gypsor saw the huge explosion, and the highlighted
  form of Bakkeris and his satyr companion. “By Mithorl,
  he has come to save me!” As Bakkeris climbed into the
  back of the truck, Gypsor saw that his human friend
  had left himself terribly exposed. The four guards had
  taken cover behind a mining cart just at the entrance to
  the mine, and their aim was almost true. A split second
  later, and Bakkeris would have died. It was then that
  the satyr noticed the empty mine cart not fifty feet
  down the mineshaft.
  Carefully pulling himself to his knees, he crawled back
  to the empty cart. Bracing himself properly, he started to
  push. With each step, he placed more power and more
  speed in each of his strides, gaining momentum.
  The guards were caught completely unaware when
  the mine cart smashed into them. However, the effect
  was exactly as Gypsor intended. Two lay unconcious,
  and probably dead from the way their bodies arched.
  The other two were crippled with pain, but Gypsor
  quickly ended their lives with a burst of fire from their
  dropped and forgotten rifles.
  Just as Gypsor was ready to go outside, gunfire once
  again rang in his ears, this time coming from deep in the
  mine shaft. Gypsor knew at once that the guards were
  killing the other slaves. Grabbing a rifle, he started
  pushing the mining cart back down the shaft. Just then
  he was joined by another satyr, much younger than he.
  “Hello, Gypsor! It is a grand adventure we are in, is it
  not?”
  Gypsor studied the face for a second, for it was eerily
  familiar. Then as he and his mysterious new compan-
  ion simultaneously jumped into the mine cart, Gypsor
  muttered, “My god …”
  “Nope, just an avatar. Oh, duck, by the way!” Pulling
  Gypsor down, the mine cart steadily picked up mo-
  mentum. Bendas readied his weapon. The two listened
  for the sound of gunshots, and they steadily got louder
  and louder as the cart raced down the shaft. Finally, the
  shots were very clear, and they leaped up, opening fire
  on the completely surprised dwarven guards.
  Leaping from the cart into the shaft, they saw little
  else beyond the blackness of unconsciousness.
  *    *    *
  Gypsor awoke with a start. He was in a bed, back at
  his apartment above the Satyr’s Pub. His head was
  bandaged, and hurt like, well, a hangover. Sitting at his
  side was Karen (Oh, how am I going to get rid of her?),
  while Bakkeris and Bendas sat on chairs at the foot of
  the bed.
  “I’m alive, you’re alive; I’m home, and …,” looking
  at Bendas, “… you’re…” Bendas put his fingers to his
  mouth in a Shhh! motion, and Gypsor ended with,
  “…someone I haven’t met yet.”
  Bakkeris explained, “My friend, this is Bendas. He is
  responsible for saving your life. He has got to be the
  luckiest person I’ve ever met. When we attacked the
  camp, he was out in the open. Should’ve bought a plot
  in the cemetery for that boy, but he saved your life
  down there. When you jumped out of that mine car,
  your broke one of your ribs and punctured your lung.
  He managed to use the healer’s medicines and bring
  you back to life. Damndest thing I ever saw.”
  Gypsor had a million and one questions he wanted
  to ask. Bakkeris was already several steps ahead of him.
  “We’ve still got the Pub because of those jewels that
  they were mining. The rest we gave to the families of the
  slaves — most of them survived, thanks to you. Then,
  we called in the town militia and threatened to bring
  Lady Ardinay’s army into town to do a sweep of the
  slavers in the area if they didn’t do it themselves. It is
  truly amazing what happened over there.”
  Gypsor was overwhelmed by it all, but first he had to
  talk to Bendas alone. “Bakkeris, Karen, honey,”—
  CRINGE! — “could you excuse me and Bendas for a
  minute.”
  When the two satyrs were alone, Bendas started
  explaining. “I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m
  not Mithorl, exactly. I’m a part of him, and I was sent
  here to look out for you.”
  “Why me?”
  “Because you really believe. You’re one of the last
  and I, he needs you. He wanted you to know that he
  cares for his people. And, besides, without worship-
  pers to host great feasts and orgies, things just aren’t
  what they should be.”
  “Bendas, thank you.”
  “It was all part of my job. I’ll see you … sometime.”
  With that, the smiling satyr seemed to change form,
  become a ball of pulsing blue energies. The form seemed
  to expand slightly, and give a hum, and then it slid into
  and through the ceiling. For the first time in a very long
  time, Gypsor felt fulfilled.
  
  She had a quick hand, and that saved her.
  One moment, Lieutenant Muriel Guinne had been
  deep in conversation with the Captain, hunched over
  the soggy back of her mount, paying negligent atten-
  tion to the heath on which they rode. The next she was
  tilting backwards as the mare reared frantically away
  from a wild boar erupting almost underneath her
  hooves.
  Cause and effect fragmented. Not wild, flashed her
  brain, they wear the red pennants of battle-trained beasts.
  The thoughts came even as frenzied whinnies sounded
  on all sides. Her fingers caught, clung to a fistful of
  mane; gleaming tusks slashed at her ankle, and she
  could smell the sharp musk of angry animal, close —
  and feel simultaneously the bunching of muscles under
  her. A scream rose, agonizingly close, and the whfff and
  thud of a crossbow quarrel hitting home, and she was
  flying, her own hair and the mare’s mane whipping her
  eyes to tears as she struggled to see.
  Ambush!
  Her knees tightening painfully on the horse’s heav-
  ing flanks, the Lieutenant felt blindly for the loose rein.
  She caught the slim leather strap in her free hand, but
  kept her hold on the thick hair of the mane. Was that
  pursuit, or another bolting soldier thundering behind
  her? The Lieutenant twisted in her saddle, pulling the
  mare’s head around with her. Her heart thundered on,
  even as her mount slowed. Close on her flank, the
  Captain fought his own mount’s head.
  “‘A’ tuirc dubh!” she cried, forgetting that he spoke
  no Gaelic.
  “Regroup!” he ordered, and swung around to face
  the ambush site.
  The once-desolate heath writhed with activity. The
  Lieutenant guessed, with sick certainty, that their en-
  emy outnumbered the living members of the Company
  more than two to one. Knots of men struggled in the
  grayish light, their gestures desperate. Laying her heels
  hard into the mare’s sides, the Lieutenant charged back
  into the fray.
  The Captain tucked his crossbow against his saddle-
  brace as he rode, and cranked back the string in rapid,
  economical motions. The Ayslish in the Company were
  crossbowmen, every one. That thought gave the Lieu-
  tenant hope — they could shoot quarrels more rapidly
  than she had seen farmers shoot rabbits, back in the old
  times before the invasion.
  Her talents lay elsewhere. As she rode, Muriel Guinne
  shivered as always she did when she began to channel
  the fey blood that was her curse, and her only weapon.
  Training should have made it easier, but it did not.
  In her mind’s eye, she read the spell from stained
  vellum. Gripping with her knees only, she loosed her
  hold on reins and horse hair. Up! her arms lifted, the
  one for balance, the other sketching jerky, whirling
  motions in the air.
  Three Soldiers
  Douglas Kaufman
  
  Dragons Over England
  60
  A tingle like static electricity along her nape told her
  that the spell was charged. Even as she aimed the metal
  coin in her fist, deep in the Lieutenant’s mind the awful
  knowledge that she was using magic smoldered and
  burned at her soul.
  There! A huge boar paused in its charge to snort
  indignation at its victim. The Lieutenant flung her left
  hand, first two fingers and thumb outstretched.
  At the snap of her wrist, the coin leapt forward. Ah
  well, another five pence lost.
  Simultaneously, Muriel felt a moment’s tearing pres-
  sure, as if the tips of her fingers were caught in suction
  tubes — as if the nails and the skin were being ripped
  away. She had steeled herself against the pain, and still
  she gasped. But even as the breath hissed through her
  lips, the sensation was gone, replaced by the throb of
  blood rushing back into her digits.
  The gobbet of force, small, silver, fast in a way her
  mind still skirted uncomfortably — it was not a coin
  any longer, it was a weapon, and magically powered —
  the gobbet of force slammed on target, into the broad
  flank of the boar. The boar bowled sideways.
  Scrambling to his feet, the Ayslish soldier that was its
  target did not look to see if the enemy was merely
  wounded or actually dead. He lunged for his horse’s
  bridle. The Lieutenant, too, charged on, looking for
  another target.
  There! A pair of hideous swine gored a fallen mount,
  while the trapped bowman valiantly cranked his
  weapon for a final shot. Right, and left again, Muriel
  recited, and swung, and flung her bullets. The two
  spells, worked nearly on top of one another, all but
  seared her fingertips with the heat of fast metal. Muriel
  clenched her jaw to contain a groan, and squinted to see
  how true was her aim.
  The shrill squeal of a wounded boar sounded coun-
  terpoint to the bullets’ airless whistle, but the second
  beast held its ground. The Lieutenant circled her arm to
  fire again.
  Too fast to see, dark streaked with gold plunged
  from the sky. The soldier screamed. Heavy wings beat
  against his back and head; sharp talons rent his chest.
  The Lieutenant turned away from his death cry.
  And looked up at her own attacker! She had an
  impression of huge weight, a crimson flash — then she
  loosed the bullet.
  The bird screamed just above her, deafening. Blood-
  wet feathers rained down upon her. Pinions rasped
  against her temple.
  The bird did not strike. It angled away, flying low
  and heavy.
  “Air attack!” she screamed. The mare needed no
  urging to gallop, and the Lieutenant let her mount have
  her head.
  No men opposed them. Tardily, her brain made the
  observation. There were the black boars below, huge
  eagles above … but no men. Somehow, that made the
  ambush all the more devastating. They were merely
  beasts, which struck and struck again, showing no
  mercy.
  Half a hundred of the Company, Muriel estimated,
  had been lost in the first seconds, their horses broken
  and gored, their riders pulled down into a maelstrom of
  fiery-eyed death. Others of the Company fled acciden-
  tally into the deceptively flat landscape of the moor.
  In the best of times, the bleak landscape bore the
  pocks of sudden pools, of solid-looking peat that sank
  under a man’s weight, of shifty, glacier-tumbled boul-
  ders crusted in dank moss. Since Uthorion’s sundering,
  there were patches even more sinister, where Aysle-
  outer, as Muriel’s teacher had termed it, still held sway.
  Muriel saw the Captain ahead of her, attempting to
  rally the Company. But their attackers were too thor-
  ough. Whichever way he turned, the boars hammered
  the soldiers out of formation. Whatever organization
  he accomplished, the eagles splintered into bursts of
  fleeing men. There was no place to hide or defend in the
  broad, blasted valley of the moor. Troops charged
  away, and dropped out of sight impossibly fast.
  Faster than she could repeat her only spell, a brace of
  eagles harried her east, and east again. A boar charged,
  and her bullet spanged off a stone, wide of its mark. The
  mare stumbled. The Lieutenant was thrown.
  She landed with a fusillade of scratches in a tuft of
  heather, the mad, red eyes of her enemy bearing down
  on her, no coins left to hand and no time or strength
  anyway to call another spell. Muriel waited for death.
  The boar charged, its rank smell overpowering, its
  fetid breath fogging the wet air as it came — whfff! and
  the tearing thud of bronze-tipped wood driven power-
  fully into flesh.
  Blood foamed in the gaping jaws.
  The boar took four more strides, stumbled, then
  cartwheeled over its own shoulder as its heart pumped
  and the blood ran out of its veins. Its rough hind leg
  kicked limply into her ankle. Then it was still.
  The echo of its hoofs resolved into the drumming of
  a horse’s gait. Looking up, still numb, the Lieutenant
  glimpsed a familiar Ayslish uniform.
  “Muriel! Lieutenant …. Are you hurt?”
  Mentally, Muriel felt the sag of relief. Not only was
  she, herself, saved, but the question she had not dared
  to form, that of her lover’s health, was blessedly an-
  swered as well. Pether was alive!
  He had survived, and won through to her side
  across the hideous beasts and the chaos of the battle-
  field. Joy dizzied her. She drew in great gulps of air,
  finally remembered to answer his question. “I’m
  still breathing.”
  “Hop up, then, there’s more chasing this way.” He
  offered his arm, and she gripped it, set her foot atop his,
  and swung up onto the horse behind him.
  “My mare.”
  “We’ll see if we can catch her.”
  
  61
  The Lieutenant look back over her shoulder. The
  heather was trampled and broken so that she could see
  the boars that came after them now. They could outrun
  the beasts, but they were alone. The Company was
  scattered. She held on tightly to her rescuer’s waist.
  “Have you seen the Captain?” she yelled at the back
  of his head, over the pounding of her heart and the
  horse’s hooves.
  “Aye, not long past. I think we’re on his trail.”
  Muriel felt the tension of battle drain from her, to be
  replaced by the huge weight of loss. Pether guided the
  horse by whatever instincts and knowledge he had,
  and she did not notice their passage.
  Instead, her mind replayed the events, like movies,
  on the black screen of her closed lids. Why had she not
  recognized the moorscape of her earlier nightmares?
  What use was a seer who could not read her own
  prophecies? Bitterly, Muriel wished that Tolwyn of
  Tancred had not assigned her to the Company at all, but
  had left her in Glasgow to rot.
  The trapped soldier’s death scream echoed in her
  head. Her fault, his death was. Her fault all their
  deaths.
  They had been more than 100 strong, and now they
  were two.
  “Don’t moan, sweetling. You should know we
  Ayslish aren’t so easily vanquished,” Pether tried to
  cheer her. “Your first ambush, is it?”
  “I killed them all.”
  “Nay, they’ve just scattered into the hills. Look there,
  a broken stem, and there. That cobble’s recently turned.
  The Captain passed this way. We’ll find him.”
  “And then?” she asked, her tone dull with hope-
  lessness.
  “Well, were it me, I’d head back to that last decent
  town, and wait for the stragglers to come out of this
  blasted heath. There are a lot of clever men in the
  Company — they’ll figure it out. And we won’t be so
  feckled uncomfortable, skulking in this raw brush.”
  “I wish I had never come.”
  He squeezed her hand against his waist for a mo-
  ment. “Sweet, ’tis not your fault. Turn your mind from
  blaming, and put your thoughts to work on what we
  might have for supplies tonight, once we’ve got your
  mare and the Captain on hand.”
  Muriel tried to do as he suggested. But her thoughts,
  turned resolutely from the battle, wandered to the
  question of their future progress. Should they retreat
  and regroup, as Pether suggested? They were ordered
  to clear the remnants of Aysle-outer from this sector of
  Scotland. Surely that was a needed task.
  But if she were to choose for herself, Muriel would
  rather head south and east. There were tales of a Soviet
  psychic working in the lowlands. Such a one might ken
  a way to help her cope with or damp her visions. She
  would give anything to stop the dreams.
  This last thought occupied her mind until at last the
  two soldiers caught up with their commander. The
  Captain had glad words for them, along with — joy! —
  Muriel’s mare and all her gear that had been tied to the
  animal. Muriel’s spirits would have lifted further had
  he not insisted that they three return to the ambush
  field, and try to puzzle out the location of the rest of the
  Company.
  *    *    *
  Tracking was hopeless. Indeed, just being in the
  same location as the attack gave Muriel the creeps. She
  felt eyes watching her. She felt spells crawling on her
  skin. The Captain looked at her expectantly.
  “All right, I’ll try your seeing for you. But it does not
  always come …” And I cannot always interpret when it
  does, she finished silently.
  Standing on the edge of the slough, Muriel emptied
  her mind of all the images she’d caught during the day.
  She’d learned this at least, when she was apprenticed:
  every image a photograph, carefully tucked behind the
  glassy sheets of acetate, and clipped into the three-ring
  binder of her mind’s eye. When all the fragments of her
  memory had been neatly catalogued and filed, she had
  a clean, blank room. No distractions.
  She let her breathing settle, too, pulling air from deep
  in her belly, pushing it back out in slow, measured
  counts. She detached herself from the act, bottling up
  her fear, tamping her anxieties as smooth as the hard
  earth floor of a shepherd’s winter hut. It was all defense.
  She was deeply, bone-achingly afraid of the night-
  mares she’d always had. But her Captain had ordered
  her to See what she would see. She could not refuse an
  order.
  So she layered over her fear with the calm techniques
  of her apprenticeship, and waited, trembling, for the
  Sight to come.
  The wind whipped rawly at her hair. She smelled the
  rank rot of peat bog and spilled blood, and the wet
  weight of clouds before a storm. A wee bit of rain,
  they’d be getting — Muriel cursed her wandering
  attention. She stood so long, waiting, that her feet grew
  numb, and her balance shifted.
  But no vision came.
  Taking a step forward at last on pins and needles, the
  Lieutenant’s just-opening eyes met Pether’s concerned
  gaze, then the Captain’s.
  “Nothing. I —”
  “You tried, Lieutenant.” His words were kindly, his
  manner thoughtful. His gaze swept the blasted moor,
  and the lowering clouds, and came back to the three of
  them. “We head north, as we were, and hope that the
  lads have the good sense to remember their march and
  their orders. Mount up.”
  He turned to his own saddle, laying hands on the
  pommel with surprising determination. Muriel watched
  Three Soldiers
  
  Dragons Over England
  62
  him fling himself onto his gelding’s back before she
  remembered that she was heading out, too. She had
  failed to gain a vision, as she had failed often in this
  patchwork land. It just proved to her again how useless
  was this “gift,” this curse, really, called the Second
  Sight.
  As they rode, heads into the wind, The Lieutenant
  recalled the first time she had seen the future. Gran had
  been telling tales of the old feuds Clan Gunn (the
  English spelling of Guinne) had fought with Clan Keith
  in the fifteenth century — tales of pride and treachery
  culminating that night in the murder of the Gunn and
  many of his men while they were at prayer. Big-eyed,
  Muriel and her sisters Sorcha and Morag had begged
  for more. But Gran had been firm — they were not to
  hear the resolution till the morrow. Now they were
  away to bed.
  How many times had she wished that her night-
  mares were simply the result of bloody Highland histo-
  ries and an overactive little girl’s imagination! But
  Muriel knew better now.
  Then, she had only had terror. In the close darkness
  of the thatched cottage attic where she and her sisters
  slept, Muriel dreamed of battles. Dark armies thun-
  dered down from the hills. Dragons flew over Dornoch
  Firth, belching not fire but frost, and stinging icy winds.
  Calum — her brother Calum with the jumping biceps
  — took eight-times-great granfa’s claymore from the
  ceiling beam it had been nailed to all these years … and
  tried to defend the cottage.
  Even now, Muriel’s eyes filled, remembering the
  image of her strong brother run through and bleeding.
  She had awoken shrieking her wee head off. And gran
  had come to soothe her, and hold her to her breast, and
  ask what had frightened her so.
  “’Tis the Sight you have, bonnie lass. Ye ken more
  than your sisters,” she’d explained when Muriel had at
  last poured out the details of the dreadful dream.
  “Make it go away,” she’d demanded.
  “I can’t, bairn. ’Tis a gift ye’re given.”
  Of course, her mother had scoffed at gran’s non-
  sense. Dragons were a fantasy. No one in the 20th
  century would come down from the hills raiding, cer-
  tainly not sword in hand.
  But the nightmares hadn’t stopped. Her mother had
  forbidden tales of the Highlands, and gran had died
  several years later without Muriel’s getting any closer
  to stopping the ugly scenes. After that, Muriel had
  suffered the occasional sleepless night in dread and
  silence, hoping that if she ignored the visions, they’d go
  away.
  Instead, they came horribly true.
  Calum was killed with a broadsword when the
  Ayslish invaders came. Muriel saw her two little sisters
  spitted like so many lambs. How she escaped … well, it
  was the Sight that saved her then. A sorcerer among the
  invaders saw the curse in her somehow, and claimed
  her for his own.
  Against all odds, Muriel later remembered, he was a
  just man. He taught her the language of the invaders.
  He taught her their customs. At times Muriel thought
  she’d come near to time traveling, so backwards were
  their notions of things.
  Most importantly, he’d taught her magic. She had a
  skill, he said, for divination, but Muriel refused to use
  that skill. Hadn’t it killed her brother? Hadn’t it brought
  her pain without ending? For in the newly conquered
  lands, Muriel discovered that the dreams were more
  frequent, more vivid. They almost always involved
  someone around her, someone close. Seven times out of
  ten, they foretold such bad things — injury, despair, ill
  luck — that she was loath to put them into speech.
  Her dreams foretold, but there was nothing she
  could do to prevent their occurrence. The transformed
  Scotswoman was sure she could do without.
  Instead of pressing the matter, as was his right, her
  sorcerer taught her an alternate skill that he called
  apportation, and she, telekinesis. He taught her to
  move objects with her mind. He’d showed her a spell he
  called “bullet,” that let him throw small metal pellets at
  the rabbits in the heath where they were camping. He
  told her she could do the same.
  For several hours, Muriel had been stumped, cold,
  and resigned to failure. She had come back into the
  sorcerer’s cave, ready to admit defeat. Then one of her
  visions came.
  Desperate to dispel the horrible scene, Muriel lashed
  out. Almost unconsciously, she had wound her arm in
  the great circles she’d used in childhood to propel her
  brother’s slingshot. There was a tingle like fire along
  her nape, and the seven-sided 20p piece in her left hand
  heated like a train-track just run. Startled by the sudden
  change in the metal, Muriel let go. The coin whined
  through the cave air, ricocheted off the far wall, and
  buried itself in a bundle of furs.
  There was silence in the cave for over a minute.
  Muriel refused to look up, sure her teacher had decided
  on her death.
  “Guess you’ve learned that,” was all he said. Foot-
  steps receded; Muriel looked up to see him, almost too
  casually, lean over the furs. “And tonight we’ll see how
  you do at mending beds. But for now, I think a light
  spell.”
  He wasn’t going to acknowledge the error. Muriel
  remembered to breathe again.
  It was not long after that the Lady Ardinay made
  court at Oxford, and declared the usurper’s minions
  outlawed. Muriel’s apprenticeship to the sorcerer was
  traded for her Lieutenancy — for the greater good of
  Aysle. There were times she wished she still toiled in
  that cave.
  *    *    *
  
  63
  The night came black as pitch, black as death … black
  as a witch’s heart. Even the wet fog, hanging like a vast
  swath of cashmere in their way — with none of the roil
  and swirl of most fogs — seemed black in the star-
  hidden night. It was a wonder they could see at all. The
  Lieutenant spoke a soft word, and the three reined to a
  stop.
  “I don’t like the looks of this,” Muriel said. Her voice
  — normally fluid and lovely, soft yet resonant — dulled
  to sad echoes in the fog-entombed night. “This is an
  unnatural fog. It doesn’t move.”
  “I can’t see a bleeding thing,” growled the Captain.
  “I’ll trust your Second Sight, Lieutenant. If you want to
  go around, lead the way.”
  “That’s just it,” she piped. “I have no visions that
  might guide us. The fog extends as far as I can see in
  both directions. It might take hours to go around.”
  “Damn!” The Captain stirred within his cloak, and
  his horse stepped skittishly sideways, then forward.
  “We’ve been separated from the Company for hours.
  Why didn’t the bleeders regroup and wait for us, as per
  orders?”
  “Perhaps they think we’re dead, Captain,” said
  Pether.
  “Fools!” spat the Captain. “But you may be right.”
  He turned. “Lieutenant, it’s time to gamble. Give a hail,
  and we’ll see if we’re lucky.”
  The Lieutenant nodded, and then said “Aye,” when
  she realized the Captain could not see her in the velvety
  night. She moved with easy grace, drawing a silvery
  horn from a scabbard at her side as she dismounted.
  The horn’s sides were inlaid with sworls of silver and
  bright gold that the eye could barely follow. It’s a
  dwarven thing, she would say to those who asked. I got
  it when I apprenticed to a sorcerer for a time. Would you like
  to touch it?
  Slowly, she raised the horn to her lips and blew a
  long, sweet note that echoed resoundingly, even in the
  dead night air. Its tone was high and pure and joyous,
  and they felt their hearts uplifted by its song.
  “Well sounded, sweetling,” said Pether, “but will it
  be of use?”
  The question hung in the air along with the vast
  echoes of the horn, and the Captain began a sigh of
  despair like the hundred others he had uttered that
  night. But this one he did not finish — for sweet and
  loud and piercing, the sound of another horn came
  boiling through the fog, and the sighs of despair turned
  into shouts of joy from three throats.
  “Hai!” cried the Lieutenant, and “Bloody good!”
  shouted the Captain. “Tallyho!” called Pether, his voice
  filled with a heartbreaking hope.
  Perhaps the others were waiting just over the next
  hill.
  And again the horn-sound came from out the fog,
  high and clear and alive, summoning them to battle, to
  life, to aid. The Lieutenant winded her own horn, then
  sprang to the back of her horse, and cried, “Follow me!
  This way!” before galloping, almost madly, directly
  into the heavy, ominous mists.
  *    *    *
  The fogs had closed around them like the fist of a
  giant, and the Lieutenant reflected that perhaps such an
  infernal denseness could play tricks with ears as easily
  as it had with eyes. They had been riding for nigh unto
  half an hour since hearing the horn-blast, and she
  would have guessed the sound to have come from half
  a mile away at the very farthest. But still there was no
  sign of the Company, and further horn-calls yielded no
  answer.
  Her misgivings grew stronger as she studied the
  path they were taking, winding cold through the mys-
  teries of the moor. At first it had been an easy route,
  chosen mostly by the horse, in the general direction she
  wanted to go. Then it narrowed, seemed almost to be a
  dry stream bed frozen into the harsh earth. Then it
  began to branch and twist as gorse and heather pressed
  close around them. Soon it was a single track winding
  through a damp and musty bramble. The horses’ hoof-
  beats grew ragged, beating out an irregular tattoo as
  they fell into line more by instinct than guidance.
  “Let’s try a light, Captain,” said the Lieutenant. “The
  ground has flattened, and I feel there are no more boars
  about.” Her misgivings about their trail had turned into
  confusion and dread as she felt the path twist and turn
  under her, until she could not tell what was around her.
  Also, the ground was getting stonier, and her horse’s
  footing was not as sure. She drew rein and, as Pether
  struck sparks with flint and steel, Muriel dug out her
  chip of mirror to catch and expand the light. This spell,
  too, pained her, with a dull aching behind her eyes.
  Magic always hurt, when Muriel used it. The sorcerer
  had had no cure for her pains. But the results, now,
  justified the discomfort.
  Light! It had probably not come to this isolated glen,
  here in the midst of Scotland, since the invasion. Light!
  It glowed gently from the mirror’s surface, grainy and
  thick, and Muriel had to remind herself that the fog was
  almost gone here, that the pearly volume of light that
  surrounded the three soldiers and their mounts was all
  her own doing. Light! It filled the air around them,
  illuminating bush and horse and house and …
  “By all the Gods,” breathed the Captain. “Where in
  the name of Love-Lara are we?”
  It was indeed a house, small and black as the night
  had been, nestled crookedly into the cleft of the hill.
  Ragged, inward-leaning stone walls rose no more than
  two meters, and were capped in a steep, soot-blackened
  thatch. The front door sunk almost into a small patch of
  bog, and from the middle of the thatch, a thin spiral of
  smoke (black, of course) puffed away into the night.
  There were no windows, nor any sign of life within,
  save for the smoke.
  Three Soldiers
  
  Dragons Over England
  64
  Beyond the crofter’s cottage, at the grainy edges of
  the magelight glow, huddled a similarly mean building
  — from the position and the mucky yard, it must have
  served as a stable.
  The Lieutenant noted obstacles, angles — and
  dropped the mirror from her palm back into her pouch.
  The light winked out.
  Pether’s voice broached the darkness. “A hermit!”
  Muriel opened her mouth to supply the term “crofter”
  but found her throat would not work. Fear closed it
  tight as a fist within her, a stronger fear than when the
  boars had set upon them with their slavering tusks. At
  least then she had taken comfort in her eyes, her sword.
  Now, though it was only her own feelings and not a true
  Seeing, she felt that nothing she did could save them
  from an awful fate. Her hand tightened on Pether’s,
  crushingly.
  He spared her a swift grin, his eyes bright glints in
  the blackness. “He’ll offer us shelter or feel the edge of
  our blades!”
  The Captain snorted at such bravado. “Not under
  my command, he’ll not. Lieutenant, what say you of
  this dwelling?”
  “Sir.” At last, she could force her tongue to move. “It
  is a crofter’s cottage, sir, and the Highlands are dotted
  with them like sheep. What fealty its owner pledges …
  I cannot guess.”
  “Then caution is our watchword. Think you that any
  within have marked our approach?”
  That was a hard question to answer. Likely, Muriel
  thought, the Captain’d know that better than herself,
  coming from a world where magic was commonplace.
  They could have been seen, heard, smelled, felt, or
  detected by magical means. Her vision gave no details.
  She told him as much.
  He grunted. “So. As any good soldier must, I suggest
  reconnaissance. Pether, you take the horses back down
  the path. Lieutenant, you and I will scout the barn. We
  need a better picture of who lives here, and what the
  resources are, before we commit ourselves to action.”
  It felt good to be out of the saddle. Pether took the
  reins from his love’s hand efficiently enough, but she
  could not gauge his mood in the darkness. And then it
  was just herself and the Captain, moving carefully
  around the brambly yard of the croft.
  Muriel’s heart beat louder than the occasionally
  rumbling thunder. She concentrated on the mental
  image she’d gleaned from the brief span of magelight.
  Swing wide now, to avoid the scraggly garden patch off
  the south corner.
  Astringent mint scented the air, marking the space to
  avoid. The down, slowly, slowly, till the sucking mud
  of the stableyard announced her safe arrival.
  Ahead of her, the Captain stopped. Muriel stopped
  too, stock-still, listening for any change in the atmo-
  sphere.
  The Captain waved her into the little stable. Like the
  house, the walls of this building rose barely two meters
  before they gave way to steeply angled thatch. Inside it
  was close with the scent of hay and grain and cow …
  and blacker, if such was possible, than the black night
  they had left.
  “Lieutenant, can you conjure just a small light?” The
  Captain’s order sighed against her ear after a long
  pause. Muriel knew her eyes would never adjust. Si-
  lently, she rummaged in her small kit for flint and steel,
  and the little scrap of mirror. It was always trickier for
  her to juggle all three components of the spell in the
  dark, but she managed on the fourth try. The headache
  flared again, and a small glow leaked from her cupped
  hands.
  There were stalls for four horses, but they stood
  empty, abandoned. The hay in the tiny loft was unbaled,
  but clean. A small, ragged Highland “Coo” chewed its
  cud in the box stall in the far corner. The Captain poked
  his sword up into the hay rick once or twice, but his
  action was perfunctory. Muriel could see in the grainy
  glow that he was satisfied that the appearance of pov-
  erty was in truth the actuality.
  As they came back into the yard again, big, heavy
  drops spat down from the black heavens.
  “Likely it’ll be sheets before long, eh, Lieutenant?
  Your famous English weather.”
  “Scots,” she wanted to correct, but didn’t bother. The
  Captain had served Lady Ardinay in Oxford. He still
  thought of the whole island as England, and who was
  she to be correcting Ayslish when not even the English
  tourists could keep their geography straight? Tourists.
  That was a lifetime ago and more.
  As if in answer to the Captain’s prediction, a near
  clap of thunder smote the hillside, and the rain, as if
  unleashed by the sound, flooded down.
  “That’s tipped our hand. Let us find the lad and the
  animals. We’ll stop here, unless your Sight forbids it?”
  Did she dare tell him of her feelings, pretend it was
  a Seeing so that he’d pay heed? No — foolish. She was
  being foolish and unprofessional. “I see nothing sir,
  bad or good,” Muriel reiterated wearily. Cold rain
  slapped her face, and crawled along her collarbone
  under the Ayslish cloak. Never had she felt so useless.
  Dread receded to a tide of self-pity.
  The Captain repeated his instructions to Pether.
  They were not to make anything of their military ad-
  dress or station. It was even possible that this isolated
  cottager was unaware of Lady Ardinay’s uniform, al-
  though the Captain did not hold out hope of that.
  The younger man appeared on the brink of argu-
  ment, then shrugged. “Aye, sir. Who is to knock, then?”
  They had progressed almost up to the dwelling. In
  the drumming rain, Muriel thought one could hide the
  approach of an army a thousand-fold stronger than
  three soldiers.
  
  65
  But the door was opening.
  “Hail!” Pether cried, jolly as he let go his lover’s hand
  and strode forward in the downpour. “Hail and well
  met! We are three travelers in the —”
  “And greetings,” said a silky voice. The door was
  fully opened, and in its frame stood a tall, narrow
  woman. She was not young, but not old. She wore black
  and her hair was black shot through with gray. She
  clutched a twisted walking stick in one hand, and
  leaned upon it heavily as if her skinny legs would not
  support her weight. Her eyes burned with green fire.
  “What would you with me?” she asked, looking up
  at them ingenuously. “I have little wealth and my food
  is yours for the taking. And why are warriors out in the
  moor on a night such as this?”
  Pether seemed taken aback, as though he had ex-
  pected someone fairer to answer the door. The Lieuten-
  ant too felt nonplussed, since she had expected some-
  thing far more foul. Only the Captain recovered his wits
  sufficiently to speak.
  “Greetings, lady. We are three travelers who have
  been separated from our companions. It seems certain
  that we will not find them this night, and the weather
  turns unkind. Will you lodge us? We have our own
  provisions.”
  “Certainly,” the woman said, her eyes flickering
  neatly across their equipment and mounts. “I’ve a small
  barn. You’ll forgive me not hauling these frail bones out
  there myself, but arthritis has me twisted up in this rain.
  You should find all you need for your horses there.
  There’s a torch just inside the door if you’ve no other
  lights with you. Come in when you’ve settled the
  beasts.” She withdrew into the shadows, and the small
  door thumped shut.
  Muriel fired up her light spell for the third time. The
  rain pounded in rhythm to her heart and head, but at
  least this time there was no need for secrecy. Once
  inside the stable, the glow spread to fill the tiny struc-
  ture. The sketchy details of her quick recon were thrown
  into sharp relief as light caressed the spareness of the
  structure. Muriel concentrated on holding her hand
  steady, and let Pether wipe down her mount with a
  twist of hay.
  While the men worked, she looked. The cow mooed
  low, and Muriel wondered if she was fresh, and if
  they’d have milk tonight, perhaps even cream.
  Now that she looked closely, the animal wasn’t an
  evil-tempered Highland Coo at all, but a winter-shaggy,
  golden Guernsey. One horn twisted crazily wide from
  her head, that was all.
  Muriel sighed. Guernseys were good milkers. She
  could almost taste the milk, rich and sweet, on her
  tongue.
  “Lieutenant,” the Captain said softly. Pether called
  her name. She shook her head, still feeling a low dread
  that made her dizzy.
  “Captain, I —” she began, but didn’t know what it
  was she was going to say. She reached for Pether’s hand
  again, as they made ready to dash for the black cottage,
  but he did not notice and isolation surrounded her like
  a dark cloak.
  The house’s interior was small — smaller than it
  would seem from the outside, if such was possible.
  They came through the door into a small small hallway,
  where a lone black cape hung from a peg in the wall.
  The soldiers’ cloaks soon followed suit. Leading from
  the hall, an opening in each wall: one way lead to a tiny
  kitchen, with a table just big enough for four; another
  way to a tiny bedroom steeped in darkness. The final
  way was too black to tell.
  The kitchen had a stove, with a small kettle hanging
  over it and a smoky fire lit beneath. There were no
  windows in any of the walls, and the smoke smelled
  acrid and sour and strangely pungent in the still air. The
  light from the hearth and a single candle on the table
  provided the only illumination, dancing fitfully on the
  worn sides of three teacups crowding on the tabletop.
  “Seat yourselves as best you can,” said the woman,
  her face eerily lit from flickering fire-shadows. “I’m just
  pouring tea.” She vanished, without a sound, into the
  darkness.
  “Witchee,” muttered the Lieutenant, saying an Ayslish
  word for black magic. She had come to recognize such
  things during her brief stint as the sorcerer’s appren-
  tice. Pether smiled at her and shook his head. “She’s not
  ugly enough,” he whispered. The Captain frowned and
  stared into the fire, saying nothing. Several moments
  later, the woman returned, bearing a chipped china
  teapot, that had surely once been a bride-gift, sloshing
  over with water.
  “You’re far afield, warriors,” she said, eyeing the
  Lieutenant speculatively as she placed the teapot on the
  table. “Aye, the garb maybe different, but I ken a
  doughboy when I see one still. Is it the weather that
  brought you lost, or trouble on the moor?” Her voice
  arched upward, as if leaving a third possibility politely
  unsaid.
  Muriel was too startled to hear the sly innuendo. The
  three cups on the table, the full pot of tea … this crofter
  had known they were coming! The memory of her
  gran’s wizened face swam before her eyelids. Second
  Sight? It was common in the Highlands once.
  The Lieutenant could almost forget her uneasiness.
  This crofter might have the Second Sight! All of the
  questions she’d wanted to ask her gran flooded back
  into Muriel’s mind. Perhaps this woman could do for
  her what her gran had not had the time to, could teach
  her how to block out the disturbing thoughts and
  nightmarish visions that Muriel felt to be her curse.
  The Captain nudged her shoulder, and handed her
  a slab of hardtack and a thick chunk of cheese.
  “Drink up, lass, you’re trembling with the damp.”
  Three Soldiers
  
  Dragons Over England
  66
  The Captain’s voice was concerned, yet casual, Muriel
  noted. He waited until he’d taken a couple of chews off
  the trail rations, and a swallow of hot tea before he
  turned his attention to the woman’s opening sally.
  “Doughboys, are we? Aye, but a long time ago. What
  would a knot of soldierboys be pursuing, up here in the
  backyard of beyond?”
  “I was thinking you’d lost yourselves,” she parried
  with that sly grin. “I shouldnae have to warn you, sir,
  that Second Sight is strong in Highland veins. Why play
  guessing games? Ye’re nae local, and ye’ve not asked
  after those that are. Even without the gift, I’d be a fool
  not to recognize a uniform when I see one.
  “But come, I’ve offered my hospitality and my hearth,
  such as it is, and I’ve a curiosity about what drives you
  here on this dismal night. I’d hardly guess it was to seek
  my services.” She smiled the table round, and Pether,
  who had stopped chewing about midway through her
  speech, took up his rhythm again with an answering grin.
  The woman smiled at him, a fondness in her eyes
  that the Lieutenant did not like. The smoke made her
  throat burn, but she felt it might be dangerous to drink
  the tea until the woman did. If only she had warned the
  men! The air of the cottage was close and sleep-induc-
  ing, and it must be slowing her wits, too. Muriel pinched
  herself surreptitiously.
  Her hostess admitted to the Second Sight, though!
  Muriel felt each breath she drew flutter with hope —
  and wariness. Who was she, this crofter? How would
  the Captain answer her? Doggedly, the Lieutenant
  lowered her concentration to the food in her hand. He
  was the experienced campaigner. Let him play the
  scene as he would.
  “Your services?” he asked, ignoring the questions of
  soldiery and uniform completely. The woman paused,
  as if to acknowledge the shift. Then she agreed. “Aye.
  Some call it fortune-telling, and some witchcraft, but
  even the scoffers have had occasion to change their
  tunes. I do a brisk business at lambing time. But that’s
  not what you’ll be wanting to know about. No, not the
  lambing for you.”
  The woman sat back against the wall in triumph. Her
  smug face said that she expected capitulation.
  But the Captain was not giving it. He lapsed into
  silence, paying strict attention to his meal. The three
  soldiers ate, and warmed. Steam rose from the edge of
  Pether’s woolen cloak, nearest the fire of the three of
  them. Apart from their chewing, all was silence.
  At last the Captain set his teacup, with a gentle click,
  into its saucer.
  “Thank ye kindly for the tea and shelter. ’Tis late,
  and we must make an early start come morning, so
  we’ll away to bed if it pleases.” He rose, and Muriel
  thought with a start that he meant for the three of them
  to sleep in the stables. Hastily, she too rose. Pether
  drained the last drops from his teacup, and gave the
  woman a polite nod as well.
  “Here now, no need to send yourselves out of doors
  on a night like this. ’Tis a wee bit tight, but at least the
  house is warm. You’re angry that I called you soldiers,
  but we’re on the same side.”
  The Captain did not answer her, but Pether smiled
  and said “Oh?.”
  Pressing her advantage, the woman directed her
  wheedling at him. “There’s dark things on the moor at
  night. You’re safer in the cottage.”
  But Muriel’s lover had fastened on the woman’s
  previous statement.
  “What side are we both on? What do you mean?”
  “My clan has stood with Scotland since before the
  Bonny Prince, and we’ll stand with her against the dark-
  ness through eternity.” Her tone had the ringing quality
  of oath. But then it turned crafty once more. “But better
  still, I’ve a gift you might like the use of. You said you lost
  your companions. Well, finding them is a task I’d under-
  take for you. To convince you of my worth, like.
  “Ah, skeptics. Do you not believe I have the power?
  Let me find your party. ’Tis a simple enough task to
  look for them. A boon.”
  “Can you see the future, woman?” Pether’s tone was
  sharp. Impatient Ayslishman!
  “Aye,” she replied, knowing she had hooked his
  interest.
  “Truth, Captain, such a glimpse could do us good.”
  Pether seemed oblivious to his confirmation of the
  woman’s suspicions. “We could observe the enemy’s
  positions, even spot another ambush … in this blasted
  moor we need every advantage.”
  It seemed to Muriel that the woman encouraged
  Pether too much. But that was no reason to abort the
  Seeing, that was simple jealousy. Her own Sight was
  too erratic — and loath though she was to admit it, a
  part of her wanted very much to experience the con-
  trolled vision of an experienced Seer. She would at least
  see how it was done. Perhaps she could pick up a
  technique, a strategy for taming her own cursed gift.
  When the Captain met her gaze, his eyes asking if she
  advised going with the other woman’s plan, Muriel
  reluctantly nodded yes.
  Somewhere outside a night bird called a shrill call,
  and the woman cocked up her head like a cat’s ears.
  “The storm is passing — that’s is a good omen for our
  beginning.” She gathered up the cups and teapot, and
  swept into the darkness behind them.
  Muriel listened for some sound of the kitchen or the
  cupboard, but there was only the spitting sussuration
  of the fire in the hearth. Startlingly fast, their hostess
  was back, bringing a tiny brazier, some pouches of
  herbs, and a silver bowl. She set her materials on the
  tabletop, and reached down to the table’s foot. Muriel
  caught a flash of scarlet, and stifled a cry in her throat.
  Red! The same color as the decorative jesses of the
  attacking eagles. The same color as the pennants on the
  black boars.
  
  67
  The woman smiled possessively, and spread the fine
  crimson cloth across the rough table. “Is is not beauti-
  ful? India silk, my gran says. See the embroidery? It was
  her best shawl.”
  And as Muriel looked closer, she saw that the fabric
  was patterned with leaves and flowers in an Indian
  manner. Her heartbeat settled a little in its racing.
  Coincidence, surely? The color stained her mind, but
  it was merely chance that the pennants of their attack-
  ers had been the same hue, merely a Scotsman’s quick
  prejudice, where color and pattern had been badges of
  allegiance through the centuries.
  Muriel had memorized the setts of all the Sutherland
  tartans as a wee bairn, and had been made much of at
  ceilidhs for her precocious talents. She had been able to
  tell what clan any tartan belonged to, even the obscurer
  hunting colors. Surely this sensitivity was mere over-
  reaction.
  “I need a thread from your coats. Just a thread, no
  more,” the woman reassured when Pether looked
  alarmed. “’Tis a contagion, to allow me to find similar
  clothing more easily. Just from one of you, laddie,
  there’s a good man.”
  The request fit what Muriel knew of magic, and
  apparently what Pether knew, too, for he surrendered
  a scrap after that initial hesitation. Muriel’s senses were
  bowstring taut, watching the little ritual gestures the
  woman made with the thread, and her herbs, and the
  silver bowl.
  She had never been taught to use her gift — gran
  hadn’t had the time, or the inclination, maybe. She had
  refused the sorcerer’s help out of perversity and terror.
  Now, she needed desperately to learn.
  The woman rolled the woollen thread back and forth
  between her fingers, then added a few snippets of
  leaves. Chamomile? Was that the crushed blossom?
  And now she added three hairs to the bundle, twisting
  them into a knot.
  Odd. Muriel’s preparations for a Seeing had always
  been mental. Maybe the crofter, too, suffered pain, and
  she used the drug …
  Drug.
  The woman’s voice whispered low words that shim-
  mered on the edge of Muriel’s understanding, but the
  Lieutenant was no longer focussed on that part of the
  ritual. Her mind buzzed. Her eyelids were heavy.
  Drug. Contagion.
  This was not the Second Sight at all! The familiarity
  Muriel had been feeling was not for her long-ago memo-
  ries of gran, but the more recent recollections of the
  sorcerer’s teachings.
  The woman was witchee, black magic! She had lulled
  the three soldiers into her spell and even now worked
  the ritual to keep them ensnared. Before, the Lieutenant
  had felt uneasy. Now, it seemed like dire peril. She said
  to the Captain, “There is danger here, we must go,” but
  when she opened her mouth to speak, the smoke from
  the stove-pot came in and wrapped her tongue in fog.
  Her muscles were soft and tired, and she could not
  move. Somewhere, the witchee began a soft, low chant
  that numbed the Lieutenant’s brain, and the room and
  all within began to drift sideways as a dream.
  The chant grew louder, and dark smoke began to
  curl away from the chimney and toward them, block-
  ing out the firelight, which glowed black and red in
  intermittent pops of ash and spark. It curled around
  their faces and enveloped them in a whispering mi-
  asma of no-sight and heavy smell. It darkened and
  lightened, and the Lieutenant knew it was in time to her
  own heartbeat. She struggled to raise an arm — could
  not — attempted speech — could not. Then a rest, to
  gather her strength for one final attempt to break the
  spell.
  She tried opening one eye, cried out loudly at what she
  saw — Second Sight indeed! — for the house was gone,
  Pether and the Captain were gone — around her was a
  green meadow on a bright day, with a cool breeze blow-
  ing through her outswept hair. Red and blue motes
  sparkled and dove at the edges of her vision, but when
  she turned her head to look at them, they disappeared.
  Two beautiful children approached across the grass,
  bearing fistfuls of buttercups and daisy blossoms that
  spilled through their tiny fingers.
  “Mummy, look,” cried one little girl, “look at the
  pretty flowers!” And they were, more beautiful than
  the Lieutenant … no! my name is Muriel … more
  beautiful than Muriel had ever seen.
  “Mummy, oh, Mummy,” said the other adorable
  cherub. “Thank you for bringing us here. I love you,
  mummy.” Muriel’s eyes filled with tears.
  The scene stayed blurred even after she wiped her
  flowing eyes with the back of her hand, and now that
  hand was clothed in a familiar crossbow gauntlet, and
  the two children before her were not children at all, but
  Pether and the Captain, standing in the field, holding
  behind them the horses which she had not noticed
  before. Her body tensed even before her mind realized
  the pleasantries were over.
  “We ride south,” the Captain pronounced.
  “South!” Pether exclaimed. “Don’t be a fool, sir!
  That’s where the enemy is. We three stand no chance
  against their whole force. Better to go back.”
  “Back!?” roared the Captain. “You coward! The rest
  of the Company is somewhere nearby, and we’ve got to
  find them. That’s all that matters — that the Company
  stay together.”
  “The rest of the Company is dead,” Pether said
  softly. His features wavered. The red and blue motes of
  possibility streamed like manic fireflies at the edges of
  her vision.
  Muriel’s breath caught in her throat. As he argued, her
  love’s face contorted with exasperation. But there was
  another element, a more frightening vision by far. For
  Pether’s features shrunk and stretched like odd funhouse
  Three Soldiers
  
  Dragons Over England
  68
  parodies. His skin erupted with pocks and wrinkles. His
  eyes became rimmed with red. Muriel remembered the
  horrifying transformations that accompanied a person’s
  devolvement to Aysle-outer all too well. As Pether’s
  handsome face became a loathsome caricature, she real-
  ized she was seeing something the sorcerer had once tried
  to explain. Pether was facing a crisis of being — and
  coming out on the side of Aysle-outer.
  On the wrong side. Shuddering, Muriel closed her
  eyes. More of the witchee’s trickery? When she looked
  again, Pether’s expression was normal — grave, not
  gruesome. Muriel stifled a sob, unsure what to make of
  the restored features.
  “Why can’t you see that? We may as well return
  home and make something of our lives.” Pether looked
  meaningfully at the Lieutenant as he said this. Once, his
  smile would have filled her with hope. Now she cringed,
  waiting for the axe to fall.
  “Our lives are nothing without the Company!” the
  Captain cried, dragging his sword from the scabbard
  with a shivery rasp. “Will you do as I say, or shall I kill
  you?”
  Pether’s own, slimmer sword seemed to leap from
  its scabbard and suddenly it was flashing forward and
  down in a screech and a bind and a thrust, leaving the
  Captain face down, dead in the mud of Rannoch Moor.
  “No!” screamed the Lieutenant, but the scene did
  not end in answer to her command. It did begin to move
  faster and faster, like an avalanche jumping dizzyingly
  along; she and Pether mounted their horses in frantic
  haste, rode away at frenzied speed, and found a home
  together through the blur of the dream. The scene
  jumped! again, and Muriel was back on the meadow
  with the lovely children, and now Pether was ap-
  proaching, all broad smiles and outstretched arms and
  a fine leather tunic embroidered with the sigil of a
  swordsmith. Their children ran to him, and Muriel saw
  how it would be, if only they would turn back now and
  leave the moor, leave the service of the lady Ardinay.
  “But the Captain need not die,” she whispered to
  herself, and a voice somewhere laughed and a cloud
  rolled over the sun and in the new darkness the Captain
  came striding over the hill, and they were back on
  Rannoch Moor, standing as they had the first time, with
  the Captain’s sword roaring from its sheath as he cried,
  “Will you do as I say, or shall I kill you!”
  Only this time, Pether fumbled for a split second at
  his sword-hilt, and the Captain’s blade did not hesitate
  in its downward arc. Pether’s head separated from one
  shoulder and he tumbled heavily to the ground.
  “No!” screamed the Lieutenant, louder than before.
  And now the scene moved again, faster and faster,
  but this time the Captain and his Lieutenant rode to
  find their Company — and did — but the battle with the
  enemy was a disaster … more boars set upon them …
  flying beasts that cast poisoned darts … an ambush …
  retreat cut off … death to all.
  The message of the dreaming was obvious: trust the
  Captain, face disaster. Trust Pether, and return to a life
  of beauty, peace … children. It’s what you want, eh?
  And then they were back, all three of them, but not
  in the kitchen of the small black croft. Instead they all
  three stood, with the witch-woman off to one side, on
  the top of a dry hill, with the grass around them
  browning, crisping to hay in a bright bright sun. The
  Lieutenant knew that what had come before was a
  dream that each of them had experienced in a different
  way. This reality twanged with the electric tension of
  magic — a different kind of Dreaming, that all would
  share. What happened here would be real.
  “You saw it,” Pether said softly. “We all saw the two
  visions.” His eyes met Muriel’s for a brief second.
  “Captain, it need not be that way. Let’s all of us go
  back.”
  “You believed it,” the Captain said sadly. “I’m sorry
  for that — for both of you, perhaps. But you’re right —
  it need not be that way. You’re free to go back by
  yourself, or with the Lieutenant if that pleases her.” He
  adjusted his sword-hilt, leaning his weight on it as
  though a great burden crushed him down. “I’ll find the
  Company alone, or die trying.”
  But Pether reached quickly for his own sword as he
  saw the Captain touch at his, and it hissed from the
  scabbard through the Captain’s desperate parry and
  the blood leaped forth to stain the Captain’s tunic as he
  staggered back. A voice that was not wholly Pether’s
  laughed as he advanced catlike, sword held high, his
  own hate and aggression coming forth more power-
  fully under the witchee’s spell.
  Were his features changing? The awful transforma-
  tion she had seen in the dream was fresh in her mind, but
  Muriel could not be sure. Harsh shadows hid his eyes.
  The Lieutenant knew she had split seconds to make
  a decision: she could try to intervene in the fight, to keep
  Pether and the Captain from killing each other, to get to
  her companions in the haze of magic and unite them
  against the witchee … or she could attack the woman
  direct. She feared the wild magic of the other, in this
  reality of dreams.
  The Lieutenant’s own sword came free; as she stepped
  forward and saw the witchee’s look of alarm she knew
  she had chosen rightly. Her sword whistled close to the
  woman’s ear, and the dark sorceress had only time to
  writhe away, her form beginning to fade like smoke.
  And then insects were all around, the writhing smoke
  a cloud of gnats, and their bites were fire. Pether and the
  Captain made inarticulate sounds of rage, their swords
  clashing again and again as the Lieutenant flailed help-
  lessly, being bitten, being weakened. Do I have a chance?
  she thought desperately. How can I fight a magician in a
  reality of magic? And the question was its own answer:
  with magic of her own.
  And what was her magic? Her coin-throwing spell
  was useless against the cloud of attackers, and she had
  
  69
  no divination that would isolate the woman from her
  living “smoke screen.” Gnats flew into Muriel’s eyes,
  blinding her as she moved, sinking to her knees now,
  hearing the Captain and Pether killing each other and
  she could not believe that there was nothing she could
  do to save them —
  Could not believe.
  How could a woman — even as skinny a one as the
  witchee — shrink small as a gnat? There had to be some
  trick, some illusion. Hadn’t the sorcerer said that trans-
  formation was only like to like in size? Could the witch
  be all the gnats at once?
  But that was still not enough to equal one person. Then
  perhaps she was invisible — the Lieutenant swung great
  slices through the air but her blade met no resistance.
  Which just couldn’t be.
  There had to be a body here! Muriel pictured the last
  position of the witchee, and holding the image in her
  mind like a paper target, swung again. She pictured the
  blade thrusting forward at the woman’s skinny frame.
  She saw the pressure of metal on flesh. Her belief gave
  power to the magic of her disbelief. Flesh surrendering
  —
  The witchee screamed and flew back, back into the
  writhing combatants, and as she did the other insects
  vanished like so many sparks; Pether and the Captain
  ceased their struggle, and the Lieutenant rose to her
  feet, all pain forgotten. Running now, she moved for-
  ward, her sword again upraised.
  An explosion sent her staggering back, and there
  were two Pethers there, staring and goggling at each
  other; then, one leaped upon the other and they rolled,
  mixing until the Lieutenant did not know which was
  real, which was false. She stepped forward, uncertain.
  The two identical men broke from each other’s grasp,
  stood, eyeing each other with mistrust and fear. The
  Lieutenant tried to see a difference, but there was none.
  The perfect disguise.
  And the witch had already proven that she could do
  two spells at once. A fear began rising up in Muriel, a
  terrible fear of the future, of death, of hate. She could
  run and run and leave Pether and the Captain to their
  fate, and save herself. Why throw her lot in with the
  Ayslishmen? What good had their Lady done her?
  Bitter self-hatred welled up also — for Muriel knew
  that she had been running from herself for a very long
  time. Should she blame the Ayslish for her Sight? Wasn’t
  it her desperation to learn more of the Sight that had
  brought them to this pass? That had made her eager to
  experience what she thought would be a Seeing?
  With a gasp of effort, turning to a sob in mid-stroke,
  knowing that in seconds she would run and run and
  run and never come back and the witchee would win
  and the Captain would die and … Muriel drove her
  sword hilt-deep into the belly of the right-most Pether,
  the stunned look on his/her face melting into woman/
  man and then witch. The dark woman made a hideous
  coughing noise and pitched face forward in her chair,
  the sword hilt now protruding from her breast, spilling
  a dark dark blood onto the table, which sucked it up
  thirstily like a desert sand.
  Pether stared at her through the smoke of the tiny
  cottage, fright in his gaze, stared at the wounded Cap-
  tain, who smiled and grunted, “We’re safe now, thanks
  to the Lieutenant.”
  *    *    *
  “She was one of the enemy, then,” the Captain
  mused. “Did she know we were coming? Did she have
  Second Sight?”
  “No,” Muriel sighed. “Not at all, I think. She had
  illusions, and mind-trapping, but no Sight. She knew
  we would come because her mind-trap was part of the
  ambush, cast across the moor. Other members of our
  Company may have come here earlier in the night, and
  been killed by her visions, group by group, as we
  almost were. Others might be on their way even now.”
  “Then she’s done us that small favor,” the Captain
  muttered. “Let’s ride a ways away from here and wait
  a few hours for stragglers.” With that, the three soldiers
  mounted their horses and followed back along the way
  they had come, toward higher ground. They rode in
  silence for a time.
  “Won’t you tell me, Muriel, how you knew which
  was the real and which was the false?” Pether leaned
  close and whispered the words, as they rode away from
  the cabin in the moor, their three horses’ hoofbeats
  sounding as one in the cool morning mist.
  The Lieutenant did not answer, nor would she. How
  could she tell her former lover that her stroke was un-
  guided, that it mattered not which one she killed —
  witchee to end strife, or Pether to save the Captain — and
  that the witch’s fatal mistake had been to show Muriel
  that in the land of dreams, true souls were bared … or that
  she herself was not, truly, Muriel, but the Lieutenant?
  Three Soldiers
  
  “Ged ouda heah, ya bloody freak!!”
  Hasifar looked up from the street vendor’s wares, a
  look of surprise on both their faces. He was holding a
  head of lettuce in one hand and had been caught in the
  midst of passing a beat-up trade over to the woman.
  A rock struck his flank; it hurt, but he was more
  surprised than anything else.
  “Dis is a ‘uman village, freak — gedoudda here!”
  It wasn’t hard to spot the missile thrower. He was
  standing in the middle of the cobbled street, his face
  bloated and red with anger.
  Anger? Hasifar thought. What have I done now?
  The source of his bewilderment started swearing
  and jumping up and down. Hasifar thought he looked
  insane. Apparently, the other villagers thought that the
  sight of a screaming man waving a shillelagh and
  entangled in a long, gray woolen scarf was rather odd
  also. Windows and doors were opening, despite the
  coolness of the spring day. People were staring and
  pointing.
  The man stooped and picked up another stone.
  “That is quite enough!”
  A voice boomed out from the northern side of the
  street. The red-faced man, the crowd, and Hasifar all
  looked.
  It was the chief of the Home Guardsman, Korin
  MacKay. He was decked out in his uniform and, not for
  the first time, Hasifar noticed how impressive he looked.
  His uniform was always immaculate, whether he was
  rousting a drunk at three a.m. or hunting through the
  moors for a goblin raiding party. MacKay’s mutton-
  chops and whiskers made him look older than Hasifar
  thought he could be, but that lent him authority. Even
  his very slight paunch, well-hidden in his muscled
  frame, made him look like someone to be listened to.
  “What,” Chief MacKay enunciated, “the ‘ell is going
  on here?”
  Everyone stared, accusatory, at the red-faced man
  with the shillelagh. He held another rock in his right
  hand.
  MacKay didn’t waste any time. He strode right up to
  the stranger, no weapon in hand, but everyone sud-
  denly became very aware of the Chief’s wheelock dag
  — which was in its regulation holster — and the billy
  club that swung at his hip.
  The stranger noticed, too.
  Everyone relaxed; there would be no further trouble.
  Hasifar, however, wanted to know what it all was
  about. He trotted up to the stranger, stopping about
  two and a half meters away. The chief had already
  arrived, but that didn’t stop the scarf-bedecked man
  from shooting one more glare of pure hatred at Hasifar.
  “In the man’s face,” MacKay then absorbed a lion’s
  share of his attention.
  “What’s all this, then,” he barked. “Where do you get
  off, throwin’ rocks at our citizens?”
  Companions
  Ed Stark
  
  71
  “Citizens?!” the man squealed in an acidic voice
  meant to be heard. “You call that … thing … a citizen?!”
  The hackles on Hasifar’s neck were rising. Normally
  mild-mannered and quiet, he felt he’d had about all of
  this he could stand. He started forward.
  MacKay shifted between the stranger and Hasifar
  almost imperceptibly and, with a quick hand gesture,
  waved him off. That cooled Hasifar’s ire somewhat. He
  knew MacKay would take care of things.
  Still, he didn’t back off.
  “He is a citizen of this village,” MacKay stated
  coolly. “Just as he is a citizen of Queens Pella and
  Elizabeth, and he is protected under the same laws that
  protect you.”
  Hasifar got some brief satisfaction from hearing the
  ice and the implied threat that both surrounded
  MacKay’s words. Shut up and move on, he was saying.
  Hasifar liked that.
  Apparently the man didn’t. He squirmed under the
  Chief’s gaze. He fidgeted. He began muttering to himself.
  Hasifar’s neck hair went straight up … and he had no
  clue why.
  Suddenly, the stranger jumped back from MacKay
  — a foolishly sudden move; MacKay’s billy club was
  out in a flash.
  The stranger, his scarf whirling around him, his face
  florid, waved his shillelagh high in the air and screamed,
  “Not me! Him! He’s the Outsider! The Filth! The Putres-
  cence!” Then his voice lowered dramatically, “Drive
  him from our village!”
  Hasifar began to chuckle — but uneasiness over-
  came him. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see
  the people of the village, who had been returning to
  their work and their homes after the disturbance, com-
  ing back out. They were moving towards him slowly.
  No one else was laughing.
  “MacKay …?”
  Chief Guardsman MacKay turned towards him.
  There was a look of pure hatred on his face. It was
  growing more florid by the second, and Hasifar had a
  brief insane flash of thought:
  I wonder if they’re related.
  Then MacKay swung his club.
  It was a strong swing, but slow and wild; Hasifar had
  no difficulty in dodging. “MacKay!” He shouted, “What
  are you doing, by Dunad?”
  There was a roar from all around him. Villagers
  started moving quickly. They were picking up rocks
  and vegetables and sticks, and a few even drew their
  belt knives. Hasifar looked around wildly.
  They’ve all gone mad! He thought, as he dodged
  another attack by the Chief Guardsman.
  Hasifar knew he’d have to do something quick. He
  could probably take out MacKay, the way the man was
  moving, but the crowd would be on him. He decided to
  run for it. But where?
  The crowd was in a semicircle now, yelling and
  cursing him. Friends he’d known for months were
  starting to toss rocks and other objects at him. Even the
  vegetable dealer he’d just been talking to was breaking
  off a fence post to use as a club!
  “Monster!” someone screamed.
  “Half-breed!”
  “Foul Creature!”
  “Kill!”
  “KILL!”
  “KILL!!!!”
  That last scream came from the entire crowd. Duck-
  ing under yet another blow from the chief, Hasifar
  brought up his right fist, from the shoulder, into the
  man’s jaw. He straightened like he’d been poleaxed
  and started to go over. Just before he collapsed, Hasifar
  thought he heard him gasp something, just barely
  heard over the roar of the crowd:
  “Get out of here, Has …”
  Whether real or imagined, Hasifar took the advice.
  He charged at the stranger, who stood in the weak point
  of the semicircle. He only half-intended to run him
  down — he wasn’t thinking very clearly — but the man
  jumped out of the way with astounding agility. As he
  did so, he swung his shillelagh.
  Hasifar felt a screaming pain along his left flank, and
  was only barely able to keep from passing out! Gods!
  I’ve been witched! His mind screamed, but his legs kept
  on moving.
  Vaguely, Hasifar was aware of the crowd pursuing
  him, hurling missiles and insults at him. He was sure
  that a few hit him in the back or the rump, but he didn’t
  feel them at the time. All he felt was the flaming pain of
  the stranger’s weapon.
  Despite the pain, he quickly outdistanced his pursu-
  ers and continued away from the village and into the
  moors. His instinct helped him regain his senses there
  — if he ran too fast he could hit a sinkhole and break a
  leg, and then it would all be over.
  He figured later that he had gone almost ten miles
  before stopping to think. That was about when the fire
  in his side went away — completely. So completely it
  was almost a shock. He didn’t even have a “phantom
  ache” there.
  But he did feel the missiles that had struck him.
  Those thrown by his friends.
  Half-breed. Foul Creature.
  Monster.
  The stranger’s words blended with the townsfolk’s,
  and that blended with the Chief’s attack and the pain of
  betrayal and fear. He had been happy in the village. So
  happy.
  Hasifar wept. Big, salty tears.
  Tears the size only a centaur with a broken heart
  could manage.
  *    *    *
  Companions
  
  Dragons Over England
  72
  Hasifar spent the night out on the moors thinking
  about what had happened. It had rained the day before,
  so even he was unable to start a fire (and keep it going)
  with the damp fuel at hand. Somewhere along the way
  he got some sleep.
  While he slept, he dreamed.
  The dream was of the Old Days, back in Aysle; the
  Aysle he had been born to. He remembered the hard-
  ship under Ardinay/Uthorion, and he remembered
  how his tribe had hidden in one forest only to be driven
  to another. Their tribe kept getting smaller and smaller,
  until only a scant three dozen remained.
  His father Faratril was one. He was sad. Hasifar
  dreamed of the night after his mother, Marhas, and
  their chieftain fell fleeing the troll guard sent to hunt
  them out. His father had had to contain his grief and
  lead the tribe, or they all would have been lost. Young
  Hasifar had tried to be strong, so his father could be, but
  he had cried all night.
  “Hasifar,” his father had said, waking him out of yet
  another vision of his mother’s bloody death, “always
  remember — but do not hate. While the trolls, and
  Ardinay, and all those who fight our tribe may deserve
  our hate, it does not help us. Hatred makes us blind and
  weak, and our enemies strong.”
  Hasifar nodded and let his tears flow, but he could
  not help but hate. Looking into his father’s eyes, he
  knew that he could not help it either.
  The dream passed on.
  His mind moved to the day before the Invasion.
  Ardinay had said that all the half-folk, even their tribe
  of centaurs, would be free citizens if they agreed to join.
  His father, still secretly hating, suppressed his hate and
  made a choice for the tribe: they would join.
  Hasifar had come close to hating his father then.
  But he obeyed. And it was good that he did.
  After the initial rush of the Invasion, Hasifar found
  that his father had conceived a plan. He had united with
  some others of the half-folk, forced into service with
  Ardinay, and, at a certain time, they led their peoples
  over to the side of Light.
  They found they were not alone. Many dwarves had
  joined the light, and even the mysterious elves seemed
  more interested in fighting against the Dark than for it.
  Plus, many of the Houses of the Humans were not so
  loyal to Ardinay as was once thought.
  Still, they were outnumbered.
  The day the legends came true, Hasifar’s father died.
  He died quickly and unremarkably; more like a
  soldier in the field than a chieftain or importance. An
  arrow took him in the throat, shot by some unknown
  archer. Hasifar was grieving when the messenger came:
  “Tolwyn has returned! Uthorion, who had possessed
  Ardinay, is defeated! Good Queen Ardinay has re-
  turned!”
  The armies of Light cheered for news of their victory.
  Hasifar wept for his father.
  The tribe, what was left of it, joined with the armies
  of Light to destroy Darkness forever.
  Hasifar left.
  He had not wandered far, and his dream reflected
  that. Soon, he found himself in the small village in
  Scotland that had been his home for so many months.
  Initially received as strange, and an outsider, he still
  made himself quickly accepted. His friendly, giving
  manner; his willingness to work hard and for little
  more than food and shelter; and his inoffensive healing
  and useful magicks all made him welcome in the trans-
  formed town.
  Until the Stranger arrived.
  In Hasifar’s dream, the Stranger was larger and
  more lively; the townsfolk small. The centaur’s con-
  fused and grieving mind saw the betrayal as coming
  from within, and the Stranger as a mere agent of its
  surfacing. His mind raced past half-imagined slights
  and veiled insults, and he saw The Truth.
  The villagers had always hated him.
  But there was a nagging in his mind. A whiskered
  face with an honest, sad expression. It seemed to be
  telling him something, but he couldn’t hear. He strained,
  but his dream-ears heard only the curses and insults of
  the mob. The throwing of stones. The running. The fear.
  The Staff of Pain.
  Hasifar jolted awake. His upper torso was sweating
  profusely. He left his light jacket on, however, because
  he knew the moors were cold.
  Looking down his flank, he saw he had accidentally
  shifted his weight, straining his left rear leg-muscle.
  He struggled to stand, and the pain receded to a dull
  ache.
  “Centaurs weren’t made to sleep on the ground,” he
  jibed himself. He was shocked to hear his normally
  smooth voice crack and break. He coughed. No, no
  phlegm; no cold.
  He shivered again and pushed It back in his mind. It
  could wait.
  Over the next few days, Hasifar found himself wan-
  dering northward. He didn’t know why, only that
  south represented the village and other humans and
  betrayal. He’d never been north; maybe things were
  better.
  Every night he dreamed about the mob.
  *    *    *
  Everywhere Hasifar went, he saw signs of the Ayslish
  civil war. Homes were burned, farms pillaged, and
  whole villages put to the torch.
  But Hasifar’s heart had grown hard. These were
  human villages, he told himself. Folk, not half-folk.
  But still, even his heart was moved to pity and, in
  those brief moments, the mob was forgotten.
  But there were reminders.
  About two weeks after being driven from the human
  village, Hasifar was in Northern Scotland, near the
  
  73
  eastern sea. He couldn’t remember the name of the
  water — the humans of this world had such unusual
  names for their places and things — but as he gazed into
  the gray morning mist, he felt almost at peace.
  But then a cry rang out. Hasifar pivoted his torso
  around so that he faced almost one-hundred and eighty
  degrees around.
  He was tense and ready for attack. Many times since
  he began his journey had he encountered humans —
  and they had greeted him with such animosity and fear
  that he now avoided them completely.
  But the scream had caught him unawares, during a
  moment of peace. He peered into the mist and listened,
  hoping that his superior hearing could catch more cries,
  so he could help.
  And more came. It was a shrill voice, higher than
  even a marechild’s. To Hasifar’s quick ears, it sounded
  like the voice was screaming in pain as well as fear. It
  was a long way off.
  Without thinking, the centaur grabbed his makeshift
  bow and his newly fletched arrows and started to
  gallop towards the sound.  If he was correct, the sea air
  had carried the noise nearly a mile.
  Hasifar could get there in two minutes.
  But, as he grew nearer to the sounds of the cries, he
  started to pick out other noises. Deeper, but guttural,
  voices — laughing and taunting in man’s language. He
  heard the shrill voice cursing — Ayslish curses, of a
  nature even Hasifar did not recognize. He also heard the
  impact of rock on wood and, yes, there it was, on flesh.
  Anger flared in the centaur’s heart. A stoning! No
  matter what sort of creature this was, man, half-man, or
  enchanted, he would not put up with a stoning — not
  when he could do something about it.
  At a full gallop, Hasifar was able to string his bow
  and knock an arrow — his torso was steadied by his
  great back muscles. He leapt over a narrow creek and
  ran over a thistle bush, but he did not slow. Less than
  two minutes after he’d heard the first scream, Hasifar
  was on the scene.
  He saw a circle of men surrounding a weathered,
  gnarled tree.
  Despite the season, the tree had few leaves and its
  branches were withered. In one perched a large bird.
  The men were laughing, so caught up in their sport,
  they did not hear the centaur come out of the mist.
  Perhaps they felt that the nearness of their village —
  only about a hundred yards through the mist, Hasifar
  could barely see — protected them so well they needn’t
  heed noises of the early morn.
  More fool, they.
  One man, a fat, ungainly one dressed in strange
  clothes, stooped for a rock.
  “Li’l birdie,” he mocked, “’ere’s some suet for ye!”
  He swung back to heave the stone.
  An arrow sprouted from his neck. Great gouts of
  bluish-red blood began to spew from his throat as he
  dropped his stone and fell to his knees. The man’s mind
  did not even seem to register the pain; his face was
  surprised until it hit the turf.
  The other men froze, staring at him. Hasifar clicked
  his rear hooves loudly on a nearby stone to get their
  attention. They turned slowly towards him, and Hasifar
  sneered at their surprised expressions.
  “Now, don’t you know it isn’t nice to throw stones at
  little birds, boys?” He taunted, pointing his already-
  knocked arrow at the nearest one’s chest, “away home
  with you or you’ll have to be punished.”
  Two of the men, nearest the centaur, started to back
  away, but one in the rear screamed, “It’s another half-
  breed; a murderer — kill it!”
  That was all Hasifar needed to hear. His hard heart
  sang in his breast as he loosed arrow after arrow into the
  men — now they’d see what an enemy they’d made!
  Stone him, would they?! They would suffer! The men
  tried to fight back, but their hastily-cast stones were no
  match for the centaur’s bow. Arrows came with unfail-
  ing precision, piercing hearts, lungs, throats and eyes.
  A few decided to charge Hasifar, but they fared no
  better. Armed only with knives and clubs, he was able
  to dance around them and rear up, crashing down on
  their heads and shoulders with his unshod hooves. All
  the while, he kept loading his bow and firing, scream-
  ing curses that even he did not hear.
  “Stop it, ya damned mule; stop it!” A voice came to
  him from above, out of the red mist. He knocked
  another arrow and pointed it towards the sound.
  No. A voice in his head said faintly, that isn’t right …
  “Hey, whoa! Whoa horsey!” The shrill voice called,
  “Watch it with that thing!” The mist cleared and Hasifar
  looked around. No humans stood near the tree or the
  trampled bush, but at least seven lay stretched out on
  the earth. He turned his right-front hoof; it was stand-
  ing on another’s head, covered in blood and brains.
  “What’s come over me?!” he moaned. He felt himself
  swaying, as if he was going to faint or be sick at the very
  least.
  There was a loud fluttering and a soft crash, and a
  voice spoke to him from below.
  “I dunno, mate, but you’d better help me up or the
  villagers’ll be here soon!”
  “The villagers?” Hasifar asked hollowly.
  “Cor! Whatcha think, mate? All that roarin’ an’
  screamin’ won’t bring ’em out in droves? ’Ere, help me
  up.” Hasifar looked down. On the ground, near the base
  of the knotted tree, he saw the “bird” the men had been
  taunting. It had a bird’s wings, and a bird’s feathers, and
  even a bird’s legs and claws, but its torso was human.
  “A harpy!” Hasifar said, awakening from his shock.
  And it was a harpy — a true, Ayslish harpy, not one
  of the sorcerous constructs of the Invasion. She had no
  arms or long legs; just wings and legs and claws. She
  looked as if someone had stuck a small woman’s upper
  torso and head onto a vulture.
  Companions
  
  Dragons Over England
  74
  “Well, I ain’t no swallow — African or European!”
  The harpy fluttered its — no, definitely her; male har-
  pies do not have breasts — wings anxiously. “Get me
  onto your back, or we’ll never get outta here!” The idea
  of a harpy perched on his fine roan back made Hasifar
  step back in disgust — and it shook the last of his battle-
  fever out. “You, ride me?!” He exclaimed in disbelief.
  “What, are ya blind, you refugee from a glue fac-
  tory?! Canna see me wing’s busted?” It was true. The
  harpy’s left wing had been damaged somehow. That
  was why it — she — had taken refuge in the tree,
  presumably. “Or had you intended t’leave me ’ere after
  goin’ t’all the trouble to save me?”
  That was true, Hasifar, admitted to himself. Rather
  than go the step further and admit to her that he didn’t
  know what had prompted him to gallop to the rescue,
  he merely trotted over to her and lifted her onto his
  back. She was remarkably light for such a compar-
  atively large creature — indeed, she was probably
  larger than most vultures, though her wings were
  obviously built for flapping rather than soaring.
  Still, there was much fluttering and squawking as
  she got settled onto his back. And she smelled. Hasifar
  wrinkled his nose and held her gingerly, trying not to
  imagine what her greasy feathers were doing to his fine
  coat.
  “’Ere, now! I ain’t some saddlebag, you damn horse!”
  She screeched, “I need something to hold onto or you’ll
  buck me off!”
  “If you don’t keep quiet,” Hasifar said sternly, “I
  shall buck you off for certain!” Then, remembering that
  he was supposed to be saving her, he mellowed his
  voice a little.
  “Don’t worry; you won’t fall off my back unless I
  want you to.”
  “Well, see that I don’t, stallion.” Hasifar’s fine ears
  noticed that the harpy’s voice was losing some of its
  shrillness also — good, he thought, perhaps she was
  just scared, too.
  The centaur was as good as his word. Even though
  he was inclined to gallop as far and as fast as he could
  to get away from the scene of the … battle — both for his
  own peace of mind and their safety — he walked, then
  trotted, then cantered, then galloped, letting her get
  used to the smooth, rolling gait. Centaurs, his father
  had always told him, do not take passengers lightly, but
  when they take them, they keep them.
  Thinking of his father softened Hasifar further. He
  found himself feeling glad to have this new companion,
  and he began to chat with her amiably.
  He found he was right about her mood. When he
  started talking, she seemed to relax, and her voice
  settled into a bird-like soprano. It was sharp, and quick,
  but there was melody to it.
  As it turned out, they had remarkably similar
  experiences.
  Falen, as the harpy was called, had been part of a
  large flock in Aysle that had, for the most part, tried to
  keep out of the civil war. They did not care if the
  humans slaughtered each other, but they got drawn in
  all the same.
  At first, Falen’s flock had thought its aerie home
  protection against Ardinay/Uthorion’s conscription
  attempts. But then, as he prepared to invade this new
  place, “Earth,” they found his need for a reliable air
  force outweighed the difficulty of getting to it. He
  called in his mages and his other loyal flyers and sent
  them to the aeries of the harpies to talk.
  Unlike his approach to the land peoples of Aysle,
  Uthorion treated the harpies reasonably well. He needed
  their loyalty, for, though they were not good fighters in
  the sky or out of it, they were excellent scouts and spies.
  He treated them to the bright baubles they favored and
  gave them choice meats — not the scavenge-pickings
  they were used to.
  Still, Falen’s aerie had had it better than most, and
  they still chose to sit out the war. They told Uthorion/
  Ardinay, as politely as a harpy could, that they were
  quite happy sitting in their nests and he/she should
  mind his own damn business.
  So Uthorion invaded without the harpies of Falen’s
  aerie …
  But he did not forgive them.
  The day of the big Invasion, Uthorion sent dragons
  against the harpies. The burned the slopes and they
  burned the woods and, when they could, they burned
  the harpies.
  “Now,” Falen sighed, “my people live by stealing
  and by migrating … their ancestral home forever ru-
  ined.
  “But I was young and angry,” she continued, irony
  in her shrill voice, “I wanted vengeance against the
  Queen of Flame.
  “I told my grandmother good-bye and left my chick
  to her, and sought out the enemies of my enemy.
  “When I came down the Bridge, though, I was disap-
  pointed.
  “Uthorion, I was told, had been ’n possession a’ the
  Queen’s body. Cor! I thought I had troubles,” Falen let
  out a loud cackle that jarred Hasifar’s sensitive ears.
  “Anyway, I decide th’ best way t’get back at this
  Uthorion was to help ’er Rightful Majesty in the war.”
  The grimy harpy’s expression darkened, “But I found I
  wasn’t needed as much as I needed, ifin you get my
  meaning.” Hasifar nodded; he understood all too well.
  “But I figured; hey, at least I won’t get killed — an’ this
  Uthorion’d be punished anyway, right? The Army of
  Light was all ready to take him on.” She cackled again, but
  this time without humor. “Damn! What a sorry lot that
  is!” Hasifar had heard virtually nothing of the Army of
  Light. He hadn’t tried to join up, but it was more because
  he hadn’t thought of it than anything else.
  
  75
  “So I joined the Post. S’funny, y’know? The Post is
  run by those strange Earthers — the one’s who was
  invaded upon. But they seem more ready to accept us
  than our own people.”
  “I don’t know about that,” Hasifar said bitterly. He
  was tired of walking, now, and he was starting to
  remember his troubles.
  “Hey, I know, laddie,” Falen said, her voice
  sympathetic.
  “What I meant was, they accepted us right off when
  our own look at us down their noses — even to a tall one
  like you.” There was something about Falen that made
  Hasifar smile, even though she was reminding him of
  his treacherous friends.
  “I suppose. But they turn in the end.” Falen looked
  at him sharply, “Yeah, that’s right. On you too?”
  He nodded sharply and stopped, “This looks like a
  good place to camp.”
  “I dinna mean to get yuir back outta shape,” Falen
  said, her brogue strong with concern, “Y’asked me to
  tell you what happened to me, din ya?”
  Hasifar nodded again, “I guess so. It just … hurts.”
  “I know, laddy, I know.” Falen jumped down and
  started to pick at the rough Highland grass with her
  long claws. She was able to pull out the dry, brown
  grass that lay under the wet green, so it looked like
  they’d be able to have a fire. Hasifar went off in search
  of game.
  It was good for Hasifar to get away on his own, he
  felt. He’d rescued Falen only this morning, and now he
  was feeling close to her and becoming immersed in her
  troubles. He had wanted to harden his heart, not open
  it to anyone that came along, half-folk or no.
  Still, it was good to have a companion. She was
  already proving helpful, and the day went quicker. Of
  course, it would go quicker still if she didn’t smell so
  bad …
  It only took the centaur about forty minutes to bag
  two hares and a small, un-Ayslish rodent. He wasn’t
  sure what it was, but it looked edible. He trotted back
  to their camp.
  Falen was gone.
  Panic rose in Hasifar’s throat, but he fought it down.
  “Falen!” He called. Damn the bird! Where was she?!
  “Falen, where are you!” He jogged around in a circle,
  hoping he could hear her, but he could not. He’d just
  found her, she couldn’t be …
  “Squawk!” Hasifar stopped — the sound came from
  just above him, in a nearby tree. But that was impossible
  … Falen’s wing was broken; she couldn’t …
  “Hey, horsefur! What’s th’ big idea, wakin’ me up! I
  almost fell off my perch!” Hasifar looked up. There,
  about twenty feet up, perched Falen. Her wings were
  folded around her naked torso, but her brown-haired
  head peaked out from the top. Her face was not very
  happy; it was the face of someone woken out of a sound
  sleep by a child yelling “Fire!” as a prank.
  “Uh, sorry, Falen,” he apologized, “I thought you’d,
  uh …”
  “What, flown off? Wi’ this?” She flapped her dam-
  aged wing, wincing in pain. “Now that wasn’t very
  bright!” Hasifar could not tell which of them she was
  referring to.
  “Then how did you get up there?”
  She waved her good wing at the trunk of the tree. “I
  climbed, mule-brain!” Hasifar looked. There were deep
  gouges in the trunk, undoubtedly made from her razor-
  sharp claws. Still, it must have taken her a half-hour to
  get where she was.
  “Any more foolish questions?”
  “No. I’ll go get supper started.”
  “If you got rabbit, don’t cook mine!”
  Ugh. “All right.” He walked towards the camp.
  Despite all Falen’s blustering, Hasifar realized then
  how scared she was. It was one thing for him — big,
  strong, and fast — to be on his own, but she was small,
  relatively weak, and unable to fly. It would be like him
  with a broken leg — helpless. She had climbed the tree,
  probably in terror. Her kind were never comfortable on
  the ground, he figured, and she must have been about
  panic-stricken.
  She hid it better than Hasifar thought he’d be able to.
  He found that Falen had managed to put together a
  substantial amount of tinder before she went up the
  tree, and there was plenty of deadwood around. Taking
  a stick in hand, the centaur passed it over the tinder,
  muttering an incantation he did not understand.
  He felt the wood grow warm, then hot. When it got
  to the point he thought was right, he dropped it into the
  tinder.
  Instantly, the tinder and the wood caught. He tossed
  a few more sticks on the fire, and it started to burn
  merrily.
  “That’s quite a handy trick, my lad.” Falen had come
  down behind him. She looked worn out, but hungrier
  than she was tired. “Where’d you learn to do it?”
  Hasifar shrugged, idly skinning one of the conies.
  “My father bought it from a mage in Aysle. He taught
  it to all the tribe who could learn.”
  Falen nodded. “My gramma was the same way.
  Anythin’ she saw could be used, she took fer th’ aerie.
  ’Course, she never found anythin’ like that.” Finishing
  the first rabbit, Hasifar was about to skin the second
  when he saw the light of the fire reflected in Falen’s
  hungry eyes. She looked gaunt, predatory, but also
  very tense and wary.
  He held the skinned coney out to her. “Here. I’ve got
  to cook mine and … whatever that is. I’ve got a couple
  of roots, too.” Falen practically snatched the rabbit out
  of his hand. She looked like she was going to tear into
  it right there with teeth and talons when she looked up
  at Hasifar’s face. A wave of something like concern
  passed across her eyes and she said, “Thanks. I’d better
  go off; you don’t want to watch.” He nodded and she
  Companions
  
  Dragons Over England
  76
  turned and hopped off, one claw clutching the rabbit
  and the other bouncing her along the ground. He heard
  a wet smacking in the darkening night.
  When Falen returned, Hasifar was just about done
  cooking the other two pieces of meat. He’d also gath-
  ered some water from a nearby creek and he was trying
  to heat a few potatoes and some greens without much
  success.
  He was amazed at Falen’s appearance.
  The centaur had steeled himself for her return —
  undoubtedly covered in grime and now blood from the
  corpse — but he was not prepared for the shock.
  She was clean.
  Her hair, her skin, her face, her feathers and pinions
  — even her claws — looked as if they’d been neatly
  groomed.
  There was a dampness about her that suggested a
  recent dip in a cool stream.
  Falen saw his surprise and cackled — it was the same
  laugh, but from this creature, it was different.
  “Surprised? Or didna you think harpies washed?”
  Hasifar looked at his meal, embarrassed. He heard her
  laugh again, knowing her bolt had hit the mark.
  “Well, honestly, I didn’t.”
  “A’course we do, laddie; otherwise th’ filth’d get in
  our wings and we’d lose our flyin’! Hae y’ever truly
  seen a ’dirty bird’ … for long?” Hasifar had to admit
  that he had not. Falen explained that harpies had al-
  ways been scavengers … not necessarily by choice, but
  by design. They weren’t powerful enough to hunt big
  game, and very seldom fast enough to catch small prey.
  But they were smart enough to live off what others
  killed.
  “A’course, we’re also smart enough t’have huntin’
  parties … I’m sure ye’ve heard about them … and
  trappings, but we really aren’t all that suited or in-
  clined. We’ve never mind bein’ nature’s clean-up crew.”
  And, since harpies were scavengers, they tended to
  have a great tolerance for spoiled or near-spoiled meat
  — but seldom did anyone have tolerance for them.
  “So we’ve got a tradition that’s almost harpy law.
  We don’t eat our fill ’til we’re safe — so we won’t be too
  heavy to fly — an’ we never clean until after we eat. It
  takes time to do proper, and y’never know when a fresh
  corpse’ll turn up.” Falen laughed again — and it was
  definitely a laugh, not a cackle — at Hasifar’s discom-
  fort.
  Centaurs, Hasifar decided, were naturally fastidi-
  ous.
  “But when we clean, we clean — make no mistake.
  Back ’ome at the aerie, there are some harpy faces you’d
  call beautiful! But not out in the open,” she smirked,
  “jes’ like a centaur with two weeks a’trail-mud don’t
  look all that handsome to a clean harpy.” Both Hasifar
  and Falen shared a laugh at that, and the centaur agreed
  to wash up after dinner — though Falen could not quite
  understand why he washed his hands beforehand.
  After he’d finished the two creatures — the non-
  rabbit, he decided, wasn’t all that bad, though neither
  he nor Falen could put a name on it — he reached for
  one of the heated potatoes.
  Falen looked at him curiously, “Whatcher gonna do
  with that, laddie?” she asked.
  He grinned, “Why, Falen-lass, I’m gonna eat it,” he
  said in his best imitation-brogue, taking a large bite out
  of the hot tuber.
  It was hot, and it was filling, but that was all that
  could be said for the potato. But, it did provoke another
  reaction he hadn’t expected.
  “Yeeuccchh!” Falen retched, turning and flapping
  off into the dark. He heard faint coughing in her direc-
  tion.
  “What’s wrong?” he called after her, scorching his
  tongue on the potato.
  “You — eatin’ that … root! I thought ye’ were kid-
  din’! I thought only ’umans ate dirty, nasty roots!”
  There was a stunned pause, and then both the harpy
  and the centaur began to laugh.
  *    *    *
  The next day it rained, so the harpy and the centaur
  sought cover under the eaves of a wood growing nearby.
  The stand was small, and unusual — most of the
  Highlands was plains and moors; this tree-growth was
  odd.
  Still, it kept them drier than they would have been.
  All morning, Hasifar spent his time examining Falen’s
  wing. As near as he could tell, a stone had shattered one
  bone and seriously bruised another. The hollow bones
  were fragile; if it could be healed at all, it would take
  time.
  Or magic.
  After he’d done all he could to ease Falen’s discom-
  fort, he helped her into a tree and went hunting. Falen
  had offered to go with him, as her eyes were even
  sharper than his ears, but he told her to rest.
  Truthfully, he wanted the time to think. The harpy’s
  wing looked pretty bad. Falen said that harpies with
  busted wings seldom recovered — the bones might
  mend, but the torn muscles seldom regained their
  strength and coordination. Her mother, Hasifar was
  told, had been “sent down” after both her wings were
  crippled by orc slingshot.
  The more Hasifar talked to Falen, the more he ad-
  mired her, and the more he hated the men who’d done
  this to her. He wished he hadn’t killed them — that he’d
  crippled them and then tortured them. They deserved
  to have their eyes put out, and their tongues slit, and …
  There was a noise off to his left. Hasifar froze, his
  four knees slightly bent, ready to rear or run.
  He listened. It was a soft rustling, maybe a hundred
  yards off. It wasn’t the noise of an animal moving through
  the brush — it was too quiet even for that. No, whatever
  it was, it wasn’t traveling; it was preparing —
  
  77
  A bolt of lightning cut a large branch of a tree not two
  hands from Hasifar’s head. Fighting his natural instinct
  to rear, the centaur stood his ground and let fly with an
  arrow. He knew it would go wide, but maybe …
  “Yow!” A piping voice came from the brush. Either
  Hasifar’s shot was luckier than he deserved, or he’d
  startled the lightning-thrower.
  Not knowing what to expect, the centaur charged.
  He hoped that whatever the trick was, his enemy
  wouldn’t have time to do it again. He leapt over brush
  and ducked branches, and came to the spot he guessed
  the noise and the lightning had come from.
  There, lying on the ground, was a little … person. It
  was naked, which showed that it was obviously neuter.
  It’s skin was a metallic blue and it had whitish hair. It
  looked like a thin man-child that had nearly died of
  exposure.
  Except for the wings.
  Attached to its back were small, thin, crumpled
  wings. They looked like transparent butterfly wings,
  only they were narrower — and crushed. Some giant
  hand had pinned them back and almost tore them from
  the creature’s back.
  From its shoulderblade protruded a brown arrow. A
  pool of blood welled around the wound.
  It’s face was contorted in pain. Eyes shut, it gasped,
  “Finish it, ye damned affal. Ye might as well end it ‘ere.”
  Hasifar was suspicious of a trick, so he knocked
  another arrow. “Why’d you shoot at me, cyprium?”
  He’d heard about the lightning masters, the cyprium
  faeries, but he’d never seen one before. Back in Aysle,
  faeries were shy of humans and half-folk — when they
  weren’t stealing from them or plaguing them with
  pranks.
  The faery’s eyes popped open in anger and pain,
  “Why’d you clip me bloody —” It stopped short and
  looked amazed at Hasifar.
  It started to cry.
  “Damnmedamnmedamnme —” it started to moan.
  Silver tears streamed from its eyes and the blood around
  the arrow — red, but shining with a near-phos-
  phorescence — started to pump blood.
  Well, Hasifar thought, if it was going to pull a stunt, it
  would’ve done so by now. Putting his bow and arrow
  away, he came forward and leaned down to the faery.
  It was apparently either delirious or uncaring of its fate,
  for it didn’t resist as he picked it carefully up.
  The arrow had found its way into a major artery —
  Hasifar thought. Having never seen a cyprium before
  — much less treated one — he didn’t know what to
  think. But he knew the blood had to stop flowing. He
  started to gallop back to the camp.
  “Damn me fer a fool,” the faery moaned. It was near-
  unconscious. “Killed by a horse-rear for a bolt misdi-
  rected. Quillus signar menta.”
  When Hasifar reached camp, he was greeted by a
  frightened squawk and many questions by Falen, all of
  which he ignored. He got out his newly-gathered bag of
  herbs and makeshift bandages and got to work.
  “I don’t know if this will work,” the centaur said to
  himself. “It’s lost a lot of blood and this isn’t an en-
  chanted spell.”
  “What,” Falen squawked worriedly, “what d’you
  mean? Who’s that?”
  Hasifar kept right on working. He had to try.
  Pressing a wet bandage around the arrow wound, he
  broke it off cleanly about four inches from the faery’s
  chest. It moaned and turned in its pain.
  “Hold it down,” Hasifar barked. The harpy moved
  to comply.
  Using his belt-knife, he started to work slowly at the
  wound, all the while muttering strange words his fa-
  ther had taught him. The spell is on the arrow, not the
  creature, he thought, so this part will work.
  He was right, though it cost him. The strain from
  working the spell almost caused Hasifar to pass out —
  but the arrowhead cleared the wound without damag-
  ing the patient further. Blood started to well up.
  He packed it with more bandages and started mutter-
  ing another spell. This has to work, he thought, it has to.
  Something went wrong. Either the spell was not
  constructed to clot faery blood, or Hasifar wasn’t doing
  it right. The faery lurched and bucked in pain, almost
  throwing Falen over. The blood continued to well past
  the soaked bandages.
  “No!” Hasifar insisted, “this isn’t right. It needn’t
  die!” He muttered the spell again, quickly and with
  more force of will. He was near exhaustion. Whether
  the spell worked or not, this would be his last attempt.
  Just when Hasifar thought he was going to pass out,
  he felt a snap — a loosening of bonds he hadn’t known
  were there. He felt stronger, yet more tired, and he
  willed this strength into his spell.
  The blood clotted. The faery stopped bucking and
  lapsed into sleep.
  Hasifar collapsed.
  *    *    *
  Another day of rain passed, but Hasifar was eager to
  get going. He felt very active the next day, and it
  seemed to him that waiting around, doing nothing, was
  dangerous.
  After the cyprium faery woke, though, it became
  apparent that they could not move yet. The faery — a
  male of its species named Spheros — had lost a lot of
  blood and Hasifar had no spell that could replenish that
  quickly.
  Spheros’ spell was hauntingly familiar. He and a
  corum — the cyprium word for a small family-like
  group of workers — had taken up residence near
  Edinburgh, Scotland. They had worked with the
  Earthers, cooperating instead of stealing as was their
  normal practise. They found that, by “charging” elec-
  trically things humans called “bat-arees,” they could
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  Dragons Over England
  78
  bargain for food and other human-made luxuries. And
  so, they passed the first few months of the war happily.
  But then things started to go wrong. A messenger
  came to town. He said that Uthorion and the forces of
  the Dark were strong in Europe and in parts of Ireland
  and northern Britain. Edinburgh might have to send
  men to the war, like it or not. He also said that half-folk
  and enchanted were joining with a new force in Europe,
  a woman known only as the “Warrior of the Dark.”
  Things went from bad to worse. One day, the
  Edinburgh people were trading peacefully with the
  cypriums, the next they came at them with clubs and
  spear and nets. The corum were caught by surprise, and
  had to kill dozens of their attackers to allow their young
  to escape.
  But the corum did not. Somehow, the humans had
  gotten ahold of enchanted weapons and nets, and they
  managed to trap almost all of the fairies. Once in the
  nets, the cypriums found their magic useless; the nets
  absorbed the lightning.
  Then the humans who had been their friends taunted
  and tortured them cruelly. The first thing they did was
  crush the fairies’ wings, making it impossible for them to
  fly away. Then, they manacled them to great “bat-arees”
  and deprived them of food until they produced charges.
  “Many of me people died,” Spheros said, “rather
  than submit t’those who’d betrayed our trust. They
  starved t’death rather than help.” Spheros let out a
  long, ragged sigh. “But all the while, they implored
  those of us who were weak to keep chargin’ the ’umans’
  bat-arees and to survive. And escape.”
  Both the centaur and the harpy nodded. They felt
  they had heard the story before. “Finally,” Spheros
  continued, “it was decided that at least one a’ us should
  escape and get help. The ’umans couldna stop rumors
  gettin’ to us. Rumors o’ the Warrior. She was fightin’
  alongside half-folk an’ enchanted, against the so-called
  ‘Light’ armies. She had naught o’ Uthorion, but Ardinay,
  curse ’er name, called ’er a rebel an’ an outlaw ’cause
  she banded wi’ half-folk agin her own kind.”
  Hasifar looked sharply at Falen. They had discussed
  the Warrior of the Dark — or just “the Warrior,” per-
  haps — before. Neither were sure what to make of her.
  “Anyway,” Spheros continued, oblivious to the by-
  play, “I was chosen by lot t’go. My mission is t’get to the
  Warrior an’ tell her that almost half a’ corum o’ faery-
  folk — an’ more, when the word gets out — will join her
  in her fight. If she’ll rescue ’em.”
  The cyprium’s small face took on a haunted look, “If
  any’re left,” he muttered.
  *    *    *
  That night, the three decided that they would try to
  cross the water to the east and make it into Europe.
  There, they could look around and possibly contact the
  Warrior (Hasifar still added “of the Dark,” mentally)
  and see what rumors, if any, were true about her.
  Hasifar also made a startling discovery. Caught up
  in his own thoughts, he barely listened to Spheros’ long
  account of his capture, imprisonment, and escape. Falen,
  however, was very interested — her limited movement
  ability was making her eager to do something, even if
  it was listen to another being’s troubles.
  “… an’ then, all a’ the sudden, the ’umans broke into
  our cave, torches an’ hearts aflame. We were so startled,
  they were on us before anyone reacted.
  “Dessus — that’s our corum spokesfaery — took a
  spear in the gut. It was a wood spear with an enchant-
  ment, I guess, ’cause he wasn’t able to fry ’is killer. A
  shame, that; a faery should always have company on ’er
  way to Shevar.
  “But Mrishin did. ’E went berserk, shootin’ bolts o’
  lightning through the cave. It dinna hurt us, o’course, but
  I think ’e killed half-a-dozen in as many seconds. But the
  big ’un, the one wi’ the scarf an’ staff, started —”
  “What?” Falen squawked, “What did you say?” The
  alarm in her voice brought Hasifar to full attention.
  “What is it?” the centaur asked.
  Spheros looked back and forth between them. “I was
  jus’ tellin’ how the leader o’ the group signalled ’em
  t’use the nets —”
  “No, no,” Falen snapped impatiently, “describe th’
  leader for Hass.”
  “Okee. ’E was a biggun, mebbe 5’10", an’ about two
  hundred pounds. Havin’ a long cloak-an-coat, I couldna
  tell for sure.”
  “Tell him what the human was wearing,” Falen
  prodded.
  “‘E had this long gray scarf. It were almost alive,
  twistin’ in th’ wind. An’ he waved this short staff around
  like a maniac. I don’ think the ’umans knew it, but it was
  a magic staff — all gnarled an’ twisted wi’ spells.”
  Hasifar went rigid. “That man matches the descrip-
  tion o’ the spaleen what ran Hasifar outta ’is village,”
  Falen explained to the confused faery.
  “Ah! But ’ow is that possible? Ye were only run out
  a fortnight or so ago weren’t ye?” Spheros queried. “Me
  people were enslaved months agone.”
  “But what about th’ scarfed man? Has he been there
  all the time?”
  The cyprium thought. He looked at Hasifar. The
  centaur looked like he’d been caught by a will-o’-the-wisp,
  the faery thought; all starin’ an gone …
  “Yeah … yeah,” Falen looked intensely at Spheros,
  and he relented, “well, no, I guess not. It seemed like it,
  though. ’E were the one that enchanted the cages weekly,
  though; he couldna hae been gone for more than a week
  at a time.”
  “An’ a human couldna hae gotten from Edinburgh
  to Hasifar’s village an’ back wi’in a week.” Falen looked
  puzzled.
  “Unless he were one’a them Earthers — an’ went
  outside Aysle.” Spheros provided. But he still looked
  troubled, “But e’en then, ’e’d have difficulty.”
  
  79
  “Not if he was a wizard.”
  Both Spheros and Falen looked up. Hasifar had
  spoken, but he was still rigid, and his voice reflected the
  hollowness within him.
  “A wizard could do it. A wizard could do it all.”
  *    *    *
  A little more discussion, and the centaur, the harpy,
  and the faery came to a decision. “We’ll have to join the
  Warrior,” Falen said, “if there’s a wizard behind both
  yuir outcastings, there must be somethin’ evil afoot.”
  “But what?” Spheros, originally strongly for the sea-
  crossing, now was in doubt. “Why would a wizard do
  all this? I mean, I kin almost see the mess in Edinburgh
  — we were ’elpin’ the people there resist the Invasion
  — but what about Hasifar? Sounds t’me ’e was all for
  sittin’ out th’ war.”
  Hasifar, having decided to cross the water, took no
  part in the discussion. He was readying the trio’s mea-
  ger supplies.
  Falen, however, was still debating. “Kin y’not figure
  it?” Spheros shook his head, and Falen continued in a
  very low voice, “’e’s a stormer.”
  “A what?”
  “I fergot; y’weren’t involved much in the Invasion,”
  Falen explained. “When we were gearin’ t’come over —
  e’en though I wasn’t with ’em, I heard — the parties
  were t’keep their eyes peeled for those that did the …
  near impossible.” Falen glanced over her wing at
  Hasifar. “I think Hass moved hisself inta that category
  when he saved you.”
  Spheros looked first surprised, then shocked, and then
  a little ill — at least Falen interpreted the paleness of his
  silvery-blue skin as discomfort. “I were that close?”
  Falen nodded, “Not only that,” she continued, al-
  most whispering now, “but ’e used a spell ’e was certain
  couldna work. It was a general ’ealing spell — not a
  surgery spell. But it did. Yuir breathin’ ’ere ’cause that
  centaur is a stormer!”
  Just then, Hasifar came up, and both dissembled into
  a discussion of the best way to cross the water to
  Europe.
  “If either o’ us could fly,” Falen put forward, “we
  could go across an’ get help.”
  “As it is now, I don’t think either of you will be flying
  for quite a while.” If at all. His mental voice added
  cynically.
  Both the former fliers looked uncomfortable, and,
  for a moment, Hasifar wondered whether they sensed
  his unspoken thought.
  No. They don’t know.
  They put together the rest of their things in silence
  and Hasifar helped the two onto his back.
  “We’ll have to make for the shoreline, and hope to
  find a boat we can … acquire.” Hasifar’s voice sounded
  strange, even to himself. Stronger than ever before, but
  also … somehow sinister.
  No, I’m just worried.
  Hasifar walked carefully through the woods, listen-
  ing for any noise. He heard nothing except the gentle
  clop of his hooves and the occasional crunch of a branch
  or dried leaves. He was filled with an eerie sensation.
  He became very aware of the weight — however little
  it was — of his two companions.
  Leave them.
  He stopped. “Did you hear something?” Hasifar
  asked.
  Spheros said, “Nothing. What as it?” His voice was
  scratchy in the centaur’s sensitive ears.
  “It sounded like …” what business is it of yours? “No
  … it was nothing.”
  The woods seemed endless, and there were so many
  irritations. Hasifar’s back was growing stiff, keeping it
  level for his passengers. Occasionally, he would mis-
  step, and he could feel the harpy’s claws and the
  cyprium’s fingers grope for balance.
  “‘Ow much farther, Hass? It didna seem this far
  goin’ in.”
  The harpy’s voice broke the silence and irritated
  Hasifar. “Shut up. I’m listening.” He said sharply.
  “Well, excuse me, laddie.”
  A long pause followed.
  “I think we’re almost there, Falen.”
  “Thanks, Hass.”
  “Sorry.” Then, “I’m feeling a little worried.”
  “Why?” Broke in Spheros. His voice is like squeaky
  chalk, Hasifar thought. Why’d I have to save him?
  “Hass,” Falen said, her voice concerned, “you’ve
  stopped. What’s wrong?”
  The centaur’s torso pivoted to face his two passen-
  gers. “Get off my back.” He said coldly.
  Falen looked up into her friend’s face, and what she
  saw was not pleasant. It was still his face, but not
  friendly or even worried. It looked like the face he wore
  back when he saved her from the stoning — but the one
  he turned towards his victims. Quickly, she slid off his
  back.
  But Spheros was not moved. “‘Ere, now, Hasifar;
  what’s goin’ on? We been walkin’ for less than an hour
  — it canna be time for a break yet.”
  “‘We been walkin’’?” Hasifar mocked, “Well, since
  ‘we’ve’ been walking, I guess ‘we’ won’t mind sitting.”
  And with that, Hasifar bucked strongly, trying to shake
  the little pest off his back.
  But Spheros held on tenaciously. “What’re you doin’,
  y’mulehead? Y’wanna kill me?!”
  Falen screamed, “Jump off, Spheros! He means it!”
  But the cyprium was adamant, “No, Falen; we’ve got
  t’get goin’ before any more mischief is made on our
  behalf, an’ I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let some horse-flies’
  dinner slow us down ’cause his back’s tired!”
  That did it. Hasifar saw again the red mist come
  across his eyes, “All right,” he yelled, “I’ve had enough!
  Be damned, will you?! All right!”
  Companions
  
  Dragons Over England
  80
  Hasifar lowered his human torso and performed a
  maneuver known to his tribe as the “centaur’s roll.” It
  was a deadly buck that no horse could even duplicate.
  He bent almost to the ground and then flipped his
  horse’s body over, sending it crashing to the ground.
  Using his muscular human arms, he was barely able to
  continue the motion that would leave him upright.
  The maneuver worked. The troublesome faery had
  to jump or be squashed. And it turned out to be a
  combination of both. The faery jumped as the centaur’s
  lower half flipped around, but he was unable to get
  away from the crashing bulk entirely.
  “Yaaah!” Spheros screamed as his leg was crushed
  under the centaur. Falen screamed also, half-running,
  half-flying to the faery’s side.
  “What th’ ’ell didya do that for, Hass?” she yelled as
  the centaur righted himself.
  Hasifar looked down at the little beings below, and
  an urge to strike out with his hooves became almost
  overwhelming.
  No, that isn’t right.
  The thought was like a cold bucket of water in his
  face. The red mist cleared, and he saw his two friends,
  one in great pain, on the turf below.
  “Spheros! Falen … are you all right?”
  Spheros continued to writhe, muttering curses in his
  native tongue, but Falen looked up accusingly.
  “Ye coulda killed him, y’horse’s ass!”
  Her anger was a flame, but Hasifar fought the in-
  ferno that threatened to consume him again.
  “I … I didn’t mean to, Falen,” his voice trembled, “I
  don’t know what came over me.”
  She studied his face, and then, as if reserving judge-
  ment, said, “Well, help me with ’im now — if ye can.”
  “I can.”
  Hasifar went and found two dried sticks, each about
  the size of Spheros’ broken leg. Then, despite the faery’s
  curses — at least he didn’t shoot lightning bolts — the
  centaur studied the wound.
  “It’s as I thought; a clean break.”
  “’Ow bleeding considerate of you, zurchus dra!” The
  cyprium cursed.
  I deserve that, Hasifar thought, but he continued, “I
  think I can fix this. I know a spell we use to bind
  legbones together — but it takes two to cast it.”
  “What do I do?” Falen asked. Her voice was care-
  fully neutral, but it still stung.
  “I’ll actually cast the spell, but I need you to hold one
  stick against his lower leg — the unbroken one.”
  She gripped the stick in her left claw and hopped
  over. “Like this?”
  “Yes. Now — whatever happens, don’t move that
  stick! I’ll do the rest.”
  Hasifar tried to put all the strange anger and pain out
  of his mind as he worked himself up to the spell. He’d
  never done it before — it was a difficulty procedure,
  and if he didn’t do it right, he would be worse off than
  before.
  After a few mumbled phrases, Hasifar touched the
  end of his stick to Falen’s, then to Spheros’ whole leg,
  then the broken one. Then he placed it beside the leg
  like a splint. Over the next hour, he repeated the pro-
  cedure many times. By the end of the process, he was
  exhausted.
  Spheros’ eyes opened. “Th’ pain’s gone!” He looked
  down at his leg. Aside from a few purplish-silver
  bruises, it looked whole.
  “You can stop holding the other stick now, Falen,”
  the exhausted centaur breathed. He felt like he’d run for
  days and been put away wet. His irrational anger at his
  companions had totally blown away like it had never
  existed, leaving only a hollow ache.
  “Spheros,” he said haltingly, “I’m so —”
  The cyprium jumped up, his eyes bright and his grin
  wide, “Ne’er you mind, horse- … Has. Ne’er you mind.
  Y’made it better; that’s all I need t’know!” The cyprium
  hopped off, presumably to stretch his leg out.
  Hasifar turned to Falen, “I really don’t know what
  happened, Falen. Honest.”
  She looked him over again and stretched her wings.
  “I dunno, Hass. Seein’ y’put him back together … that
  was the most sincere hard work I ever saw anyone do.
  But before … y’looked so —”
  “I know,” he broke in bitterly. “From my side, it looked
  to me like you were parasites — little loafers taking
  advantage of me. I … I felt like I had to be rid of you.”
  Falen considered, and then nodded. “I think I under-
  stand — better than you do.”
  Hasifar was confused, “What? What’s going on,
  Falen?”
  “Hae ye ever been prone to wild fits, Hass?” She
  asked bluntly.
  “Huh? No … at least, not ’til now.”
  “An’ yuir friends in th’ village? Were any o’ them
  irrational?”
  It hurt to remember, but, “No. Not to speak of.”
  Falen stared at him, “Yet, one day, this stranger
  shows up, an’ all the town goes wild an’ tries t’kill ye.
  Isna that suspicious?”
  Hasifar felt a sinking feeling in his stomachs. “I …
  I’ve tried to block it out, Falen.” Then he crumbled
  under her stare, “Yes. I guess so,” he concluded in a
  small voice.
  “The way I figure it, Hass, this wizard cast a spell on
  the town — bringin’ up in ’em the prejudice an’ hatred
  they already had … but only in a little quantity. Then,
  he used his powers to focus it all onto you — the most
  ‘different’ one in th’ village.”
  “So they don’t really hate me?” Hope flared in the
  centaur’s breast.
  But Falen looked troubled. “I canna say. Spheros
  tells us that the Edinburghs’ — if I hae th’ name right —
  
  81
  kept right on hatin’ an’ usin’ the fairies right after the
  Scarfed Man disappeared — sometimes for days. If
  that’s true — an’ I don’t think it’s not — the mage must
  have some sort o’ long-term spell that makes ‘em …”
  “That makes them blame us for what happened!”
  Hasifar said when Falen ran down, “That would be the
  easiest! Alter their memories a little, focus on the hate
  they’re feeling — it could be done.”
  Falen nodded.
  “Oh, those poor people!” Hasifar put his head in his
  hands.
  “Now, remember laddie; they are na completely
  innocent — they had th’ grain in ’em afore he arrived.”
  “But we all have some anger in us! Some prejudice!”
  A light dawned in Hasifar’s mind, “Even me! When I
  hurt Spheros! That was the wizard.”
  Falen gulped. “We’ve got to get out of here — if he’s
  nearby —” Her voice trailed off.
  *    *    *
  The trio got their things together again, and, this
  time, Hasifar took off as fast as he could. Apparently,
  the Scarfed Man, as Falen called him, had cast a spell on
  them to go ’round in circles, so as not to leave the forest.
  But it had, apparently, worn off. Hasifar ran for clear
  daylight and then on to the sea.
  When they broke through the trees, they were of one
  mind: they would get across the water, somehow, and
  meet with the Warrior. She would know what to do
  about this wizard who plagued half-folk and fairies.
  She could help them save their friends from his spell.
  Back under the eaves, a figure stepped out from the
  trunk of a tree. It was wrapped in a whirlwind of living
  cloth, and, in its left hand, it held a short, gnarled stick.
  It spoke: “Well, that wen’ well, I ken.” The voice was
  gravelly.
  Another voice answered from a nearby tree, “Yes.”
  This was a clear woman’s voice — strong and powerful.
  “But he did not kill the faery. That would have made
  him completely ours.”
  The shape with the gravelly voice waved its stick,
  and another figure stepped out of a tree. This one was
  tall and thin, and had either a dragon’s head or a helm
  made to look like a dragon’s. It wore a long, black cloak.
  “He will be ours,” the gravelly voice said. “He shall
  join the Dark, whether he will or nil. The harpy can be
  lost in the passage, and the cyprium … I have plans for
  it.” The voice chuckled evilly.
  The wind hissed through the trees, and the clear
  voice spoke, “You’d better get them a boat — we
  wouldn’t want them to give up looking. And get me
  back across — I want to be there to meet … them.”
  “Of course, Warrior.”
  “Of the Dark,” the clear voice reminded.
  “Of the Dark.”
  Evil laughter rang out and was suddenly hushed.
  Companions
  
  Culann shifted his body to give him a better view of
  the sidhe. His muscles, stiffened with disuse, strained
  as he moved. Around him, his people lay quiet, their
  pale-skinned bodies disturbed only by the breathing of
  deep sleep. Dust lay thick over the sleeping forms.
  Culann searched through his mind, sorting through the
  jumble of thoughts there as he slowly came to full
  consciousness — he had been forced to use magic to
  preserve his people. It had been — how long?
  His eyes swept across the sleeping form of his soul-
  mate, Fionna. Time had not aged her handsome fea-
  tures. Culann remembered the moment he had first laid
  eyes on her at the Grove of Durne. They had both been
  sent there to meditate with Danu. He had tried to talk
  with Fionna, but she had fled at his approach. For
  weeks, he haunted the Grove, waiting for her. Then one
  day, she returned. Eventually, they had become friends,
  and then something more — more like one than two.
  When they had been declared soul-mates, it was the
  happiest day of his life. Gazing back toward her, he let
  his eyes roam over her sleeping form, taking in every
  detail. Culann’s eyes misted over. He ached to touch
  her. It had been too long.
  With awkward movements, Culann swung into a
  sitting position, dust falling from his clothing. He filled
  his lungs with air. What had awakened him? Letting his
  powers fill him, Culann allowed his awareness to wan-
  der for a moment. Ah, he could sense the magic! Since
  the days of Cath Maige Tuired, he had not felt so
  invigorated. It seemed that all was not lost: the humans
  had obviously lost ground in the battle to take Hibernia.
  The other Tuatha tribes must have resisted their ad-
  vances. The humans would pay. But how long had it
  been?
  With multitudes as numerous as blades of grass, the
  humans had come. And with them, they brought their
  religion — a religion that left little room for the beliefs
  and magic of the people of Hibernia. The Tuatha-de-
  Dannan had fought, but for every human they had
  slain, three more sprang up. They had swept the Tuatha
  before them, until finally the Children of Danu had
  been forced to take refuge in their sidhes, magical
  shelters built by their mother and goddess, Danu.
  Living under the ground, the Tuatha had learned to
  exist without the fresh air and warm sounds of the
  surface world. A truce had been made and so the
  Tuatha-de-Dannan learned to coexist with the humans
  — one below the earth and the other above. Occasion-
  ally, the Tuatha aided those humans they deemed
  worthy, but mostly they harbored ill will toward those
  who had shut them off from the surface world.
  Then the magic had faded. Slowly at first, but with
  increasing speed, the force that kept the Tuatha alive
  was drained from the world. As a final measure, the
  goddess Danu had given her children a powerful spell
  which would keep them alive until the day the magic
  returned to the world. But how long?
  Myth Reality
  Lisa Stevens
  
  83
  As his senses became more acute, Culann felt some-
  thing. Anger. It roiled up inside of him. Instinctively, he
  knew it wasn’t his own anger, yet it threatened to
  overwhelm him, forcing reason to retreat beneath its
  barrage. Somebody must pay! Then he felt something
  else — much more subtle, almost unnoticeable: fear. It
  wasn’t the simple fear of losing a friend or of being
  caught doing something wrong, but rather the fear of
  dying, of being extinguished. Suddenly, Culann bent
  over, clutching at his stomach. Pain!
  Something was dying and Culann felt the anguish of
  its death-throes. But what could possibly be so power-
  ful? In a burst of insight, Culann recognized the voice
  that cried out to him in anger, fear and pain. How could
  he not? Next to his Fionna, it was the voice he, and all
  Tuatha, most cherished. It was the Earth. She was
  calling out to her people.
  The humans must be responsible for this. Culann felt
  the Earth’s anger, fear, and pain, and they became his.
  For this, the humans would pay dearly. The Earth had
  awakened her people to free her from this misery!
  With a sigh, Culann surveyed his people. Soon they
  too would awaken and then, for the first time in … well,
  in a long, long time, the Tuatha-de-Dannan would ride
  the surface of Hibernia. And this time, the humans
  would perish!
  *    *    *
  Aubrey McDaniell clutched Sean’s hand tightly. She
  was nervous. Really nervous. On the other side of this
  curtain lay the gathered members of Parliament. They
  say that war makes strange bedfellows — well, nothing
  could be stranger than the spokesperson for the IRA
  addressing Parliament. The butterflies in her stomach
  threatened to erupt from her abdomen. Nervously, she
  brought her hand up to her lips and nibbled her index
  finger.
  “You’re on, Brea,” Sean whispered to her with a
  smile, lightly pushing her through the curtains and
  toward the podium.
  As she emerged into the room, Aubrey, or Brea as her
  friends and family called her, felt the weight of hun-
  dreds of eyes upon her, sizing her up as two duellists
  would when they come face to face for the first time.
  Summoning up all her inner reserves of strength, she
  marched toward the podium, her eyes trying to take in
  each person in the room in turn.
  As she reached the podium, a chorus of coughs arose
  from various parts of the room accompanied by deri-
  sive snickers and stifled laughs. To her left, someone
  blew his nose. Fighting down her rising anger, Brea
  organized her notes and gathered her thoughts. Her
  speech could have a decisive impact on the war and she
  would be damned if she would let a bunch of stodgy old
  coots ruin it for her, and themselves for that matter.
  Eying the crowd with her steel blue eyes, Aubrey
  began.
  “Ladies and gentlemen of Parliament. Good after-
  noon. It may seem strange that I am addressing you like
  this, but war makes strange bedfellows and I believe
  you will all agree that an alliance of the IRA and the
  United Kingdom will be just that — strange. As all of
  you are aware, Britain and Ireland were invaded by an
  army that can best be described as not being from this
  world. They come from another cosm, as they put it,
  and their sole purpose is total domination of our fair
  countries. They take no prisoners. They don’t fight with
  conventional weapons. Indeed, they seem to wield the
  magic of our myths and legends, making them formi-
  dable opponents indeed. Our weapons and other tech-
  nological contraptions fail to work in areas where their
  forces hold sway. Only through sheer persistence and
  courage have we been able to hold them back until now.
  But even courage and persistence will fail in the end
  unless we can join ourselves into a common force and
  repel them with hands and minds united.”
  “Why are we listening to this bloody Irish terrorist?”
  a voice said from the back of the room. “I for one won’t
  cast my lot with an Irish terrorist and a woman to boot.”
  An older man rose from his seat and started to walk out.
  Brea thought quickly. “Lord Dunsbury, isn’t it?” The
  man stopped, his back to Brea. “Don’t you know that
  for these invaders, there is no Irish, no Scot, no Brit, no
  Catholic, no Protestant, no man, no woman, no lord, no
  working man? There is only death and death does not
  play favorites. Death has no prejudice. These invaders
  are from another world. They have different morals,
  different values. They worship different gods. To them,
  a dead Irish terrorist is the same as a dead British lord.
  The same.
  “I know that in the past, I would have gladly put a
  bullet into you, just as you would have gladly watched
  me hang. But in the light of these invaders, I would
  gladly call you brother, Lord Dunsbury. I would gladly
  embrace any one of you. For we are all human beings.
  We are all Brits, Scots and Irish today. We are all
  Christians. We are all men and women. They,” and here
  Brea paused for effect, “they are none of those things.
  Last week, I led a patrol of our forces, our forces, against
  the enemy. Against us they had a creature from night-
  mares — a monster. It tore through my patrol, cutting
  off limbs and heads, spilling entrails. Bullets and knives
  couldn’t stop this monster. Few of us escaped. Those
  that did will always bear the memory of their comrades
  dying under the claws of that beast.
  “These invaders must be made to pay for what
  they’ve done — the slaughter of helpless people, the
  destruction of villages and homes, and the perversion
  of the world as we know it with monstrosities of all
  sorts. These invaders come from another place, another
  time, and their world leaves no room for ours to exist. It
  is either them or us, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve seen
  their handiwork first hand. I’ve seen the blood and
  destruction, the tortured bodies, the women and chil-
  Myth Reality
  
  Dragons Over England
  84
  dren strung up like animals. All this I have seen and
  now I plead, no I beg of you: unite your forces, our
  forces, and fight this evil in our midst, which threatens
  to destroy all that we hold sacred. Long live the Queen!
  Long live Britain and Ireland!”
  Brea let the final words linger for a moment. The
  silence was broken by Lord Dunsbury’s clapping. For a
  moment, the rhythmic beat of his hands matched the
  hearts of all in the room. Then the assembled members
  of Parliament exploded into thunderous applause. Brea
  had to smile to herself. They were actually applauding
  her! Times had sure changed. As the applause died
  away, Brea realized with a start that she had done it.
  Britain was on its way to becoming united!
  *    *    *
  Culann pulled up sharply on the reins. His white
  horse snorted with eager anticipation, throwing its
  head from side to side. It was all Culann could do to
  keep it reined in — or to keep himself from kicking his
  heels into the horse’s flank and galloping off across the
  countryside. A warbler took off from a bush as the
  mounted party drew near, its flight a wonder to behold.
  It had been such a long time. How long, Culann still
  wasn’t sure, but in some vague, imperceptible way, the
  world around him felt different. The birds sang differ-
  ent songs, the smells on the breeze were touched with
  odors that Culann couldn’t identify, and the animals
  they’d encountered seemed much more pensive and
  afraid. Yes, things had changed.
  Culann felt a touch on his arm. Turning, his eyes met
  those of Fionna.
  “What are you musing about, soul of my soul? I
  would wager a guess that you are troubled by the
  Earth’s changes and what has brought them about.
  Better it would be if you would muse about something
  useful, like finding us a decent camping spot before
  darkness falls.” She flashed him a smile, which Culann
  returned in kind.
  “You always were able to read my thoughts, flower
  of my life. Yes, it’s the changes in the world that trouble
  me. But more so, I am concerned about why we have
  awakened and what that means for us — for you,”
  Culann returned, squeezing his soul-mate’s hand in the
  process.
  “Don’t worry about me, my love. As long as I have
  you, my life has everything I could possibly want.”
  Fionna smiled at Culann as she leaned towards him and
  they kissed. When they broke apart, they rode for a
  space with eyes only for each other.
  Suddenly, Fionna’s eyes lit up. Pointing to a nearby
  knoll, she spoke excitedly to Culann, “My dearest, isn’t
  that our bonding tree?”
  Culann turned toward the knoll and sucked in his
  breath. For there were two ancient oaks, their trunks
  and branches intertwined and reaching far into the sky.
  “May Danu guide my thoughts, they are beautiful,”
  Culann whispered. “Almost as beautiful as you, my
  love. But they are so large, so old. Have we been gone
  that long?”
  The approaching gallop of a horse broke Culann’s
  reverie. Shifting his gaze forward, Culann awaited his
  scout’s report.
  The young Tuatha rider saluted briefly.
  “Father, I’ve spotted a village ahead, but it seems to
  have been destroyed. I detected no sign of the enemy,
  though I didn’t ride in. I felt it more important to inform
  you of the location than to scout it out myself.”
  “How far, Tadg?” Culann replied, thoughtfully rub-
  bing his chin.
  “Just over that rise, sir.” His son pointed.
  With a wave of his hand, Culann set the party into
  motion. His Tuatha numbered thirty warriors. They all
  carried finely crafted bows and swords, with light
  lances available when mounted on horseback. Their
  armor was highly decorated. Each helm was wrought
  with the finest silver inlay and designed around vari-
  ous animal motifs — lions leaping to the attack, eagles
  swooping for the strike, wolves on the prowl, and boars
  charging.
  As they progressed, Culann could feel the Earth’s
  pain again, only this time it was more intense. The
  village: something had happened there that caused the
  Earth to recoil in anguish.
  The Tuatha war band crested the rise. Below them
  was a seaside village, its small fishing boats bobbing at
  their moorings. The cry of a sea gull could be heard as
  the smell of salt air, mixed with something else, as-
  saulted Culann’s nose. Now he could see that the small
  houses which made up this village had been burned,
  the charred shells all that remained.
  With their senses heightened to battle wariness,
  Culann led the Tuatha band into the town. The alien
  architecture and strange materials that made up the
  dwellings were readily apparent, but what held
  Culann’s full attention was the horrible carnage in the
  center of the village.
  Spitted on tall poles, over two dozen humans —
  men, women, and children — had been horribly muti-
  lated and their bodies left for the gulls to feast on.
  Culann nearly doubled over with the Earth’s pain.
  “Cut them down and see to their burial,” he ordered
  his people through clenched teeth.
  Who had done this? Looking at the nearest body,
  Culann could tell that it was human. Could the Firbolgs
  have returned to Ireland? Or perhaps the Formorians?
  This wasn’t their style, but someone — or some thing —
  had slaughtered these humans.
  There were other questions as well. The humans wore
  strange clothing and much of the village felt strange to
  Culann. The men weren’t wearing armor. Surely the men
  of this village would have fought to protect their homes.
  
  85
  Also, the houses in the village obviously weren’t made of
  the thatch and mud that Culann was familiar with.
  Everything had a foreign feel to it, like the tales of
  someone who had visited lands far across the seas. More
  questions — but where to find the answers?
  As his people cleaned up the massacre, the Earth’s
  pain lessened as if the Tuathas’ ministrations had
  soothed its injuries.
  A commotion brought Culann back to full alertness.
  Tadg was holding a little human boy by the arms, lifting
  the lad clear off the ground as he kicked and struggled to
  get free. The boy’s eyes were laced with anger, wonder,
  and a touch of fear. Culann smiled at the mop of red hair
  which constantly fell in front of the boy’s eyes — a human
  of Hibernian stock for certain. As Tadg approached his
  father with the boy, the youngster stopped his quest for
  freedom and sized up the elder Tuatha with interest.
  Smiling to himself, Culann was pleased that the lad
  didn’t display the fear that he had expected. Perhaps this
  one could be a source of information.
  “What’s your name, lad?” the head Tuatha queried.
  “Bono,” the young boy answered distractedly, obvi-
  ously more intrigued by the wolf on Culann’s helmet
  than the questions the elder Tuatha was posing.
  “Bow-No. What kind of a name is that, boy?” Culann
  smiled. “Does it mean you’re too young and small to
  shoot the short bow?”
  “My daddy named me after the rock band; you
  know, U2,” the boy replied, for the first time looking
  Culann in the eyes.
  Shaking his head in bewilderment, Culann said, “ ‘Me
  too’? My Father didn’t name me after any band of rocks.
  My name comes from my grandfather’s sur-name.”
  Repressing the urge to ask why one would name a
  son after a band of rocks, Culann said, “So, Bono, you
  look like an intelligent and courageous young lad. Can
  you tell me what happened here?”
  “Are you an elf?” Bono asked, ignoring the elder
  lord’s question.
  A smile crossed Culann’s face. The humans of
  Hibernia had called his people that long ago, along
  with many not-so-pleasant nicknames.
  Before the Tuatha could respond, Bono went on.
  “My brother played an elf a game. He was a fighter and
  a magician and a thief. He killed a dragon once. Boy, did
  he get a lot of treasure! He was really powerful. Are you
  a fighter and a magician and a thief?”
  “Hold on boy. Did you say that he was a thief? And
  the dragon, where was the beast lairing?”
  “Yeah, he was a thief, but also a fighter and a magi-
  cian. I think the dragon laired near a big forest next to
  a big town, but I forget its name.” Bono fired off replies
  to Culann’s questions about as fast as the Tuatha could
  propose them. “They didn’t let me play, just watch, ’cuz
  I was too little.”
  Puzzled even further by Bono’s strange replies to his
  questions, Culann’s anger built up. “Young man, you do
  realize that many people were killed here? It is very
  important that I find out who committed this atrocity. I
  need your help, but right now you are not being at all
  helpful. I need a straightforward answer. You must have
  seen something, boy. Who did this to your village?”
  Bono’s brave facade cracked with each word that fell
  from Culann’s mouth.
  “Ummm, I don’t know. My brother, he, uhhh …”
  Bono fought to find the words.
  Her maternal instincts coming to the fore, Fionna
  was at the boy’s side in an instant, embracing him in her
  arms. With a cold look at Culann, she stroked the young
  lad’s red hair.
  “There, there,” she cooed. “It will be fine. You don’t
  need to answer his questions until you are ready. It
  must be hard for you after all you’ve been through.”
  Suddenly the words bubbled out. “I tried to stop
  them! They came from the sea. My mommy told me to
  hide in the cellar with Michael. We didn’t want to, but
  Daddy ordered us to. My brother and I went down-
  stairs and hid by the furnace. We could hear the shout-
  ing and screaming. Finally, my brother told me to stay
  put and that he would go get Mom and Dad. I waited
  down there for him and Mom and Dad to come back. I
  waited a long time. Finally, I had to go potty, so I snuck
  upstairs. That’s when I saw them and I hid until he
  found me.” Bono pointed to Tadg.
  “What, boy? Who did you see?” the elder Tuatha
  asked with a strain in his voice. His soul-mate gave
  Culann another frigid stare, but the young boy didn’t
  seem to notice the tone of the Tuatha leader’s voice.
  “You know, them, Erik the Red,” Bono restated, this
  time his youthful anger coming to the fore. With his
  small hands balled into fists, he unwrapped himself
  from Fionna’s embrace and faced the Tuatha leader.
  “Who?” Culann said, not quite sure that he had
  heard the boy right.
  “Erik the Red, you know, Monty Python,” Bono prof-
  fered, obviously struggling to find the right words to tell
  the ancient leader what he wanted to know. Suddenly,
  his face brightened, “The Vikings,” he stated resolutely,
  his face beaming with his success, “They did it.”
  Then, just as quickly as his defiance had risen, the
  horror of the previous day’s events resurfaced and
  Bono broke from Fionna’s arms screaming, “Michael.
  Mom. Dad. Where are you?”
  With a burst of youthful speed, he broke from the
  circle of Tuatha and ran back into the village. Two of the
  Tuatha raised their bows and took aim, but Culann
  waved them off.
  “No. We need him alive. If we are to figure out what
  has happened to our world, we will need one of its
  inhabitants to tell us what is going on. Tadg, take two
  men and bring the boy back here,” Culann ordered.
  “‘Need him alive’ indeed.” Fionna glared at Culann.
  “I had better go with them. I think that I can calm him
  down. Perhaps a woman’s touch is needed in this
  Myth Reality
  
  Dragons Over England
  86
  instance. Young children usually respond well to their
  mother. I don’t think Bono has quite outgrown his
  mother’s embrace.”
  With a wave of his hand, Culann signaled for them
  to be off. He heard Fionna’s voice raised to the men: “If
  you harm one hair of that lad’s head….” He smiled,
  then frowned.
  The Vikings. Culann had fought Vikings before.
  They were fierce warriors and worthy opponents. Ob-
  viously, Vikings had raided this village, horribly tor-
  turing and slaughtering its inhabitants. Young Bono
  had seemed to know the Viking’s leader, a warrior
  named Erik the Red. It was just like the humans to turn
  on each other like this — they were a perverse and
  militant race.
  Culann glanced up to see his life-mate with Bono
  draped over her shoulder. He could tell from the boy’s
  swollen face that he had been crying hard. It was
  obvious that children in this day and age weren’t used
  to the violence that his people had taken for granted.
  Fionna looked so at ease with Bono that it pleased
  Culann. It made him happy to see her so content. With
  a glance at Bono, now sleeping in his wife’s lap, he
  smiled. Not all humans were so bad, it seemed.
  *    *    *
  Brea walked through the halls of Parliament with
  Sean at her side. He had really been a rock for her in
  these last few weeks. When the world got crazy and
  everything turned upside down, he had been there,
  listening to her troubles and soothing her in that way
  only he could. His hand gently massaged her neck as
  they walked, melting the stress away. Brea didn’t know
  what she would do without him. She was renowned for
  her leadership skills, her ability to utilize everything
  she had and make the most of it, her ability to win.
  Sometimes, however, Brea felt so small, so weak, and so
  ineffective. It was at times like that when she turned to
  Sean. He was tall, strong, silent, a pillar of stone in the
  middle of her troubled life.
  She glanced up at Sean and squeezed his hand
  silently, in that way that said I love you between the two
  of them. “You know, I never could have made it with-
  out you,” she whispered, putting on a face for him that
  no one else would ever see, or for that matter believe
  existed in a woman as strong and commanding as
  Aubrey McDaniell.
  An explosion knocked both of them to their feet and
  the main lights flickered and went out. Groping toward
  the walls, Sean and Brea were on their feet when the
  emergency generator kicked in, bathing the hall in a
  dull red glow.
  “Quick, this way, ” she motioned to Sean, while the
  two of them pulled Berretas from their hidden holsters.
  From a hall to their right, they heard cursing and an
  inhuman cackle of glee. Suddenly, something burst
  forth from the wall right in front of the two humans. All
  Brea had the time to register was a flutter of wings and
  bright orange eyes before the creature rushed past
  them, a torch fluttering merrily in its hands.
  “And it’s off to the library we go, he-ho!” it chortled
  as it flew off down the main hallway.
  Quickly, Brea and Sean set after the little faerie with
  two security guards close on their heels. The glow of the
  creature’s torch and its cackles of insane glee made it
  easy to chase through the halls.
  They were running back the way she and Sean had
  just come, and Brea knew there was a dead end ahead
  where they could capture the mischievous gremlin.
  The pursuers turned the corner and saw the wall ahead.
  The little faerie didn’t seem to be letting up at all.
  Then Brea realized her miscalculation:  the thing had
  flown right through the wall when they first encoun-
  tered it. Kicking in a burst of energy, she closed the gap
  between herself and the faerie. Too late.
  The fey creature hit the wall at break neck speed —
  and stopped with a small squeak. Brea, Sean and the
  two guards surrounded the creature. It seemed to be
  out cold.
  “What happened?” whispered Sean.
  “Sometimes their powers fail them behind our lines,
  just as our guns sometimes fail behind theirs,” Brea
  replied.
  “Good timing for us.”
  Brea chuckled. “So much for the old disappearing
  act.”
  *    *    *
  “Culann, can I have my own horse to ride?” Bono
  asked fervently, eyes wide with excitement. “And a
  sword. Can I have a sword too?”
  “You are too young to wield a sword and ride a
  horse,” Culann returned with a smile, “but perhaps
  Tadg could teach you something about them later
  when we stop for lunch.”
  “Awesome, that would be really cool,” Bono replied,
  his voice filled with anticipation.
  “I rather think that you will be a bit warm rather than
  cool by the time I get through with you, young whelp,
  but I would be delighted to teach you a thing or two
  about the sword when we stop for lunch,” Tadg grinned
  back at Bono.
  “Speaking of eating, I’m starving. Could we stop at
  a Burger King or somethin’?” Bono swiveled his head
  around and smiled plaintively at Culann, who was
  riding behind him on the horse.
  Culann laughed. “I know of no burghers who deem
  themselves kings in these parts, and I doubt whether
  they would feed us if we went there, my boy.”
  At the thought of one of the human rulers opening
  up his house to feed the Tuatha, the rest of the band
  roared in mirth.
  “For that matter, why don’t we go and sup with the
  King of Ireland while we’re at it?” Tadg quipped,
  
  87
  slapping his leg and causing the whole band to re-erupt
  at the young boy’s expense.
  “You guys are weird,” Bono stated, shaking his
  head. “I just wanted something to eat.”
  “Ignore them, Bono dear.” Fionna consoled him
  with a smile. “They’ve just had too much fresh air and
  are a bit over-exuberant.” Someone mentioned nectar
  of the gods, and the whole band continued to cackle
  with glee while Bono stared straight ahead and pouted.
  Finally, the band stopped to rest next to a small
  brook. Tadg brought down some pigeons which he
  roasted over an open fire. At first, Bono wouldn’t eat
  the pigeon meat, mumbling about how he used to feed
  the birds in the park and there was no way he was going
  to eat the birds from the park. Fionna reassured Bono
  that he wouldn’t have to eat the park birds, and that she
  would provide him with something else. She then took
  one of the birds that Tadg had killed, went out of Bono’s
  sight, deboned the bird, and returned with the deboned
  meat, which Bono dubbed “chicken.” This he devoured
  in monstrous bites and swallows.
  As the troop rested, Culann realized that he didn’t
  have any idea where he was going. It felt so good to be
  out in the open air that he had not stopped to think
  about his destination. Things had changed consider-
  ably since the last time he walked the face of the earth,
  and he felt like a stranger. Ireland was no longer the
  home he had fought for; it had been warped by the
  humans, changed, deformed, and the Earth wept at her
  own condition. Anger welled up inside Culann. There
  had to be a way to set things right. Magic had  called the
  Tuatha-de-Dannan from their underground tombs.
  Culann had to believe that the Earth was responsible for
  this. But what was he to do now?
  Bono? The boy had lived here. Though he was young,
  he seemed admirably bright for a human. Perhaps he
  would have an idea of where to go.
  Culann slowly rose to his feet and walked over to
  where Fionna was sitting with the boy. Bono was
  wolfing down the last scrap of meat, his face full of
  grease. Culann smiled.
  “I’ve been thinking, young man, that I need to find
  out where things stand in the world so that I can help to
  set them right again. Do you know where I might go to
  do this, Bono?”
  Bono stopped wiping the grease from his hands and
  twisted his face up thoughtfully. “I guess I’d go to town
  — that way,” he pointed, indicating the smooth, black-
  rock road they had been travelling on since the village.
  “Is the town, over that way, big?” Culann asked,
  hoping the lad would expand upon his answer.
  “Oh, yeah! They have a Baskin-Robbins, a movie
  theater, a department store and all kinds of other neat
  stuff!” Bono exclaimed excitedly.
  “What do basking robins have to do with anything?
  And stores that you leave?” Culann was mightily con-
  fused. “Do they have a system of government in this
  town?”
  “Baskin-Robbins is where you get ice cream and
  why wouldn’t you want to leave a store? Do you want
  to live in one?” Bono responded.
  Culann shook his head. He would just have to ignore
  the things he didn’t understand, and hope he could
  discover some clue in this town as to what was happen-
  ing in the world. The Earth’s pain had not let up since
  Culann had awakened and he wanted desperately to
  fight whatever was causing it.
  With a sigh, he rose and signalled for his warriors to
  prepare to ride. With Bono now riding in front of
  Fionna, the warband headed off down the road to the
  west. As usual, Tadg rode off ahead to scout. Culann
  had always felt that anything that was too dangerous
  for his family to do was too dangerous for any of his
  people. Besides, it was a job that Tadg performed
  admirably.
  They had ridden for about half an hour when Tadg
  rode back with news that a party of mounted men was
  approaching from the west. The enemy numbered about
  the same as the Tuatha, but Tadg thought he had not
  been seen — the warband would have the element of
  surprise.
  Culann scanned the terrain, looking for some advan-
  tage. There were no places from which to ambush the
  approaching warriors, so he decided to use the eleva-
  tion of the hill they were currently on to give his archers
  an advantage in case the enemy charged their position.
  The added height of the hill would allow his archers to
  shoot farther and also tire the attacking enemy. Mean-
  while, Fionna prepared her spells and took up a posi-
  tion to the left of Culann. He motioned for his band to
  spread out along the ridge, then turned to wait for the
  enemy to appear.
  He heard them before he saw them; the clatter of
  their horses’ hooves on the hard black road created
  quite a din. Silently, he signalled his band to be ready.
  Up and down the line, arrows were nocked as both
  horses and Tuatha waited restlessly.
  The enemy party appeared from around the bend.
  At Culann’s signal, thirty bows were made ready and
  aimed at their targets. The leader of the opposing group
  stopped his riders and surveyed the arrayed Tuatha.
  After a moment, he shouted over the intervening field,
  “Greetings. I have no quarrel with you. Perhaps we
  could meet and discuss this like civilized beings.”
  The leader pointed towards the center of the field.
  “I’ll remove my weapons and meet your leader over
  there.”
  Culann watched as the man unbuckled his sword belt,
  handing it to an aide, and proceeded to dismount and
  walk toward the center of the field. There was something
  strange about him, which Culann couldn’t place. There
  was also something familiar about him, even though his
  Myth Reality
  
  Dragons Over England
  88
  appearance seemed alien. The hair on the back of Culann’s
  neck prickled with anticipation. As the man got closer,
  Culann could see that his skin was dark — dark blue!
  Silver hair framed his face, accenting the blue and giving
  the man a noble veneer. Then Culann sensed it — magic!
  Its energy coursed through Culann like a cool summer
  breeze. This man, or whatever he was, had a potent
  magical aura around him.
  “This man may be able to provide the answers we are
  looking for, Tadg. Fionna, keep the boy safely behind
  the lines and ride away with him at the first sign of
  trouble. There is something strange about these war-
  riors.” Culann unbuckled his own sword belt and
  dismounted. With a brief whisper of love to his soul-
  mate, Culann turned and strode into the field to meet
  the strange blue-skinned man.
  Culann approached cautiously, but without evi-
  dence of fear. Inside, though, he was ready to spring
  into action at the slightest provocation. He could feel
  the magic more strongly. As the Tuatha came near, the
  other man smiled, his white teeth made all the more
  evident by the dark hue of his skin.
  “Greetings, my lord.” The musical quality of the
  man’s voice caught Culann off guard. “My name is
  Delyndun, chief wizard to my Lord Thorfinn Bjanni,
  the master of this realm. I hate to be so bold, your
  lordship, but you do not seem to be of this world. I sense
  a magic in you that I do not feel in the other inhabitants
  of this realm.” The elven wizard pronounced each
  word crisply, indicating a man who was not only used
  to talking, but also one who had been well educated.
  That, along with the fine cut of his clothing, seemed to
  indicate that he was a man of wealth and power,
  perhaps a landed noble.
  Culann thought for a moment and replied, “You are
  right, Dellydin, my people are of a race far different
  from the humans who inhabit this isle. Long ago, the
  humans fought my race for possession of this island
  and drove us into hiding. Slowly and insidiously, they
  drained the magic from the world, leaving my people to
  die. Now, we have awakened with the return of the
  magic to the world and we are out to reclaim what is
  rightfully ours.”
  “Ahhh,” Delyndun made this sound like a purring
  cat. “I see we have a common objective then. You see,
  my Lord Bjanni has come to conquer this world and
  establish a realm of magic here. It is his magic that you
  feel in your world now. The humans, as you call them,
  are a stubborn lot, refusing to give in to the inevitable.
  But, alas, their fight is a futile one and soon this island,
  along with the rest of their world, will fall to the
  unlimited power of my master. Perhaps our people can
  work together against these humans?”
  “Perhaps,” Culann said cautiously, “but I would like
  to speak to your lord first. Our objectives do indeed
  seem to be along the same lines, but I would have to see
  where my people fit into your lord’s plans before I
  would commit to any long-term alliance. Until that
  time, however, I think we can avoid hostilities and
  work together.”
  With a smile, Culann stretched forth his hand in
  friendship, which the elf grasped energetically. A cheer
  erupted from both sides and the Tuatha lowered their
  weapons. The two forces rode to their leaders’ sides and
  were soon mingling and sharing introductions. After
  an impromptu meal provided by Delyndun’s magic,
  the now-united forces prepared to move out. Culann
  helped his wife get Bono situated in front of her on the
  horse. The poor lad had fallen asleep early in the
  evening, the excitement and fresh air having taken its
  toll. When he felt that the boy was secure, Culann
  mounted his own horse and led his band after the elven
  wizard.
  As they rode, Culann noticed that Bono’s sleep was
  restless, with occasional mutterings and starts. Fionna
  watched over him carefully, softly caressing the boy,
  trying to bring comfort to her human charge.
  And Culann let the pain of the Earth melt away into
  a renewed purpose as he rode toward his destiny.
  *    *    *
  Brea walked across the room. Pieces of the carpet’s
  padding showed in places where her repetitive pacing
  from side to side had worn away the fabric. She glanced
  over to where the small faerie was sitting, eying her
  movements with unconcealed glee. The little bastard
  knew that Brea couldn’t physically harm him: most of
  the traditional methods of interrogation were of little
  use when your subject was a magical being. Brea just
  couldn’t seem to make it feel pain or fear for its life.
  Turning on her heel, Brea went back to face her
  prisoner. The faerie was a little under three feet tall,
  with sky-blue skin, short, curly black hair, and eyes the
  color of tangerines. Its laughter was like wind chimes
  while its voice reminded one of the dulcet overtones of
  a woodwind. When the faerie smiled, its teeth glistened
  in the light. Brea had seen just about enough dulcet
  glistening for one day.
  “Damn you,” she screamed at the being, grabbing it
  by the arms and shaking it as hard as she could, “if you
  smirk at me one more time, I swear by all the saints I’ll
  rip your little blue body limb from limb.”
  The tinkling sound of its laughter enraged Brea and
  she tugged at the arms with a vengeance, but they
  stretched like putty beneath her grasp. In frustration,
  she threw it at the wall. Tumbling through the air in a
  feat of graceful aeronautics, the faerie floated to the
  ground and stood smiling back at Brea.
  “Now, now, stormer, we mustn’t lose our temper,
  must we?” The faerie held its fingers to the top of its
  head, rolling its eyes around and snorting and grunting
  like a beast. Its antics seemed to drive it further into fits
  of delirium and it rolled into a little ball, giggling
  insanely.
  
  89
  Brea had to get out of there. She couldn’t withstand
  its tauntings anymore without physically hurting some-
  thing and the one thing she wanted most to hurt was
  immune to anything she could think of. She would just
  have to come back later.
  “Don’t forget to do your paperwork now, stormer.
  Perhaps you can learn something and beat some intel-
  ligence into that thick head of yours. Or aren’t you able
  to write, stormer?” The creature prolonged the last
  syllable and slurred it into a shriek of laughter.
  “You can eat this paperwork, you slimy little bas-
  tard” Brea screamed, hurling her pen and clipboard at
  the blue creature and turning to head for the door.
  A sharp squeal of pain brought her up short. Turning
  around, she noticed the faerie clutching its arm, all
  thoughts of laughter gone. Then Brea noticed the pen
  on the ground next to the faerie — dark blood visible on
  its tip. Silver! Of course! She had forgotten the myths
  about some faerie’s aversion to silver. Glancing around
  the room, Brea spied the letter opener which had been
  given to her when she had been promoted to captain.
  Rushing to her desk, Brea grabbed the letter opener,
  brandishing it like a knife, and wheeled around toward
  the faerie.
  “So, silver is your Achilles heel, is it?” Brea waved
  the letter opener in the faerie’s face. The creature’s
  cringe and wide-eyed fear were a welcome change
  from the taunts she had been subjected to for the past
  day. In terror, the faerie scampered into the corner.
  “Now we’ll see if there is anything you wish to tell
  me about your plans in Ireland.”
  “Mercy, mistress, oh mercy, please, fair lady. I didn’t
  mean to taunt you, oh no, not me. Anything you wish
  to know, beautiful lady, anything, but please don’t hurt
  me with that wicked implement!” The creature cringed,
  desperately seeking to expose the least amount of its
  body by squeezing itself into the corner.
  “That’s better,” Brea stated. “Now, I need to know
  why you were sent to sabotage our electrical system.”
  “Oh, please don’t hurt me, I’ll tell you everything,
  everything! It was in preparation for a raid, a raid I tell
  you. Oh no, don’t hurt me, I know much, you’ll see,” the
  pathetic little creature whimpered.
  “I need details. When, where, how many, for what
  purpose,” Brea pressed, knowing she had the upper
  hand for the moment and wishing to take advantage
  of it.
  “I need a map, a map, fair lady and I will show you
  all,” the faerie pleaded.
  With an eye still on the creature, Brea retrieved a
  tactical map of Ireland from her desk. Placing it in front
  of the faerie, she threatened it again with the letter
  opener, “Where, you pathetic worm? Tell me, or as God
  is my witness, I’ll slice you open from one end of your
  slimy blue body to the other. And don’t try to lie!” she
  added before the faerie could speak. “We have — uh —
  spells to tell if you lie!”
  “Oh, that won’t be necessary madam, please, I’ll
  show you,” it gulped and traced a trail with its finger on
  the map. “There, that is where the raid will take place.”
  Brea looked to where the creature pointed. The road
  from Castlebleyney to Ardee? A seldom-travelled road,
  especially of late. How could this piece of ground in the
  middle of nowhere be important?
  Brea touched the letter opener to the fairie’s skin,
  and fancied she saw smoke arise. “Why would your
  master want to ‘raid’ a piece of land in the middle of
  nowhere?” she barked.
  “Oh, please, no, stop, stop. He wants to plant the
  next stelae, to bring back the magic.”
  Ah, that made sense! Brea had heard talk of these
  stelae: some of the enemy had come over to the human’s
  side, bringing with them knowledge of the stelae and
  its importance. With a stelae strategically placed, the
  magic of the invading forces would take over the land,
  leaving the defender’s weapons useless. If the attackers
  had managed to plant a stelae this deep behind human
  lines, over half of Ireland would have been cut off from
  the government in Dublin. Chaos would result and the
  defenders could be wiped up piecemeal. But now, the
  IRA would be waiting for the invaders.
  “When and how many,” Brea demanded, though
  she barely needed to threaten the faerie anymore, it was
  so cowed.
  “In two days at midnight; oh, don’t hurt me. Twenty
  riders on horseback. That is all I know, you’ve got to
  believe me. They hope to control the crossroads and gain
  the upper hand in the conquest of this territory. The
  attack on your machines was just a ruse in hopes that you
  would withdraw your defensive patrols to protect this
  building while the raid took place. Please don’t hurt me.
  I’ve told you everything. Oh, please,” it blubbered, until
  its moans for mercy became incoherent.
  Brea wasn’t paying much attention to the little faerie
  now. Two days. There were preparations to be made.
  Maybe this time those invading bastards would see
  what it felt like to be on the receiving end of an ambush.
  Whistling a little Irish ditty, Brea threw the letter
  opener onto her desk and walked out of the room.
  After Brea was gone, the faerie stopped its blubber-
  ing and looked up. When it saw that no one was
  around, it reached out for the fallen pen. Smiling evilly,
  it broke the pen in half. It gasped with the pain, but its
  grimace became a low laugh. When one had important
  misinformation to impart, pain was irrelevant. Myths,
  indeed!
  *    *    *
  The world was a changed place. Up ahead, Culann
  could see one of the human relics, abandoned along the
  side of the road. The huge machine glared at him in its
  impotence, its eyes dark and sightless. Culann felt a
  twinge of fear at the sight of this creature, even though
  Delyndun had assured him that the machine was dor-
  Myth Reality
  
  Dragons Over England
  90
  mant and no longer a threat. It seemed that the magic
  Delyndun’s people had brought into the world made
  the machines of the humans inert.
  Somehow this seemed wrong. Even though the ma-
  chines were alien, they belonged to this world. The
  sight of them sitting dead along the road made the
  whole world seem dead, as if she had cast off her
  current occupants but kept their belongings. Perhaps
  time would remove all traces of the humans, but their
  loss would be felt until then. Yes, a long time must have
  passed since Culann and his people had begun their
  slumber — so long that Culann felt like the derelict
  machine by the road. As the Tuatha rode by, he saluted
  the machine and wished it a speedy journey to the
  afterlife.
  Ah, but Delyndun’s people planned to restore Ire-
  land to its former state, destroying all the foreignness
  that the humans had wrought on its soil and bringing
  the magic back to the Earth. Culann clenched his fist
  around the reins and smiled — it seemed that for the
  first time in Hibernia’s history, the Tuatha-de-Dannan
  were going to side with the invaders.
  Culann looked over to where Bono rode in front of
  his wife. The boy was unusually quiet. He stared at
  every silent town they passed and every derelict ma-
  chine the troop came upon. Much of Bono’s spirit
  seemed to have fled with the world that he was a part
  of. As comfortable as Culann was with the magic he
  now felt around him, Bono seemed edgy, frightened,
  and ill at ease. This would change with time, Culann
  knew. The boy was young, he could adapt. The new age
  of magic would be one in which Bono could grow up
  unfettered by the failings of human society. Culann
  vowed to himself that he would set things right in
  Hibernia and raise Bono as his own.
  A rider from the front of the mounted party ap-
  proached Culann.
  “Your lordship,” he saluted smartly, “we approach
  my lord’s camp. Your horses will be taken care of by my
  people. We will allow you to set up your camp and eat
  a good hot meal before you meet my lord. Is this
  satisfactory to you, your lordship?”
  Culann nodded his head wearily and the rider reined
  his horse around and headed back to the front of the
  group. Turning to Tadg, Culann told his eldest son to
  spread the word among the warband that everyone
  was to accept the hospitality of Delyndun’s lord, but
  remain wary in case things weren’t as they seemed.
  Culann was inclined to embrace this new magic which
  had permeated this part of the world, but his instincts
  told him never to accept things at face value. There was
  a twinge of wrongness in the magic Culann was feeling,
  something that he couldn’t quite place. He would just
  have to be careful.
  The party crested the hilltop and Culann caught his
  first glimpse of Delyndun’s camp. As he had expected,
  it looked much like the Viking camps from days gone
  by. Culann had noticed some Vikings mixed in with
  Delyndun’s band, but when queried, the wizard had
  never heard of Erik the Red, so Culann had decided that
  these Vikings were most likely not the ones who had
  committed the massacre at Bono’s village. There must
  be hundreds of different Viking villages. He wouldn’t
  let the mistakes of one village color his dealings with
  the rest. He would have to mention Erik the Red to
  Delyndun’s lord when he met the man, demanding aid
  in bringing justice to the foul murderer Erik. If Culann
  ever found the Vikings and Erik — he glanced over to
  where Bono sat staring in wonder and fear at the
  encampment below him — so help him, he would cut
  down every one of the bastards and leave their corpses
  for the gulls to pick at.
  The two warbands wended their way down into the
  encampment, the sound of the surf becoming apparent
  over the noise of the bustling camp. Culann ordered his
  men to set up near the outside edge of the Viking camp,
  in case things got messy and they had to leave quickly,
  though he didn’t voice his musings aloud. After the
  Tuatha had eaten, water was brought for them to wash
  the trail’s dirt from their bodies and Culann caught a
  short nap before Delyndun arrived.
  “I hope the accommodations are satisfactory, sir?”
  the elven wizard said, proffering the query as some sort
  of obligatory greeting. “If there is anything else that my
  lord can provide you with, you need just ask. If it would
  please you at this moment, sir, my lord is awaiting your
  presence in his tent.”
  “These accommodations are more than satisfactory,
  Delyndun.” By now, Culann had learned how to pro-
  nounce the elven wizard’s name correctly. “I will join
  you in a moment after I find my son. Could you please
  give me a moment alone with my soul-mate?”
  Nodding his assent, Delyndun slipped out of the
  tent to wait for the Tuatha leader.
  Turning to Fionna, Culann delicately held her hand.
  “I will be gone to meet the leader of these humans, my
  dear,” he softly said, allowing his hand to caress the
  smooth skin of her face. Fionna’s eyes reflected the love
  and caring that Culann felt for her and they embraced
  for a moment before Culann reluctantly held her at
  arm’s length. “I will return, my love, you must believe
  that, but above all, keep the boy safe. I am a grown man
  and am more than capable of taking care of myself, but
  the boy needs our help if he is to survive to see man-
  hood. I doubt that anything will happen, but one can-
  not be sure in these strange times. May Danu watch
  over you, my love, and if I am to die, may we meet again
  on the shores of Tir-na-nog.”
  “My love, I will watch over the boy and wait for your
  safe return. I have an uneasy feeling about this though,
  Culann. Something isn’t right here. Be careful, soul of
  my soul, and return to me.” Fionna’s words trailed off
  to a whisper and she turned her head away to hide her
  tears from her soul-mate.
  
  91
  Culann touched her hand for a moment, then left the
  tent to get Tadg. He found his son eating with the men
  and with a nod of his head, Culann headed back to
  where he had left Delyndun, Tadg following in his
  father’s footsteps.
  Delyndun led them through the camp toward the
  large wooden building at its center. As they progressed
  through the encampment, Culann caught snatches of
  old sea songs and glimpses of dice games, where
  Delyndun’s men divided the spoils of war — living for
  today, for tomorrow they might be dead. Culann be-
  came caught up in the fervor of the camp: soon, his
  band would see battle and finally the wrongs of the past
  would be righted in blood. Yes, he could see himself,
  sword dripping blood as the bodies of his enemies
  floated in the surf at his feet. It was glorious.
  “My lord.” It was Delyndun. “We are here.”
  Culann came out of his reverie. They were standing
  before a large, wooden building. The structure had
  been built from wood salvaged from other buildings,
  perfectly signifying the way in which the invaders
  meshed with the Hibernia of today. Two guards stood
  to either side of the front door, which was covered with
  a blanket with the words “Hard Rock Cafe - London”
  woven into it. Light and smoke drifted under the edges
  of the blanket, as Delyndun motioned for the two
  Tuatha to go inside.
  Culann tensed. This would be the moment of revela-
  tion. If Delyndun’s lord was the Erik the Red whom
  Bono had mentioned, then the chances were good that
  Culann and Tadg wouldn’t leave this building alive.
  Culann’s hand drifted to the pommel of his sword and
  his eyes shot a look of warning to Tadg before he
  nodded to Delyndun and entered.
  The interior of the structure was also a hodgepodge
  of stolen luxuries. Boxes were piled upon boxes, while
  their contents lay scattered about as if discarded ran-
  domly. A smoky grey haze hung over the room, giving
  it an almost surreal feel. It took a moment for Culann’s
  eyes to adjust to the light. As they did, his eyes imme-
  diately locked onto the imposing figure sitting amid a
  pile of cushions on the far side of the room. Culann
  sensed that this was a man who had sent countless
  thousands to their deaths. The scars of many battles
  wove their unique patchwork across the man’s face,
  giving him an aura of authority and danger. Culann
  was relieved to see that the Viking’s hair was a shining
  black and not the red he had feared. Still, Erik the Red’s
  name could have much darker implications.
  The Viking’s eyes met Culann’s and for the first time
  in his life, the Tuatha felt like he had met his equal. It
  was Culann who looked away first.
  Delyndun addressed the immense Viking. “My Lord
  Thorfinn Bjanni, may I have the pleasure of presenting
  to you his Lordship Culann and his son Tadg, natives of
  this land and potential allies against the human inhab-
  itants who war against you.” Delyndun motioned for
  Culann to take a seat to the left of the Viking chief. Tadg
  took his place on his father’s right. This done, Delyndun
  bowed low and backed off to take a seat at Thorfinn’s
  right hand side.
  “Greetings and welcome, my guests. I trust your ride
  here was enjoyable?” the Viking lord rumbled, his
  voice a deep-throated growl. “Delyndun here says that
  you fight the same humans with whom I am currently
  at war. Is this true?”
  Culann measured the chieftain for a moment and
  replied, “It seems that way, my lord. Many years ago,
  the humans of this land drove my people from the face
  of Hibernia, forcing us to live underground. But not
  only did the humans steal our land from us, they also
  destroyed the magic which was our nourishment. When
  the magic reawakened in the land, we decided to again
  ride the surface world and regain that which the gods
  rightfully gave us.”
  “Ah, so it was the magic that brought you to us. It was
  I who brought the magic to this world, so it is because
  of me that you have been awakened. I come from
  another world, where magic is as common as trees and
  grass. Your world resists the magic that I bring and thus
  we must forcibly conquer it. With each parcel of land
  we take, our magical influence is extended.” Lord
  Bjanni smiled.
  “But it was not always so,” Culann pointed out, “for
  once upon a time, the Earth herself breathed the magic
  of the land and her spell of life was visible in every
  living thing. When the humans turned away from the
  Earth and her magic, they drained her and left her
  barren and sterile. You may be bringing the magic back
  into the world, Lord Bjanni, but it is hardly new or
  foreign.”
  “Your magic is gone, though. Mine is alive and well.
  It seems that without the magic I bring, your people will
  perish, Culann. The success of my invasion seems to be
  even more important to you than to me. For me, it is a
  matter of gaining more power. For you, it is your
  existence. Come, Culann, it is simple enough: join with
  me and the magic will be yours forever.”
  “Perhaps, Lord Bjanni, perhaps,” Culann mused,
  gathering his thoughts together. “Do you know of a
  small fishing village to the west of here and of a Viking
  chieftain named Erik the Red?”
  Thorfinn pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment.
  “No, I’m afraid that I don’t know of either one. How-
  ever, I’ll have Delyndun check through the ranks of the
  sub-chieftains to see if such a man can be found. I am
  rather new to this position, my Lord Culann, and not all
  the chieftains and sub-chieftains at my disposal are
  known to me.”
  Culann detected no hint of deception in Lord Bjanni’s
  voice. “I’d appreciate that, my Lord. I have a matter of
  importance to speak with him about.”
  “Very well. Delyndun, see to it.” The great Viking
  waved toward his aide and paused for a moment,
  Myth Reality
  
  Dragons Over England
  92
  sizing up Culann’s mood. “So it seems we have a
  common goal, Lord Culann. If I succeed in conquering
  this island you call Hibernia, then the magic that was
  taken from you will be restored. With your help and
  knowledge of Hibernia, my task will be that much
  simpler.”
  Signalling for Delyndun to pour some mead for the
  four of them, Thorfinn waited until the elven wizard
  had passed the filled cups around and then proposed a
  toast. “To Lord Culann and his men, my newest allies,
  together may we drive the rats who live in this land to
  its farthest shores and drown them in the crashing
  surf.”
  Silently, Culann nodded his assent and drank down
  the cool mead. For the moment, it seemed that allying
  with Thorfinn would be the best course of action.
  Thorfinn finished first, crashing his flagon down
  upon the table.
  “Now, as a sign of good faith, I’ll show you my latest
  scheme,” the barbarian chieftain smiled. “It has taken
  some time, but I was finally able to let some false informa-
  tion ‘fall’ into the hands of the enemy. Tomorrow, one of
  their leaders, a troublesome woman named McDaniell,
  will ride with some men to ambush me. Unfortunately for
  her, she will be the one who is ambushed.
  “My source ‘leaked’ information which should lead
  her up the trail here.” Lord Bjanni pointed to a map on
  the table. “If I’ve gauged this woman correctly, my
  Lord Culann, she will lead the force herself. I don’t
  believe for a moment that she would leave such an
  important mission to an underling. But I will be waiting
  for her here with a force more than twice the size of hers
  and the little cockroach will be squashed.”
  Thorfinn slammed his hand onto the table and
  grinned over at Culann. “She is the humans’ spiritual
  leader. It is only through her efforts that the humans are
  at this moment tentatively united. Without her to keep
  the shaky alliance in place, it will crumble and make it
  a simple matter for us to conquer the humans. She is all
  that stands in our path of victory! How would you like
  to ride with me on this little adventure, Culann, and get
  your first chance to taste of that revenge you’ve been
  craving?”
  Culann smiled at the Viking leader. “I have been
  waiting for this moment for more years than you would
  believe, Thorfinn. We leave at dawn then?”
  Culann held his hand out to the Viking, who en-
  gulfed it with his own hairy hands.
  “We leave at dawn. It will be a long ride and I want
  to have plenty of time to set up the ambush.”
  With a last swig of mead, Culann left and made his
  way back to his warband’s encampment. Father and
  son walked side by side, each lost in visions of the
  following day’s battle. Culann put his arm around
  Tadg’s shoulder and the two walked in a comradely
  fashion back to their tent to a sleep that would be alive
  with clashing swords and whistling arrows.
  *    *    *
  Dawn came to the Viking camp at an early hour, as
  men prepared their weapons and mounts for the com-
  ing battle.
  “Fionna, I want you and the boy to stay behind.”
  Culann used that tone of voice which said that his
  decision was final.
  However, Fionna wasn’t in that sort of mood. “So
  you think you can just march off to your death and
  leave me here to mourn your passing? I’d like to remind
  you that I am the most skilled sorcerer among our
  people. You need me for this battle.”
  “Then who is going to take care of Bono? The boy
  cannot be brought into battle, that much is certain.” The
  question pierced to Fionna’s maternal instincts and she
  faltered.
  Culann didn’t wait around for her reply. He knew he
  had won this round. Fionna would stay with Bono,
  even though it irked her. The boy’s welfare was in her
  hands now and she took that very seriously.
  The Tuatha leader walked amongst his warriors,
  exchanging barbs and jokes with the men as they ea-
  gerly prepared. The pent-up energy of many centuries
  was released into a flurry of activity, as each warriors’
  weapons glistened razor-sharp and their armor sparkled
  in the morning sun.
  Culann felt good — he felt alive today. Today was
  the day when all the wrongs would be righted. His
  people would be avenged. Culann was born a warrior
  and he would die a warrior, hopefully with the blood of
  his human enemies wet on his blade.
  Raising his hands into the air and breathing in the
  salt air, Culann let loose a bellow of sheer joy: “Remem-
  ber Cath Maige Tuired!” The Tuatha’s body quivered
  with excitement as the battle cry of his people boomed
  over the encampment, to be echoed back by his war-
  riors thirty-fold. Today, many humans would travel to
  Tir-na-Nog or wherever their gods led them.
  A commotion in the Viking camp caught Culann’s
  attention and he turned to watch Thorfinn emerge from
  his wooden house. Standing on the front steps, the
  Viking chieftain urged his men into a battle frenzy with
  a stirring speech that caught up Culann with its enrap-
  tured praise of battle.
  “Erik the Red,” a small voice broke through Culann’s
  thoughts.
  Turning, the Tuatha leader noticed Bono at the edge
  of their tent, his eyes wide with fear and his mouth
  hanging open. The boy’s body was shaking.
  “Erik the Red,” he intoned again in that flat, emo-
  tionless voice.
  Culann followed Bono’s eyes to where they stared at
  Lord Bjanni. “Are you sure, Bono?” he prodded the
  youngster.
  “Erik the Red,” Bono again replied, nodding his
  head fervently.
  
  93
  “No! You are wrong! He’s not Erik the Red. He’s our
  ally, our comrade. Look!” Culann grabbed the boy and
  held his head so that he would have to look at the
  Viking lord. “His hair isn’t red! He can’t be the Viking
  who massacred your village!”
  The young boy tried to shake his head, still staring at
  the distant figure of the Viking chieftain.
  Culann started to pick the boy up and shake some
  sense into him when Fionna’s voice cut in.
  “Stop that immediately! Put that poor boy down!”
  Her words pierced through the haze. Culann slowly
  set Bono down.
  Fionna put her arms around the boy and spoke
  soothingly to him. “Are you sure, Bono dear? Are you
  sure that’s the man?”
  With fear evident in his eyes, Bono nodded his head.
  “Yes. That’s Erik the Red. He killed Michael and my
  parents.” Burying his face in Fionna’s shoulder, he
  started to cry.
  “He’s got to be wrong. How can this be?” Culann
  fumed.
  “Children see things differently, Culann. You must
  remember that Bono puts things into words that make
  sense to him. Erik the Red is the name that Bono gave to
  the Viking who killed his parents. He has no reason to
  lie about this.”
  “He might be mistaken!” Culann barked. “He’s just
  a boy.”
  Fionna stared at him, then touched Bono gently on
  the brow. “Weep,” she said to the boy, and he did.
  She began to hum the words to a spell, her brow knit
  with concentration. Moments later, she looked up.
  “In the real presence of the man of Bono’s memories,
  this spell is easy. There is no lie, and no mistake. That is
  the man whom Bono saw kill his parents.”
  Culann felt a knot in his stomach. He had nearly
  made an alliance with a butcher, a foul creature who
  had tortured and mutilated the bodies of women and
  children. Bile filled his mouth as he again turned his
  head and stared at the barbaric Viking as he riled his
  men up for war with battle cries and songs of victory.
  Lord Bjanni may indeed have brought the magic back
  to Hibernia, but Culann could not condone what he had
  seen at Bono’s village. There had to be another way.
  Looking back toward Lord Bjanni, he saw the man in
  a totally different light. The inhuman gleam in the
  Viking’s eyes revealed the murderer that he really was.
  The battle lust that filled Culann only moments before
  became a leaden feeling of disgust.
  Culann remembered last night. An important hu-
  man was being led to the slaughter. Glancing again at
  Thorfinn, Culann made up his mind.
  *    *    *
  Thorfinn could feel his body throb to the chorus of
  voices raised in a mighty tumult of battle lust. Yes, this
  is what he lived for. Battle. The smell of victory. Ahh.
  Quivering with excitement, Lord Bjanni let his emo-
  tions go and screamed a defiant cry of exultation.
  “Excuse me, my lord.”
  With a swing of his hand, the great Viking lord
  knocked the messenger off his feet, sending the man
  sprawling to the ground.
  “What do you want? Why do you disturb my prepa-
  rations?”
  “My lord,” the messenger slurred through broken
  teeth, “the earth elves are gone, sir. They left no word.
  Just slipped out of camp.”
  In a stride, Thorfinn was at the messenger’s side.
  Lifting him into the air, he stared at the man with mad
  eyes. “Are you sure, man? Speak or I’ll tear you limb
  from limb.”
  “Yes, my lord,” he gasped, “I saw the vacant camp-
  site myself. Lord Delyndun sent me to fetch you.”
  With a cry of rage, Bjanni threw the messenger to the
  ground, where his broken body lay still.
  “Curses and foul excrement on those slimy bastards.
  I knew I could never trust fickle elven women to go
  forward into a fight. If I catch those slinking scoundrels,
  I’ll show them what magic is all about.”
  Panting hard, the great Viking chief brought his
  emotions into check. First, there was the matter of the
  stormer woman. There would be plenty of time later to
  deal with traitorous earth elves.
  *    *    *
  Her men would be in position well before midnight.
  Aubrey glanced at the sun as it hovered on the horizon,
  seeming to wait for the Irish warriors to reach their
  destination before sliding over the edge of the earth.
  Swiveling in her saddle, Brea made a mental count of
  her men. Good, all thirty of them were still with her.
  Since the invasion, bands of men were known to have
  been picked off, man by man, by horrible creatures out
  of nightmare. One of Brea’s patrols had encountered
  such a beast. Few had lived to tell of that experience. It
  was nice to know that the Fates had at least given the
  Irish a fighting chance this time out.
  Then an arrow whistled through the air, thunking
  into a horse two men up from Brea. The horse’s scream
  of pain spooked the other horses. Immediately, the air
  was filled with curses and horses’ whinnies as the
  column of men fought to regain control of their skittish
  mounts. More arrows whistled through the dusk air,
  some finding their targets in the milling Irish men. Brea
  brought her horse under control and moved it to the
  side of the trail.
  Up to the left, Brea saw the charging Vikings and
  warned her troops, “Ten o’clock! Dismount and use
  your guns, but don’t rely on them. When they get close,
  switch to swords and spears.”
  She didn’t waste her breath with more orders —
  the time for that was gone. Kicking her foot over,
  Brea dismounted on the far side of her horse. When
  Myth Reality
  
  Dragons Over England
  94
  she had her feet firmly planted on the ground, a slap
  in the flank sent the beast back down the road. Brea
  took cover in the bushes as she glanced around,
  taking stock of their situation. Five men down and
  four injured, leaving her with 21 men. A quick look
  at the charging Vikings and Brea knew that the Irish
  were probably outnumbered 3 to 1.
  She sent a silent prayer up to the Virgin Mary that
  their guns would work as she readied her own rifle. Its
  report was followed closely by the crumpling of a
  Viking. Around her, Brea heard the cracks of a number
  of guns, but not enough to turn the tide. Brea pulled the
  trigger and another Viking fell, but they were getting
  too close now.
  Then she saw it. Running in the front of the advancing
  Vikings was the beast that had been terrorizing the IRA’s
  scouting patrol for months — the beast of the shadows. Its
  orange eyes seemed to spout flame as it loped down the
  hill toward Brea. She leveled her gun and fired, but the
  bullet must have missed the creature for it kept coming.
  Another shot — this one Brea was sure went right through
  the creature. She began to breathe rapidly.
  Her spear! Dropping the gun, Brea picked up the
  spear with the silver-plated tip. After her experience
  with the blue faerie, Brea had asked her weaponsmiths
  to plate the tips of some spears with silver in case the
  patrol met with any magical creatures.
  Gripping the spear with two hands, Brea awaited the
  charge of the black beast. The monster was almost upon
  her. With grim determination and all the strength she
  could muster, Brea screamed, “For Ireland!” and bur-
  ied the spear in the hurtling monster’s chest. The mo-
  mentum of the creature’s leap took them both down,
  but Brea managed to keep her grip on the spear and the
  monster’s slashing claws at spear’s length. Her muscles
  strained with the effort.
  For a moment, the black beast stopped struggling
  and Brea began to think that it was dying. Suddenly, it
  righted and began pulling itself up the spear’s length
  towards Brea. Fear froze her to the spot as she watched,
  fascinated by the gruesome feat. What could only be a
  low laugh escaped its mouth as the beast readied its
  claws to finish her.
  A blinding flash of flame erupted where the beast
  had been. Brea turned her eyes away. She could smell
  her own burning hair as an unearthly scream echoed
  through the vale, causing the other warriors to pause in
  mid-fight. Through the silence came the cry, “Remem-
  ber Cath Maige Tuired!”
  Spots swirled before Brea’s eyes as the sounds of
  fighting resumed. Near her, a man gasped, “It’s the
  bloody Tuatha-de-Dannan!” Brea’s vision began to
  clear. Across the battlefield, a new group of riders on
  white horses had entered the fray, their intricately
  crafted helms gleaming orange in the day’s last light,
  their silver swords moving like fire, mowing down the
  ranks of the Viking horde.
  Dropping the burnt stub of her spear, Sean spotted
  her rifle. Bringing the stock to her shoulder, Brea scanned
  the battlefield for a target. On the ridge to her left, Brea
  saw two battles. One involved a blue-skinned man and
  a woman of surpassing beauty. The flashing of light-
  ning and fire could only mean that a magical duel was
  being fought.
  The other battle was between a Viking of immense size
  and a Tuatha-de-Dannan whose elaborate helm identi-
  fied him as their leader. For a moment, Brea paused to
  wonder at the sight of the myths from her childhood
  fighting in all their glory right there in front of her. Then
  the Viking beat through the elder Tuatha’s defenses, his
  axe cutting a slash through the leader’s side, ending
  Brea’s moment of wonder. In pain, the Tuatha screamed
  his challenge again, “Remember Cath Maige Tuired!”
  Her decision made, Brea raised her rifle and brought
  its sights to bear on the Viking leader.
  *    *    *
  Culann’s thoughts were ones of grave determina-
  tion. With all his strength, Culann parried upward,
  blocking the attack of the Viking leader. Never in his life
  had Culann fought such a monster of a human. He tried
  to riposte past the Viking’s defenses, but was met with
  the man’s off-hand dagger. A stone moved from under
  Culann’s feet and he stumbled, just for a second, but
  that was all that Thorfinn needed to break through.
  Culann gasped as the steel cut through his chain and
  broke the skin near his ribs. Pain welled up, but the
  Tuatha fought it down. He had to continue. To show
  even a moment of weakness would mean his death
  with such a skilled opponent.
  A familiar scream sounded from behind him. The
  smell of burnt flesh assaulted his senses. Fionna! Every
  fiber in his body told him to turn and help his life-mate.
  But if he turned, he would be lost too. Suddenly, the
  Earth’s pain flooded through him. Fionna!
  He staggered. In front of him, he could see Thorfinn
  size him up, smile, and prepare for the final strike.
  Summoning all his strength, Culann tried to bring the
  sword up to meet the attack, but his arms wouldn’t
  respond to his brain’s efforts. Raising his eyes, Culann
  stared at the sword which carried his death.
  A report echoed through the valley. Thorfinn stag-
  gered, but did not appear wounded.
  “Finish him, damn it!”
  A woman’s voice came to him across the battlefield.
  His sword. Mustering reserves of strength from some
  untapped part of his soul, Culann raised his sword to
  finish off the Viking chieftain.
  A brilliant flash of light illuminated the night, blind-
  ing Culann. He fell to the ground with a groan. When
  his sight returned, all was dark. His mind reeling with
  the pain, Culann sank into oblivion.
  *    *    *
  
  95
  Brea saw the flash, but had no time to wonder. A
  sound to Brea’s left brought her attention to the battle
  at hand and she barely had time to level her gun before
  a Viking warrior was upon her, bowling her over as the
  gun went off at point-blank range. The shot either
  missed or didn’t finish the man and he pummeled
  Brea’s head with his fists, the weight of his body effec-
  tively pinning Brea to the ground. Blackness began to
  creep over her when Brea felt the handle of a dagger
  near her right hand. Grasping it with her last strength,
  she brought it down on the Viking’s head with an
  audible crunch. Then darkness set in.
  *    *    *
  When Brea awoke, the smell of blood filled her head.
  She rolled the dead Viking away, breathing deeply
  from the release of the crushing weight. It was dark.
  Making her way out of the ditch, Brea saw a large fire
  on the hilltop with figures moving around it. The cries
  of the injured men drifted to her over the night air. She
  noticed the fatigues of the IRA among those at the fire.
  We won! The revelation did little to relieve the fatigue
  that numbed her brain. Wearily, Brea made her way
  toward the fire. As she approached, a voice challenged
  her from the darkness. Before she could reply, the man
  cried out, “It’s the Captain. She’s alive!”
  In moments, Brea’s men were gathered around her,
  helping her to the campfire. There, she recognized the
  Tuatha-de-Dannan leader. Sadness was etched on ev-
  ery feature of the Tuatha’s face. A young human boy
  cried quietly in his lap.
  Brea smiled and stretched out her hand to this myth
  come to life, “Thanks for your help, sir. My name’s
  Aubrey McDaniell.”
  Slowly, the Tuatha leader raised his hand and grasped
  Brea’s. “You’re welcome, young lady. Thank you for
  saving my life. I am Culann. And this,” he stopped and
  looked tenderly down at the youth in his lap, “is my son
  Bono.” Another Tuatha appeared at the elder’s side. A
  smile graced Culann’s lips for a moment. “And this is
  my eldest son, Tadg.” The younger Tuatha smiled
  briefly and bowed. Pain and loss were apparent on his
  face too.
  “It would seem that you’ve lost somebody close to
  you,” Brea observed.
  “My soul-mate died at the hands of that damned
  blue-skinned bastard.” Anger filled Culann’s voice,
  overwhelming his grief for a moment. Tears filled his
  eyes.
  “I almost trusted them. Because they had the magic.
  It never dawned on me that magic could be used for
  such evil. Not until it was too late. During the battle, I
  could feel the Earth’s pain as their magic killed both
  Tuatha and human alike.” He pounded his armor with
  his fist and gazed forlornly into the evening, his heavy
  breathing mingling with Bono’s quiet sobs. “She was all
  I lived for and now she is dead. The world has changed,
  young lady, and there is no longer room for legends
  such as us. You are the new breed, Hibernia’s new
  children. It is your job now to free the Earth from this
  abomination which has torn her asunder. She has cho-
  sen you.”
  Reaching into a pouch by his side, Culann withdrew
  an ornately carved horn and handed it to Brea. She held
  the horn up to the firelight. It was ancient, the runes that
  adorned its sides older than the human race itself.
  “That is the Dord Fionn, young lady. When Hibernia
  is in its time of greatest need, blow upon it and the
  Fianna led by Finn MacCool himself will come riding to
  your aid. Blow carefully, though, for the magic will
  only work when Hibernia itself is in its direst need.
  Choose wisely.”
  With those words, Culann rose, cradling the now
  sleeping Bono in his arms. “We must leave now. Our
  duty here is done. We must find out what place, if any,
  we have left in this world.” Turning his back to the fire,
  the elder Tuatha started to leave.
  “What of the boy, Culann? He is human, is he not?”
  Brea queried.
  Turning back to the IRA soldier, Culann shook his
  head. “The human boy died when the Vikings killed
  his parents and my soul-mate. Now there is only my
  son.”
  Turning away again, Culann slipped into the night,
  his soldiers silently following him until the darkness
  had swallowed up all evidence that the Tuatha had
  even existed.
  *    *    *
  The moonlight reflected off the waves as they crested
  and broke upon the rocks at the base of Malin’s Head.
  Culann sat alone at the summit. He gazed up at the
  stars, seeking to fathom the worlds which lay beyond
  this one. When that failed, he returned to Earth and
  sighed.
  Hibernia had changed. Many centuries had passed
  since the magic had first gone out of the world and the
  Tuatha had gone into their self-imposed exile of sleep.
  Those centuries had shaped the world into a place
  where magic and legends didn’t belong.
  Yes, legends. For that was what the Tuatha-de-
  Dannan were. Legends. Fairy tales to be told to young
  children before they went to sleep. Myths. His people
  never even existed in the eyes of the world’s current
  inhabitants. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps his people
  were as much an abomination to the Earth as these
  invaders now were.
  Culann had begun to understand the Earth’s cries of
  pain. It was the return of the magic the invaders had
  brought that had caused the Earth such torment. The
  humans of Hibernia were as much children of the Earth
  as the Tuatha, perhaps even more so in the present age.
  Whether the awakening of the Tuatha was caused by
  the Earth herself or the arrival of this alien magic,
  Myth Reality
  
  Dragons Over England
  96
  Culann didn’t know, though he was beginning to favor
  the latter theory.
  It seemed that the Tuatha could help, though, at least
  in a small way. As long as the invaders existed on the
  Earth, she would be in pain. This, Culann couldn’t
  stand. He had lost his love to these invaders and he
  would be damned if he was also going to lose the Earth
  he loved so much.
  But with the death of the invaders would come the
  end of the magic and probably his people too. Of
  course, that was how it should be. His people didn’t
  belong any more.
  A noise behind him startled him out of his thoughts.
  Quietly, Bono sat beside his father. Reaching over to
  ruffle the youngster’s hair, Culann smiled. The boy
  would always remind him of his departed soul-mate.
  She had died to save this boy’s people, as would all of
  his people in the months to come.
  Bono looked up and smiled at his father. “You’ll
  never guess what I found, Dad. A frisbee. I’ll have to
  show you how to play sometime.” Then the young lad
  put his head in Culann’s lap and stared at the heavens.
  Culann followed the boy’s gaze. Overhead, a falling
  star blazed gloriously for a moment before blinking out
  of existence.
  Like my people, Culann mused.
  Bono stirred in his lap. Bono, who was now one of his
  people. Hmm. Lying back, Culann surveyed the stars
  with his son. Perhaps myth could become reality.
  *    *    *
  Brea sat silently on the hill with Sean. She had been
  very quiet since the battle with the Vikings. Sean had
  been by her side, night and day, giving her the quiet
  assurance that she needed. She sighed. It had been a
  long day and tomorrow would be an even longer one.
  They had found no sign of the Viking leader or his
  blue-skinned wizard when the battlefield had been
  searched the next day. It seemed that the war was still on.
  Overhead, a falling star caught her attention. Some-
  how, it made her think of the Tuatha-de-Dannan. Reach-
  ing into her knapsack, she pulled out the magical horn.
  Dord Fionn, the Tuatha leader had called it. She ran her
  fingers over its carved surface.
  “When Hibernia is in its time of greatest need, blow
  upon it,” the Tuatha had told her. Well, Brea couldn’t
  think of a more dire time than now.
  With trembling hands, Brea raised the horn to her
  lips.
  
  CHAPTER 1
  London
   London. It’s the kind of place where you not only
  risk losing your life, you risk losing your soul. I ought
  to know. I’ve traveled the cosmverse, tracking and
  recovering everything from a sword of power stolen by
  an overzealous collector to a man’s personality, locked
  in the depths of a demon lord’s diamond. Still, I ain’t
  seen nothing like this place.
  I still use my robes when I move through this part of
  town, even though the Night Walker officially retired
  years ago. I might have taken my chances when I was
  a few centuries, or even decades, younger, but now
  things are rough on the night streets of London … too
  rough.
  That night marked the beginning of my last case. Sure
  I said I retired years ago, and I did. But sometimes a
  challenge comes along that even an old geezer like me
  can’t resist picking up. It’s not just the challenge, mind
  you. I never did take a case that wasn’t a challenge.
  No, this one had potential. Potential rewards, that is.
  And not your typical pile of rubies or a useless magical
  trinket either. We’re talking potential immortality, a
  comfortable retirement, and … well, I’m getting very
  far ahead of myself now. Let’s start at the beginning.
  My first name is Algerius, and my last name is none
  of anyone’s concern. If you haven’t guessed already,
  I’ve been something of a cosmic private investigator for
  the past four hundred years, give or take a decade. I’m
  famous as I’ve never failed to solve a case. This allowed
  me to command some rather outrageous fees in my
  later years. With those fees, and a little royal assistance,
  I recently acquired a small castle on the banks of the
  nearby Thames. It used to be called the Tower of
  London, before the universes collided. I think it was a
  museum of sorts.
  Just as an aside, my first case upon arriving in the
  new world was recovering some valuable jewelry that
  had been stolen from this museum. In exchange for my
  services I was knighted and, more importantly, I got the
  deed to the Tower (sans the royal jewels, of course).
  That case was worth coming out of retirement and so’s
  this one. Anyway. After some extensive modifications,
  it’s habitable now. I’d tell you more about the whole
  affair, but that’s another story.
  So, I’m an old elf ex-detective. Did you guess it al-
  ready? Keep up, you’ve got a lot more to learn. I was
  known as the Night Walker to those of many under-
  worlds and no stranger has ever seen my face, or the rest
  of me for that matter, while I was on a case. Sure, the
  common folk bump into me every day on the street, but
  to them, I’m just another midnight-blue-skinned crea-
  ture. And with some of the horrors walking London these
  days, what’s so unusual about a run-of-the-mill elf?
  At night, I used to travel about the rooftops, invisible
  to the naked eye. My robe is proof against all forms of
  Tales of the
  Night Walker
  Grant S. Boucher
  
  Dragons Over England
  98
  organic vision. It’s even covered my ass from the living
  dead once or twice. When anyone does see me in my
  costume (i.e. only when I let them), my outfit is pitch
  black. High-heeled leather boots, loose cotton trousers,
  and a billowing black shirt complete my ensemble. I
  wear a mask, too. No big deal, just a metal faceplate
  enameled in black. Not only does it conceal my true
  identity, it serves as a frontal helmet and adds a little
  ominous echo to my voice to boot. Sure it’s a bit melo-
  dramatic. But four hundred years ago, it sent shivers up
  your spine faster than you could say “Uthorion.”
  Looking back on it now, it seems foolish. Quite
  frankly, it’s a wonder I lived through it all. I’m an
  Ayslish elf in an area of Core Earth about the size of a
  city. If I go anywhere near Buckingham Palace, I get sick
  and have to trek out to the country. Believe me, it isn’t
  a reflection on the local royalty. So, I thought I’d be glad
  to go into seclusion for a few years, take on and train an
  apprentice. I thought surely that would keep me busy
  in my waning years.
  But watching my apprentice perfect his limited skills
  year after year, I couldn’t help but get more and more
  interested in hitting the rooftops again. Nothing like a
  novice to make a professional feel bold. And the old
  memories, and their accompanying recurrent night-
  mares, grew dimmer and less horrifying in the depths
  of my aging mind.
  So, when I got the letter, I was more than ready to
  take the case. And this one seemed like a piece of cake.
  What better way to get started again? This time, how-
  ever, I promised myself I’d take good notes. It’s time I
  published some of my more harrowing adventures for
  posterity. The knights and barbarians are getting too
  much press these days.
  So there I was walking through  London again, on my
  way to meet a Lady. I was looking forward to the crowd’s
  reaction. She knew I was coming of course, but no one else
  did. That was always the best part of a case in the old days.
  The London fog was a bear as usual, and the real
  creeps always come out when the fog’s heaviest. The
  Black Pagoda’s generator was working that night, so
  business was good. As I passed by the broken plate
  glass window, the red neon sign revealed an ogre’s
  familiar face. Gr’vak the Butcher was looking right at
  me. He couldn’t see me, of course. Good thing, too. He
  was looking strong these days. I broke that filthy nose
  of his years ago on our natural home world, and some-
  body had slashed his ear since then. Since the cut was
  fresh, I assumed the human skull Gr’vak was proudly
  using for an ale mug was all that remained of that minor
  altercation. You’ve got to admit, it makes a statement.
  There’s something about shades of red neon on an
  ugly ogre’s face that makes my stomach twist. Al-
  ways has.
   I hadn’t been down at the docks in a while. Sort of
  like riding a horse I guess. Once you get used to it, you
  never really quite forget the feeling.
  The Lady’s ship was the Demon Queen. All the Orrorsh
  boats had friendly names like that. Must have some-
  thing to do with the climate. I found it at Dock Five.
  This time, I was not alone on the docks as the local
  guard was out in force. The boat should have begun
  unloading a half an hour earlier, so something was up.
  My blood started rushing like the old days.
  Everyone else was stuck waiting around, even the
  guards. The captain wasn’t letting anyone on just yet. I
  wondered why and thought I’d take a look.
  A rusty crane dangled like a gallows over the Demon
  Queen. Normally I would have flown, but my special
  boots were being polished that night. I made a mental
  note to get a hold of a spare set of boots after this
  adventure, just as I always carry a spare invisibility
  cloak. That bit of forethought has saved my life more
  than once.
  I leapt to the top of the crane’s control box; I think
  they call it a cab. Although I was still pretty nimble and
  my balance was as good as ever, I decided not to press
  my luck with aerial somersaults this time. I walked up
  the long arm of the crane with the ease of a cat. As I
  climbed, however, the unused crane’s age began to
  show. As I was falling uncontrollably towards the
  ocean, I realized I should have taken the water route to
  begin with.
  It was already too late. The crane smashed into the
  deck of the ship with a thunderous crash and three
  guardsmen dropped off the gangway and into the
  drink. Their metal armor would have drowned them,
  were it not for their comrades who were already com-
  ing to their rescue. I knew they’d be okay.
  None of the passengers were on deck, of course, as
  everyone was still down below. I was soaking wet, but
  all right otherwise. This wasn’t going to make a good
  first impression.
  Fortunately, the guardsmen chalked the collapse of
  the crane to old age. Little did they realize the irony. At
  least my presence still remained a secret.
  I grabbed hold of the side of the ship and my special
  gloves gripped as easily as ever. Like a water spider I
  effortlessly made my way up the bow of the ship.
  As I climbed, I spied two portholes. As they were the
  only ones on the ship with light coming out of them, I
  decided to investigate. Even though I was dripping
  water like an old sponge, I was still invisible.
  The first window was filled with rich passengers. No
  one stood out at first glance. I couldn’t tell which one
  had come here to hire me.
  The second window was a much more gruesome
  spectacle. A humanoid shape was lying under fine
  linens that used to be white. I couldn’t tell whether that
  blood belonged to my meal ticket, but my gut feelings
  told me not.
  At just that moment, the chief inspector finally
  showed up. He was slow, fat, and Egyptian — probably
  from the Nile Empire. You could tell by his make-up
  
  99
  that he wasn’t much of a lady’s man. He didn’t seem
  pleased about being awakened for this.
  The chief threw the bloody linens to the side, and
  two of his men headed for the upper deck. I privately
  hoped they didn’t pick my side of the ship to lose their
  dinner. I slid aside for a moment and looked up. I was
  lucky. The other side of the boat was closer to the stairs.
  Their comrades were laughing at the sickened men, but
  those laughs were fake. I knew none of them was
  feeling brave anymore.
  I slid back over to the porthole; the chief was still
  pawing the body. This was surely the work of an
  animal, or someone who thought that way. It was a
  fresh kill, soft and flexible. The insides of this ex-person
  were missing, ripped from the abdominal cavity like an
  oyster from its shell. That human husk used to be a man,
  or a very hairy and ugly woman. At least I now knew
  the victim couldn’t have been my client. Since I hadn’t
  seen anyone crying in the outer room, he must have
  been alone, or perhaps not very well liked.
  I could read the chief’s lips, a skill I highly recom-
  mend to all aspiring detectives. He agreed with my
  conclusions. Smart man — but foolishly he ordered a
  search of the ship. I had seen enough anyway, so it was
  time to make my public entrance.
  After a few minutes of hanging around, I dried off
  sufficiently and the crowd thinned out. Everybody on
  board had to leave their name and intended address
  with the fat chief. Naturally, I made a mental note of
  everyone and everything, just in case. At the same time,
  I was hoping my memory was as good as it used to be.
  I knew her immediately when I saw her. She was
  young, athletic, and tanned. Her clothes were rich, but
  strange. I had heard they dress different in Orrorsh.
  Long black hair like raven’s feathers cascaded down
  her shapely back and she moved with noble confidence
  and poise.
  For some reason, she hadn’t been in the cabin with
  the rest of the passengers during my tour of the port-
  holes. I doubt I could have missed such a woman in that
  crowd.
  As she reached the bottom of the gangplank, I ap-
  peared before her. She was hardly startled at all, so she
  must have done her homework before hiring me. The
  rest of the dock was empty, so for a while I feared my
  trademark entrance was wasted.
  She startled me more than I’d like to admit. It wasn’t
  just her confidence, but her face. Lipstick red as fresh
  blood clashed violently with eyes as blue as a sunny
  day. They were the kind of eyes that ripped into the
  mind and transfixed even the most jaded of men.
  Fortunately, she couldn’t see my face. Unfortunately,
  she could see my eyes. I felt absorbed in her and knew
  suddenly that this was not going to be as easy a case as
  I had first imagined.
  “The Night Walker, I presume.” She spoke like an
  aristocrat, with firmness and grace. Not unexpected,
  after all, as she was from one of the richest families in
  Orrorsh — before the cosmos was sundered, of course.
  “Follow me, please, my Lady. The docks are not safe
  for long at this time of night.” I covered up my mild
  arousal well, and it made my voice seem deeper than it
  had in years.
  She held out her hand, like she knew the routine
  already. That made me uncomfortable. As I looked
  back toward her, I saw the fat Egyptian chief standing
  on the dock. He had lit a cigar in the interim, and it was
  dangling precariously from his fat, blackened lower
  lip.
  As I took her hand, we disappeared into the night’s
  thickening fog together. All I could think about was the
  look on the fat man’s face, and how my grand return to
  the den of thieves had not gone completely unnoticed.
  CHAPTER 2
  Her Black Shadow
  She was the kind of person that trouble followed like
  a black shadow. In the old days, her family had helped
  turn Sydney into one of the world’s major industrial
  centers. All of a sudden, through no fault of their own,
  the entire universe ruptured about them and Sydney
  became one of those unfortunate places where human
  beings are little more than food.
  The story goes that her whole family was murdered
  by unspeakable horrors in the weeks just after the
  attack. She was out camping in the wilderness when the
  sky over Sydney changed colors, and only salvaged
  what she could upon her return. Now, days are better,
  and her remaining wealth is used to keep appearances
  up. Her shoes are old and marked and have seen much
  better times.
  As we relaxed in my parlor at the top of the Old
  Tower, I skipped getting down to business in lieu of
  discussing tonight’s excitement on the ship.
  “Miss Selene, I guess I won’t start the evening by
  asking whether you had a nice trip.”
  She smiled. “Well, actually, it was quite enjoyable
  until the very end, Mr. Walker.”
  People from other countries and strange dimensions
  always made the same mistake regarding my public ID.
  I have never found a better way to be addressed by my
  clients, and my enemies always had more colorful
  phrases for me, within their limited vocabularies of
  course.
  “What do you know about the murder? I have a
  professional curiosity, you understand.”
  “Well. I had never met Michael — I mean Mr. Van
  Cliven — before, but these trips are always so long, and
  usually the men are all married.”
  She had a sly smile that was leading somewhere
  personal.
  “I think I understand,” I continued, hoping to elicit
  some more intimate information.
  Tales of the Night Walker
  
  Dragons Over England
  100
  “Gorgeous man. Strong, athletic, mature.” She
  paused and gave me a coy glance. “Sort of built like you
  actually.”
  “Why, uh,” I stammered, “thank you, Miss Selene.”
  I was getting that feeling again. After all, there’s more
  to retirement than writing one’s memoirs.
  “Well, I’m a single woman, and I like things a certain
  way. I don’t leave anything to chance, not even my men.”
  “So tell me more about the late Mr. Van Cliven.”
  “Good lover.” She paused while I felt embarrassed.
  She frowned, and a delicate tear appeared in her left
  eye. I was noticing that her pupils had pearl white
  slashes throughout as she broke down in front of me.
  “What is it with me?” she began. “Everyone I ever
  love …” Suddenly she got angry and looked up. “Hell,
  any man I even liked! They all end up running away or
  dying on me.”
  I held out my arm and she leaned forward immedi-
  ately. She felt soft, warm, inviting. As her tears started
  soaking through my shirt, I was thinking some very
  unprofessional thoughts.
  Suddenly, a grim, bearded face appeared from
  around my chair. His eyes were burning red with the
  light of the fire and his teeth were yellow with age.
  As my latest client went from tearful sobbing to
  terrified screaming, I began introducing her to some-
  one she’d learn more about in the next few days my
  apprentice, Dongo.
  “Hi, boss. I just fixed the furnace. Want me to light it?”
  Despite his yellow teeth, he always had the smile of
  a child and it was what always endeared him to me.
  “That’s great, Dongo, but I think the fire will be
  warm enough tonight. Tomorrow night we shall see the
  evidence of your handiwork.”
  “Great, I’ll get some coal tomorrow mornin’.”
  “That will be fine. Dongo, let me introduce you to
  Miss Sylvia Selene. She’ll be staying here with us for a
  while.”
  As Dongo walked away from my side, the lady
  realized for the first time that my faithful assistant
  wasn’t kneeling or crouching behind my chair.
  “But you’re a dwarf!?” she stammered.
  “Yep!” Dongo affirmed proudly. “What’s the mat-
  ter? They don’t have any dwarves in Orrorsh?”
  “No, I guess they don’t,” she said, recovering her
  composure rapidly. “Down there, anything smaller
  than an ogre ends up dead.”
  Dongo wasn’t fazed. “So how come you’re alive?”
  Neither was the lady. “I’m smart … and I hang
  around with big men.”
  “Good policy,” chimed Dongo as he headed off into
  the darkness.
  “I didn’t know you had an apprentice,” mumbled
  Sylvia, half in wonder, half puzzled.
  “Most people don’t,” I reassured her. “The less people
  know about you, the better. His anonymity has saved
  my life more than once.”
  “I’ll bet it has.”
  “Oh, relax. He’s as fine a dwarf as exists … in this
  cosm at least.
  “But let’s get on to business. This boat murder has
  nothing to do with why you’re here, right?”
  “No, certainly not. The chief thinks some sea crea-
  ture came on board and just happened to rip up my
  would-be lover. If the monster was after me, he sure
  was a stupid beast. I ask you, do I look like a man?”
  She stood up and dropped her coat. I haven’t seen a
  body like that since the demon lord caper I mentioned
  earlier. Now that really was temptation.
  The fire was burning bright behind her, making that
  dress little more than colorful window dressing. She had
  more curves than a corkscrew … a real femme-fatale.
  “No,” I began slowly, not wanting to say the wrong
  thing. “I certainly don’t think so. You’re a red-blooded
  woman to be sure.”
  “Red-blooded woman,” she mused as she sat down.
  “I like that. Sounds gruesome. You know, the monster
  ripped out his insides, and his…,” she looked down,
  “… you-know-where.”
  “Ahem, yes. Did you … see the body?”
  “Yes I did. Pretty horrible, but I’ve seen worse. I’m
  from Orrorsh, you know. There are a million words for
  terror in the language of Orrorsh.”
  I was liking her more and more every minute. Maybe
  I should draw this job out a little. The job! Hell, I didn’t
  even know what the job was yet. This doll was poison
  in my soul. I’d never been this off-the-ball before.
  “Speaking of Orrorsh, it’s time you told me what I’ve
  been hired for.”
  “Very true, since you’re being paid by the day. This
  is a little hard to explain, but that’s why I sought you
  out. You see, someone’s stolen my immortality, and I
  want it back.”
  “Your immortality?! You only mentioned a necklace
  in your letter.”
  “Yes, well, that’s what I mean by needing someone
  like you. A local yokel might not even believe me, let
  alone know where to begin if he did. You’ve handled
  magic, and dealt with the powers of darkness, and I’m
  afraid I might need that kind of experience.”
  “The powers of darkness. Hmmmm.” I only hummed
  aloud when I was worried. This wasn’t supposed to be
  so damned dangerous. Damned dangerous? I laughed
  politely to myself.
  “Well, I’m not sure such forces are involved, mind
  you, but this is a powerful artifact, and only a fool
  would part with it cheap.”
  “And keep his life, of course.”
  “Of course.”
  “Well, what can you tell me? I’ll want to know
  everything … tonight.” After all, I needed to find out
  what the real story was.
  In short, she related to me the following tale: During
  her wandering travels after the death of her family,
  
  101
  Sylvia learned much about the new things that went
  bump in the night. After a short stay as a vampire’s
  unwilling potential consort, Sylvia took upon herself
  the admirable task of disposing of the lusty scoundrel.
  The woman’s got guts to be sure, and they’re well
  packaged.
  According to her tale, he burned up nicely. One of
  the items she recovered from the vampire’s hoard was
  a necklace that, ironically, the vampire didn’t have any
  use for. This heavy silver chain with a silver ankh like
  those found in ancient Egypt had the power to suspend
  natural bodily processes indefinitely. What does that
  mean? It means virtual immortality. No eating or sleep-
  ing is necessary. The body never ages. Diseases never
  get to multiply, and, thus, never take effect. A miracle
  device, apparently useless to its former master.
  Naturally, Sylvia made better use of the necklace,
  but wasn’t able to keep it for long. According to her, it
  was stolen by a very talented thief who probably didn’t
  know what he was getting at the time, but who certainly
  wouldn’t give it up easily now. Sylvia used much of the
  vampire’s treasures hunting him down. As she was
  closing in on the wily criminal, he hopped aboard the
  next ship to London.
  The thief’s name is unknown, but he travels by the
  alias of the Ghost. Only the best criminals, and detec-
  tives for that matter, live long enough to earn a reputa-
  tion like his. The guy was famous for getting into the
  most impossible places and relieving them of their
  rightful contents. Imagine that? It explains how he
  managed to steal a necklace right off of a living person.
  It also explains how he managed to live so long. My first
  guess was shapeshifting, but he might be able to shift
  dimensionally as well. In any case, it was going to be no
  picnic.
  Sylvia offered me a ruby whose worth was beyond
  calculation — the very last of her fortune — as payment.
  I accepted, of course, but demanded a far more valuable
  payment as well: dinner tomorrow night. She accepted
  as I headed out the window. When a client insists you
  begin immediately, and offers you payment like that
  (the dinner, not the ruby), you learn to do without sleep
  for a week at a time. Dongo remained in the Tower to
  protect her. I had no need of him that night.
  That night, the Night Walker flew alone.
  CHAPTER 3
  Full Moon
  There was a new full moon out. It was my lucky
  night as I knew I’d have three or four days of perfect
  hunting time.
  The easiest place to start was the docks. Just like the
  Demon Queen, another ship from Orrorsh must have
  docked there a few days ago. One of the passengers was
  the Ghost, and it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out
  which.
  I used to break into the Harbor Master’s offices
  almost nightly. We had a game we played. By this time,
  everyone in town should have known I was back in
  action and I wanted to see if he remembered.
  The lock I picked in three seconds. I grabbed a long
  stick, and ran it through the handle of the door. As I
  stood to the side, I pulled the stick in just the right way
  to unlatch the door.
  With a spring-loaded crash, a very sharp iron spike
  shot through the glass. Head height and rusty, it was
  very nasty indeed. I had won the game again. My
  advantage was brains, guts, and experience. His was
  that he only had to win once.
  Inside the filthy office was the usual collection of old
  smut magazines and empty whiskey bottles. The files
  were organized in the same crazy manner, and the
  whole place smelled of rotten fruit. A trash can over-
  flowing with apple cores finished the picture. Some
  things never change.
  The only ship that fit the bill arrived three days ago.
  After eliminating all the women, I was left with twenty-
  two men. Normally, I wouldn’t have skipped the la-
  dies, except for the fact that the Ghost is notoriously
  chauvinistic and most decidedly male. Fourteen of the
  passengers were using their return tickets, leaving only
  eight one-way tickets from Orrorsh. Three of those
  tickets were “under 18” special fares, their holders far
  too young to have made the kind of reputation the
  Ghost had. This left me with five good leads. It was time
  to head downtown to visit my friend the Chief Inspec-
  tor.
  Old Smiley’s office was the third one from the right,
  two stories down. His light was on, as always. Making
  my usual entrance, I leapt in through the open window
  and somersaulted into the center of the room. This time,
  however, I didn’t get any laughing applause. This time,
  someone was pointing a gun at me. Someone big, fat,
  and Egyptian.
  “So, Mr. Hot Shot,” he wheezed sickeningly, “I see
  you’ve decided to drop in and welcome London’s new
  Chief Inspector personally. Well, thank you very much.
  But next time you do that, I’ll shoot first, introduce
  myself second.”
  “Cut the crap.” I decided to play it tough. “I need
  some information, and I’ll offer you the same deal as I
  had with Smiley. You help me out, and I’ll help you out.
  You let me collect what I’m looking for, and you get to
  keep the criminal in your jail and take the credit.”
  “I like those terms, alright, but right now you’ve got
  nothing to offer. I’ll need something before you get
  your information, Night Walker.”
  He put down the gun and sat back in his chair. It
  groaned in dismay.
  I played my card. “What would you say if I offered
  you the Ghost?”
  The cigar he had just placed in his mouth never got
  lit. It was drooping slightly from his fat lip.
  Tales of the Night Walker
  
  Dragons Over England
  102
  “The Ghost, huh?” His cigar dropped into his lap.
  “You mean the thief from Orrorsh?”
  “He’s in town, and I’ve got five names for him.” I
  showed him the list.
  He looked over the names and reached for a pen. He
  started scratching out one of the names.
  I reached over and grabbed the paper before he was
  finished. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”
  “You only need four names, Mister Gentleman De-
  tective. Number Five’s downstairs. Want to see him?”
  “I certainly would. What’s he charged with?”
  The chief laughed evilly. “Oh, nothing yet. We’re
  just holding him … for questioning.”
  We headed downstairs, into the wretched dungeon
  they called a jail. The rats ruled this place, not the town
  guard. I drew all sorts of stares as I moved through the
  building. Hell, half of these men weren’t even born
  when I was in my prime.
  The chamber we arrived in was cold, wet, and smelled
  of death. The chief pointed to a dimly lit room ahead.
  “He’s in there. Let me know if you learn anything
  from him.”
  When I entered the room, I realized with horror what
  “downstairs” had meant. Lying on a slimy stone slab
  was the dismembered remains of my suspect number
  five. Even from yards away, it was obvious that the
  poor man had been ripped to shreds by some horrible
  beast or beasts.
  Even worse, behind me I heard a half-dozen men draw
  their swords. As I turned, I saw the chief standing behind
  his newly-arrived guards. I had been double-crossed.
  “Night Walker,” the chief began, “you’re under
  arrest on suspicion of murder. Surrender or die. You
  have five seconds to lay down your arms.”
  I had been set up in the worst way. He didn’t really
  suspect me of murder, but just holding me for a while,
  without bail, was certain to be my death sentence. If the
  prisoners didn’t get me, the guards would. Guess some-
  body lost the difference between the good guys and the
  bad guys during the past few years.
  I wasn’t sure why he wanted me dead, but I sus-
  pected that his replacement of Smiley hadn’t been a
  friendly one. Maybe he thought I was partial to the old
  fool, or maybe he wanted to hold a kangaroo court for
  the sake of his political career. Maybe he thought I was
  going to start cutting in on his action in the area. Maybe
  he was up to something crooked he didn’t want me to
  find out about. In any case, he had something to prove,
  and this was the way he wanted to do it.
  So what did I do? Went on the offensive, of course. I
  threw down a couple of smoke bombs and ditched back
  into the morgue room. I reintroduced myself to my
  dead friend and got an idea.
  When the guards arrived, they got an eyeful of
  terror. A mangled arm and a rather chewed up head
  were flying towards them, seemingly with a life of their
  own. As I tossed the parts, the men scattered, and I cut
  through the middle.
  “You asses,” yelled out the chief of the asses, “he’s
  invisible again! Get out here and cut him off before he
  gets away.”
  I whispered “Too late, lard ass,” in his ear as I
  grabbed his smoking cigar. He spun around and swung
  wildly as I dropped the cigar down his pants.
  The guards were still readjusting their undergarments
  as I headed up the stairs. On my way out the door, I heard
  the scream of a man whose biscuits were burning.
  Revenge is sweet.
  CHAPTER 4
  Suspicion
  On my way back home, I had a lot of time to think.
  The death on the ship might have been sheer coinci-
  dence. After all, someone had done a much nastier
  number on that guy in the morgue. But the fact that the
  poor guy was also on my list was certainly nothing I
  could ignore. Someone — or more likely something —
  else was after that necklace. And whoever or whatever
  it was played for keeps. When I reached home, I had
  some new questions for Miss Sylvia Selene.
  She was sleeping in my bed.
  I had asked Dongo to put her there just in case the
  murder on the boat wasn’t a coincidence. Not only was
  the highest part of the tower the safest part from the
  outside, it was also a sneaky way of keeping my clients
  where I, or my trusty sidekick, could watch them. She
  was radiant in the light of the full moon. Her perfect
  complexion glowed a soft pale blue.
  As I stood in front of the open window, my shadow
  crossed her face, and she stirred. She must have recog-
  nized my silhouette, for she showed no sign of fear.
  Smiling, she asked, “So, do you want your bed back,
  or can we share?”
  Normally, I wouldn’t have said a word, but there
  were some things I wasn’t quite clear about, and the
  lady had some of the answers.
  “We’ll see, Miss Selene. I need to ask you some
  things about the murder tonight.”
  She seemed hurt. “Now it’s ’Miss Selene’ is it? Well,
  I’m not hiding anything. What do you want?”
  She straightened up in the bed, pulling the thin
  sheets around her. I moved to the other side of the room
  and pulled up a chair. With the help of the full moon
  outside, her words were made true: she was hiding
  very little. I paused for too long a moment.
  “Well?” She asked petulantly. I recovered my com-
  posure quickly as I remembered the evening’s events.
  “Tell me more about Mr. Van Cliven.”
  “Is that it? Jealousy? Please. The trip was long. I was
  bored. He felt good. That fat inspector who came on
  board when we docked wouldn’t get off my case about
  Michael either.”
  
  103
  “That’s it?”
  “He was murdered in my cabin, for crying out loud!
  I was the one who … who found him. I was on deck the
  whole time. I swear. I swear.”
  She broke down and started crying. Something in
  the pit of my stomach started to relax. With a flash of
  insight, I understood the connection. I moved over to
  the side of the bed and put my arm around her.
  “I’m sorry, Sylvia,” I began feebly. “Another man
  was murdered tonight, just like Mr. Van Cliven. He
  came in on the boat with the Ghost. I didn’t see the
  connection.”
  She stopped crying for a second, “What …
  connection?”
  “Van Cliven. His death wasn’t a random stroke of
  chance. For some mysterious reason — something to do
  with your necklace I would guess — that monster was
  looking for you in that cabin.”
  She started to cry again. “But I didn’t even have the
  necklace! Why did Michael have to die? You see? Every
  time I love somebody, they end up going away.”
  She wrapped her arms around me and I tried to undo
  the damage I had wrought. It would serve me right if
  she chose to hire someone else.
  Instead, she looked up at me with those big blue eyes
  and said only “Help me.”
  As she gently lifted my mask, I did not resist. When
  she saw the shade of my skin, and how it glistened in
  the moonlight, she did not stop. And when she planted
  those ruby red lips upon my own, I succumbed.
  As we made love like two demons possessed, all I
  could keep thinking about was Michael Van Cliven,
  and what always happened to anyone who chose to
  love Miss Sylvia Selene.
  CHAPTER 5
  Modus Operandi
  I always wake up long before my women. After
  you’ve woken up even once with a dagger at your
  throat, you learn to sleep light. While Sylvia slept off
  one hell of a long night, I headed downstairs to begin a
  new day’s work.
  Dongo gave me that “not again” look, and I snarled
  convincingly back at him. He never liked anyone com-
  ing between the two of us, and he knew what kind of
  effect women have on me. He says I lose my edge. I say
  I just lose some sleep. This time he had no grounds to
  worry — I hadn’t felt this good in years.
  “Dongo, make a copy of this list. Just the four re-
  maining names — the last guy was eaten last night.”
  “Eaten?” gulped Dongo.
  “Yeah. Jugular slashed. Guts devoured. Flesh shred-
  ded like grated cheese.  You know, eaten.”
  I love the look on Dongo’s face when I gross him out.
  He had seen worse in his many years of faithful service,
  but to him, hearing it said was always worse than
  seeing it first hand. An overactive imagination, I sup-
  pose. As he walked out of the room, I could not help but
  love that silly little dwarf.
  Sylvia surprised me by coming down the stairs
  seconds later. She was wearing only the black shirt
  from my costume. It was barely long enough to cover
  her. As she planted a soft kiss on my cheek, Dongo
  returned, threw my copy of the list on the table and
  started heading for the stairs down.
  “Dongo. You take the first two. I’ll get the second.
  Report to me at midnight, okay?”
  He was out of sight by the time I finished giving him
  his orders, but I heard an affirmative grunt nonetheless.
  As Sylvia straddled me in my chair and lowered
  herself on my lap, we decided to make a late morning
  of the day.
  I left Sylvia cleaning up in the kitchen, as I headed
  out to check the street gossip about the murder. I locked
  the door behind me, just in a case the monster didn’t
  only hunt at night.
  The street always has the best information. The guys
  who are too scared to work over during the night in my
  Night Walker guise are always easy to talk to during the
  day, when I am disguised as a mild-mannered elf with
  a little too much curiosity. I always keep myself armed
  and wear my non-trademark magical items for safety,
  however. The thieves trust me completely, a relation-
  ship I have maintained for decades.
  I needed to find out about the Ghost and whether or
  not he had a monster or two on his payroll. Naturally,
  the place to start was  London.
  It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. The
  monster apparently made quite a lot of noise, and a
  nasty mess as well, placing that body I ran into on the
  slab in the morgue. The attack had taken place right out
  in the open. Dozens of ogres, trolls, humans, — even
  town guardsmen — stood by while a huge wolf ripped
  a man to shreds in the heart of Hyde Park. The wolf was
  over six feet long and five feet at the shoulder, if the
  witnesses had exaggerated by the usual amounts.
  Apparently, the beast appeared at the entrance to a
  pub across the street, and moved in quickly on its
  intended victim. Even when the man escaped into the
  street, and the town guard attempted to step in, the
  beast had only one thing in mind. The supernatural
  wolf effortlessly knocked down creatures five times
  larger than itself during the hunt. When it finally caught
  the poor devil, he was mercilessly torn limb from limb.
  Curiously, unlike most canines, the wolf tore out his
  groin first, then ripped off his arms. Only after the
  man’s screams had mercifully ended did the beast tear
  out his throat and chew off his head. Surely, there was
  calculated method in this madness.
  So now I had a better idea of what I was up against,
  but I still knew nothing about the Ghost.
  One of the four remaining men on my list was this
  beast’s master, and Dongo was already out watching
  Tales of the Night Walker
  
  Dragons Over England
  104
  two of them. I had a fifty-fifty chance of nailing the
  bastard myself tonight.
  By asking around, I learned that one of the men, a
  mercenary by the name of Milo Grethan, was entirely too
  young to have established himself as a major criminal
  figure. In fact, his home base was here in London, and he
  had only just returned from a prolonged vacation, having
  purchased a one-way ticket for both his trips to and from
  London. On the other hand, my remaining suspect showed
  much more promise.
  Nobody knew much about Mr. J. P. Stogh, as he was
  certainly not from around London. A graying mer-
  chant in his late 50s, J.P. was a man who was not only
  old enough, but rich enough to have been a successful
  thief for the past few decades. Better yet, he made quite
  a point of establishing the fact that he had “magic” for
  sale at his rooms. While that is certainly a profitable
  trade, it is also a shady and dangerous one. Changing
  into my costume, I decided to pay Mr. Stogh a visit.
  The Great Griffin Hotel was both ritzy and expen-
  sive. Invisible, I needed but one glance at the register to
  know where to go. As I proceeded up the stairs, I
  noticed that every floor was appointed with linen clos-
  ets, standing coat racks, and individual request boxes
  next to each and every door. A quality establishment to
  be sure.
  As I reached the third floor, the cleaning lady was
  moving from room to room, but she was moving in the
  opposite direction. Lucky for me, she must have al-
  ready finished, which meant J. P. wasn’t home this fine
  afternoon.
  The magically protected lock took all of four seconds
  to crack. As the maid entered the last room at the end of
  the hall, I slipped inside. The curtains were drawn and
  the room was dark and colors are not represented well
  in dim light, so the gory scene had an almost psyche-
  delic air to it. In all my years, I hadn’t seen anything
  worse than this.
  The walls were splattered with blood and brains, as
  if some horrible game of stickball had been played with
  the poor man’s head. Mr. Stogh’s memories and dreams
  were staining wallpaper traced with crushed red vel-
  vet. The monster was ahead 3-0 now.
  I kept down my breakfast by sheer will alone, and
  found the rest of J.P. in the bedroom. He had been
  caught sleeping, of course, but there was no sign of
  forced entry. This puzzled me for many minutes, as I
  searched through the apartment. Even stranger, the
  place had been searched, methodically and profession-
  ally. Pillows had been slashed, chairs were overturned,
  and desk drawers had been emptied of their contents.
  Even stranger still was the fact that a number of rela-
  tively valuable items, including rubies, gems, and magi-
  cal potions, were lying about untouched.
  The beast had an accomplice, or more likely a master,
  at its side during the crime. However, because the
  blood was on the pillows but had not entered through
  the gashes in the material, I determined that the search
  had taken place after the murder, not during, or before.
  And the gashes were made by a blade, not by claws. I
  was beginning to get a handle on the Ghost’s modus
  operandi.
  Suddenly, a scream echoed behind me. As I turned,
  I saw the maid collapsing in the hallway. Normally, this
  wouldn’t be a problem. However, I wasn’t invisible at
  the time, and I was pawing through the place like I
  belonged there. Also, I’m pretty easy to identify in a
  line-up — always a drawback of having a costume.
  In the old days, I could have talked my way out of it.
  But I no longer had friends among the town guards, and
  now I even had enemies.
  A criminal would have killed the woman while she
  was lying down. A criminal would have escaped and
  left no witnesses. A criminal would have been able to
  get out of this easier than a good guy. Shame I’m one of
  the good guys.
  I ran out of the door as half a dozen rent-a-cops came
  charging up the stairs. Where were these overpaid
  pencil pushers when one of their guests was being
  ripped to shreds? I knew the roof exit would be locked,
  and to pick it would require precious seconds I did not
  have. I am not immune to bullets, despite all legends to
  the contrary.
  The guards must have heard their now-invisible quarry
  come crashing down the stairs. They were not nearly as
  pencil-pushing as I had first believed. They all fired their
  guns and stabbed with their swords mercilessly.
  Three of them were shot or wounded by each other,
  and my invisibility cloak was surely ruined; the coat
  rack lurking underneath fared no better.
  Those precious seconds of confusion and friendly
  fire gave me the time I needed to pick the lock to the roof
  exit and don my spare invisibility cloak. Once on the
  roof, I leaped off, and glided down unseen amidst a
  gathering crowd of curiosity seekers.
  As I passed among them, I realized I’d better check
  on Milo Grethan the mercenary — not to ask him
  questions about last night, or to find the missing neck-
  lace, but to warn him of his impending doom.
  CHAPTER 6
   My Luck Runs Out
  Milo was pretty simple to find, or at least his home
  was. It seemed to be a very popular place for all-night
  parties, so most everyone under 30 knew where to go
  on a Saturday night.
  This time of day, however, Milo was certain to be
  asleep. His only chance for salvation was his playboy,
  party-man personality. If Milo was someplace else last
  night, entertaining some young lady perhaps, then the
  Ghost and his fiendish henchbeast might have had a
  hard time getting to him. I wasn’t even going to worry
  about the other two men I had put Dongo on. There was
  
  105
  a better than even chance my faithful assistant was
  throwing up about now, somewhere in the darker
  recesses of London.
  Invisibly, I flew up to the rear window of Milo’s
  penthouse apartment by the Thames. I’ve lived in
  worse to be sure, when times weren’t so profitable …
  and dangerous. I was in luck: the rear window was ajar.
  Inside, I could hear a man humming in the shower. The
  air was thick with steam, and wrinkled clothing was on
  the floor. The sheets on the bed hadn’t been touched. I
  had guessed correctly: Milo hadn’t spent the night here.
  As I opened the door, the steam blinded me tempo-
  rarily.
  “Milo,” I called out to the voice, “I am called the
  Night Walker, and I’ve come here to warn you. Your life
  is in danger.”
  “No, my friend,” came the chilling response, “it is
  your life that is in danger.”
  Stepping forward out of the fog was a large, fat,
  familiar Egyptian figure. This time, however, there was
  no cigar … only a gun.
  I was staring down the barrel of a standard issue
  police revolver, the kind that’s easily concealed when
  under cover. Small caliber, no range. But hell, it’s not
  the size of the hole that gets you … it’s the hole.
  “Mr. Grethan is in protective custody, and you, my
  friend, are in a lot of trouble. You’re going to drop to the
  ground right now, or die trying to escape. If you haven’t
  anything to do with all of this, then what have you got
  to hide?”
  I knew he wouldn’t shoot me. He’d much rather take
  me downtown and feed me to some smelly troll scum
  rounded up especially for the occasion. No, he wanted
  me alive, that was for sure. Besides, no matter how
  much of a pig this guy was, he was supposed to be a
  chief inspector. Shooting a man in cold blood, even a
  suspect, was against everything he supposedly stood
  for. Besides, I reasoned, I was invisible.
  As I ran out the door, I heard laughter, and then a
  shot. I didn’t start to feel it until I was already leaping
  out of the window. As the water started rushing to-
  wards me faster than I had expected, I realized I wasn’t
  in control of myself anymore. As I began to black out, I
  realized that steam was one of those things that ren-
  dered my invisibility quite useless.
  CHAPTER 7
  The Ticking Clock
  The cool water of the murky Thames shocked me
  back to consciousness. I was wearing a bullet-proof
  vest (one of the few useful inventions of this planet), so
  it was not the bullet itself that hurt me, but the shock of
  the blow. The bullet had hit dead square in the center of
  my back, which knocked the wind out of me something
  fierce. When I emerged, dazed and confused, from the
  icy waters, I was several blocks downstream. No doubt
  the inspector was still patting himself on the back for
  my untimely demise. Fortunately for me, the police are
  notorious for closing a case faster than they can munch
  a doghnut. My brush with death had bought me the
  most precious commodity of all: time.
  As I returned home late that evening, however, I
  learned that twice in the same day, my luck had run out.
  My front door had been jimmied, and inside I found
  something more sickening than anything I had ever
  seen in all my years.
  Dongo was dead. His head was grotesquely dis-
  played atop the very same kitchen table we ate break-
  fast at that morning, and indeed every morning for a
  year. Stuffed inside his mouth, and secured by a dagger
  through his tongue, was a note, bloodied but readable.
  I didn’t even bother looking for Sylvia. I knew what the
  note said even before I read it.
  Forget about the necklace and the girl lives. Remember
  Dongo.
  The Ghost
  There’s something about the death of your partner
  that leads to certain emotions. Before tonight, I never
  would have said aloud that I loved the little runt.
  However, for the first time in four centuries, I cried. I
  hadn’t cried since I hurt myself as a child.
  Now, my decision to come out of retirement was
  staring back at me with a bloody vengeance. And
  Dongo’s look this morning, telling me “Hey, Boss, the
  lady’s poison,” was echoing in my mind. He was my
  partner and right now, avenging his death meant more
  to me than Sylvia, money, or even that damned silver
  necklace.
  Misery can drive you mad. But madness can give
  you an edge, the edge of fearlessness. I always had put
  on a brave face and shoved horrible, frightening things
  aside with a quick wit and a mask over my face. But
  now I was truly fearless. For the first time in my history
  as a crime fighter, I added a gun to my collection of on-
  hand weaponry. I was out for blood as well tonight.
  May the best beast win.
  CHAPTER 8
  The Great Hunt
  There were only two names on the list that I had
  given to Dongo. Since his list was conspicuously absent
  among his disheveled effects, I assumed quite logically
  that one of those remaining people was in fact the
  Ghost. Dongo had, of course, stumbled on to this fact
  during his surveillance. While Dongo always was the
  best at watching people, he was also certainly one of the
  worst at hiding from them. And who knows what
  supernatural powers that unholy hound possessed. It
  had tracked men across the city and had shamelessly
  ripped them to shreds. Poor Dongo never had a chance.
  Tales of the Night Walker
  
  Dragons Over England
  106
  The first stop was a dead end. The town guard was
  only just arriving. The moon was full enough to see that
  another murder had just taken place inside. This time,
  the man’s wife had been forced to witness the terrible
  spectacle. I knew she’d never be the same again.
  That left only T. Byron Esprit, and I knew I was in
  luck. He was the easiest of all to find, as his family
  owned a historically famous mansion on the outside of
  town. Although he was known to travel extensively,
  and had the majority of his family roots in Orrorsh, I
  had left him to Dongo, feeling he was much too high
  profile to be our man. Naturally, in retrospect, I real-
  ized that he was just the kind of man who makes the
  best underworld kingpin. Never at home, always an
  alibi.
  However, unless the hound could fly or teleport, he
  couldn’t possibly beat me to the mansion. It was on the
  other side of town, and on the other side of the mighty
  Thames. The blood was still running down the win-
  dowpane at the last place, so I couldn’t be that far
  behind. I knew if I could reach the Ghost before his
  trusty wolf returned, I had a much better chance of
  breathing tomorrow morning. Dealing with them sepa-
  rately would give me the edge I needed. If they were
  together, I was a goner.
  Only one light was on in the entire mansion. A lone
  lantern flickered in a room at the very top of a tall tower
  rising from the heart of the estate. The window was
  closed and the shades were drawn, but inside a man’s
  figure was pacing to and fro. I timed his movements,
  and at just the right moment, I crashed through the
  window.
  I was soon sitting atop a rather frail old man in his
  late sixties. He was dressed in nobleman’s robes, and he
  wore a rune-covered sword at his side. Around his neck
  was an ornate silver necklace with an silver Egyptian
  ankh.
  The ankh had a narrow, pointed base and a smooth
  round circle at the top. It seemed as unremarkable as
  any necklace I had ever seen. It was even a bit gaudy by
  modern standards, like the jewelry the ogres and orcs
  wear.
  I pinned the old man’s hands easily as he struggled
  to get free. There was only one problem with the entire
  scenario — he was screaming for help. He wasn’t
  yelling for his personal guards, or even his great wolf.
  He was yelling for the town guard!
  “Shut up!” I commanded him, for a number of selfish
  reasons.
  “Please, don’t kill me,” he whimpered. “You can
  have the necklace. Just don’t kill me.”
  It was pathetic. Was this a ploy? Was he stalling for
  time? Was this aging criminal genius playing with my
  mind? Something inside me said he was sincere. But
  then again, I had been wrong more than once today.
  “Where’s Sylvia?!” I demanded, having already no-
  ticed a barred door to the east.
  “Who?” he asked. His eyes showed true amazement
  and bewilderment at my question. This was the kind of
  look that got you released from custody during ques-
  tioning for murder. It was nothing but honest. Against
  all my instincts, I let him stand up.
  He got up slowly and backed up against a wall. I
  drew my gun, but he never made a reach for his sword.
  He rubbed his wrists until the blood was flowing freely
  again.
  “What have you done with Sylvia? The woman who
  owns the necklace?”
  “Oh, her. How should I know, you damned fool? I
  left that bitch on the docks of Orrorsh.”
  “For crying out loud! Are you, or are you not, the
  Ghost?”
  “That I am,” he said with a gentlemen’s bow. “And
  I will make the educated assumption that you are none
  other than the legendary Night Walker.”
  I was almost liking the guy, until I heard a bump in
  the closet next to me.
  “Okay, then who’s this?!” I called out confidently as
  I headed for the door.
  He moved towards me with sheer panic on his face.
  “No, don’t!”
  With my right hand, I drew my gun and held him at
  bay. With my left hand, I slid the bolt back and threw
  open the door. A knife blade slashed from the darkness.
  It missed by a mile. I turned and pointed my gun, ready
  to fire.
  I almost killed a ten-year old girl. She was small,
  fragile, and terrified. I was hopelessly confused.
  “She’s my granddaughter,” he explained weakly.
  “Please, do not harm her. She has nothing to do with
  any of this. Take the necklace and go. Leave us in peace
  and I will never bother you again.
  “You see, for all my fantastic capers, this was the one
  thing no thief ever could steal, before now. This was my
  last chance at immortality. Don’t you see?”
  As he took the necklace from about his neck, a huge
  pair of canine jaws appeared around his arm. The
  Ghost screamed. The child screamed. I slammed the
  door on her and threw my back against the wall.
  The old man’s arm was severed in one bite, and a
  shower of arterial blood coated the room. His arm
  dropped to the ground, his fingers still twitching with
  recent life about the necklace of immortality.
  The wolf was huge — larger than the witnesses
  described. It had a glorious black coat that glistened
  silkily in the moonlight. The greying hair underneath
  the chin was stained in new blood from the previous
  evening’s kill. For a moment, I marvelled at its exquisite
  technique … its raw animal grace.
  Then it went for his groin. The old man dropped to the
  ground in shock as the monster ripped his manhood
  apart. As he lay there twitching, already dead from the
  shock, the ruthless and horrible beast went for his throat,
  with the mindless intention of completing the kill.
  
  107
  At that moment I knew the beast was indeed too
  much for me to handle alone and I panicked. I holstered
  the gun and grabbed the necklace, and for a moment an
  old man’s arm came with it. As I leapt out the window,
  I knew immediately that the wolf was coming. I could
  feel its hot breath behind me as I glided towards the
  ground. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see how
  close it was to me. Like looking down when you’re at
  the top of something very tall, I felt it was better not to
  know.
  As I hit the ground, I heard a heavy thud and a dog-
  like yelp very close behind me. I might have gained a
  few seconds, providing I didn’t lose my footing also. I
  ran like I had when I was young, but my lungs were
  already screaming. I wasn’t young, and my lungs had
  been through enough today.
  I swung my cloak about me and scaled the spiked
  iron fence surrounding the estate. I thought maybe my
  invisibility would help me. Maybe it couldn’t jump the
  fence in one great leap. Maybe it didn’t want me at all.
  Maybe I should just drop the necklace. Maybe … maybe
  the dog wanted a bullet in its brain.
  I dropped and rolled, drawing my gun like a profes-
  sional shooter. Unfortunately, my finger never even
  got to squeeze. The beast hit me like a ton of granite, and
  my gun flew out into the street.
  The monstrous canine jaws started tearing at my
  groin … and then stopped. As I clutched myself in pain,
  the great wolf raised its head slowly, as if undecided in
  its next action.
  Suddenly, the look of madness returned. I raised my
  hands in front of me as the beast leapt for my throat. It
  wasn’t attacking methodically, like it had the old man
  and the others. Maybe this was because I was wearing
  the necklace now, I didn’t know.
  It took all I had to defend myself and my fingers
  weren’t going to last for long. The wolf was thrashing
  wildly, like a creature possessed.
  I was quickly losing my strength, and my own blood
  was staining my eyes. My right thumb was lying life-
  less on my throat, and my left wasn’t far behind it. The
  horror above me knew this. It tasted blood again and
  knew it had won this battle also. As it stepped back
  away from my face, it looked down evilly into my eyes.
  Those eyes … they were supernatural. Eyes as blue as
  the day, but with gashes of white running throughout.
  They stood in sharp contrast to the red blood dripping
  from the jaws above me.
  The monster reared its head again, and I knew where
  it was going. As I braced for the shock of involuntary
  castration, a sudden clarity swept through my head.
  Blood red? Sunny day? Pearly slashes? I would go to
  my grave with a terrible secret. The last one of my
  career.
  I craved a weapon in hand — any weapon would
  do. Something to give myself the illusion of defend-
  ing myself. And then I remembered the necklace.
  Instead of vainly blocking my face and throat with
  my bloodied stumps for hands when the beast came
  to complete the kill, I dropped them to my chest. The
  monster was mad with the blood rage of the kill, of
  course, and only took this as an opening. As it
  lunged wildly for my throat, I twisted the necklace
  with both hands, bracing the rounded top against
  my sternum. The force of the beast driving the sharp
  end of the necklace into itself knocked the wind out
  of me as well. If the monster survived my clever
  attack, I was going to be unable to muster another.
  The necklace had driven deep into the cheek and
  jaws of the beast, and the wolf’s searing blood covered
  my face and neck. Our blood mixed and, oddly, a dull
  red smoke began rising up from the ground.
  The wolf was thrashing about blindly, as if I had
  struck its heart or had burned it somehow. My necklace
  might have penetrated deep into the skull, into the
  monster’s eye or brain, but I doubted it.
  Suddenly, a dozen gun shots rang out around me. At
  first I thought this was some strange reaction to the
  intensity of my own pain, but the wolf recoiled, stunned
  and in shock. I looked up, and saw a handful of fresh
  holes in the monster’s silky black coat. My saviors
  raised their guns again, but the beast seemed unim-
  pressed. When I raised the necklace, however, the
  unholy beast fled, wounded but not killed.
  As the pain and loss of blood overwhelmed me, my
  adrenaline rush began to subside. I fell back in the grass
  in a daze of hazy red smoke. The necklace clanked
  heavily around my neck.
  I remember seeing a young man take a sample of the
  wolf’s blood and place it in a test tube. He took a vial of
  some foul-smelling sulphurous compounds and mixed
  the reagent with the blood. The blood sparked with a
  magical light, and the man’s proud face lit up with a
  smile.
  “Told you,” he called out to footsteps approaching
  me, “werewolf.”
  As the footsteps inched closer, I knew I had no way
  to defend myself now. I was going into shock for the
  first time in two centuries.
  Above me appeared a fat, Egyptian face. He leaned
  over me, dropping hot cigar ashes in my face. He picked
  up my missing thumb and started twisting it in front of
  my face. As he squeezed the last remaining drops of
  blood out of it and on to my face, he beamed with a
  broad smile.
  “Missing something, Night Walker?” I couldn’t an-
  swer him. “That’s one nasty werewolf you fought
  there. Nastiest one I’ve ever seen in all my years.
  Wouldn’t happen to know who it was, would you?”
  He paused. “No. I guess you wouldn’t.”
  I didn’t even have the strength remaining to nod my
  head.
  Tales of the Night Walker
  
  Dragons Over England
  108
  CHAPTER 9
  Femme Fatale
  I found her very late that night, in my bed. She
  claimed to have escaped from the Ghost, and I bought
  it, or so I pretended. I figured out every angle of the past
  few days’ events while we made incredible love until
  morning.
  Sylvia was a werewolf, of course. Every full moon
  she gained the power to become one of the most
  hideous and vicious monsters in the known uni-
  verse. She could choose when and where she
  metamorphosized, but she had to do it at least once
  every evening with a full moon. That is, unless she
  was wearing that necklace. You see, besides keeping
  you from needing to sleep or eat, or age for that
  matter, it also had the beneficial side effect of halting
  all other bodily processes, including involuntary
  “shapeshifting.”
  She’d seduced most of the men with her natural
  human talents, then torn them apart after the loving
  was over. No breaking and entering required.
  She must have killed Mr. Van Cliven for her own
  reasons. Maybe he got a little too rough one night on the
  boat, or maybe she had to kill every once in a while or
  go insane. Maybe she was just a little kinky. In any case,
  I remembered that no one was mourning his loss in that
  cabin that night. Perhaps he wasn’t a very nice guy.
  But then she killed Dongo to throw me off the track
  and to keep me from finding the Ghost before she did.
  The poor old man hadn’t harmed a soul in decades. As
  I read more about him in the years to come, I found we
  had more in common than not.
  I knew werewolves only had to change once every
  moonlit evening, so she really didn’t need to kill any-
  body. Especially not Dongo, and certainly not me. I
  guess she felt she needed that necklace worse than she
  needed me.
  Speaking of the necklace, the town guard thought it
  was just another one of my magical devices. They still
  respected the concept of personal property — at least
  they did once I had had a talk with the inspector, and
  promised him I could put a stop to the killings that very
  night. He must have been desperate, because he agreed
  to give up his vendetta against me if I could accomplish
  this thing. He gave me twenty-four hours.
  In any case, I had been eyeing that necklace for
  myself. Surprise, surprise. I had been seriously think-
  ing of retiring for good this time. I still had a lot of
  money, my health (sans a thumb or two, but a good
  healer might be able to help), and my good reputation.
  So, was I going to let her play me for a sucker now?
  No, not by a near shot.
  I gave her one last chance to prove herself. I told her
  she could have the necklace in the morning, claiming I
  had some obligations down at the headquarters of the
  town guard the next day and the necklace remained a
  piece of material evidence.
  If she really cared anything about me, she’d wait. If
  her blood lust was uncontrollable, and I had been just
  another dupe of this lycanthropic vamp, she’d never let
  me live until morning.
  As I pretended to drift off to sleep with her in my
  arms, she was also going to answer the one lagging
  question on my mind: did she have to kill all of these
  men to survive, or did she just choose to do so? I made
  sure I was wearing the necklace all night.
  She was very, very good. I waited for hours for her
  to make her move. I knew she was awake by the
  shallowness of her breathing and the fact that she was
  not moving around in her sleep. The more unmoving
  she remained, the more obviously awake she was. I’m
  glad I was wearing the necklace, or I would have drifted
  off. I caught myself thinking she might really be asleep,
  but as dawn was approaching I felt her soft and delicate
  finger gently working their way along my chest. Was
  she admiring the necklace, or was this just a feeble
  attempt at thievery? As she slid her fingers back and
  forth about the chain of the necklace, I felt her hand
  hesitate and then withdraw. Had she changed her
  mind? Was there some spark of redemption going
  through her mind?
  The low growl that issued from an area dangerously
  close to my loins answered that question once and for
  all. She was shapeshifting quietly, in a matter of sec-
  onds! I had always thought that the process was a
  violent, excruciatingly painful process that gave vic-
  tims lots of time to react and run away. I realized that all
  of my suppositions had been based on fictional film and
  literary accounts, and that Sylvia could not possibly
  have been as effective as she had been unless indeed the
  opposite had been true.
  There was no use in pretending now, as the bed was
  beginning to shift down with the new mass she was
  gaining in her animal form. I opened my eyes and was
  stunned as I watched the woman I loved become a beast
  of death before my very eyes.
  I panicked. I instinctively reached for the gun I had
  secreted beneath my pillow with my right hand! This
  was the same hand currently swathed in bandages and
  missing a thumb. Ever try and grab and fire a weapon
  without a thumb? My instincts nearly cost me my life,
  and my selfish gamble was becoming infinitely more
  dangerous than I had expected.
  This time, she went for blood. As I began switching
  my body from right to left in order to facilitate the
  recovery of the gun with my still functioning left hand,
  I felt the jaws of death clamp about my forehead.
  The hot breath and rabid foam began to choke and
  blind me as the monstrous canines began tearing into
  my temples. The sharp necklace, which I had wielded
  so effectively in the fight before, was being stepped
  
  109
  upon by one great clawed paw. There would be no
  repeat of my clever stroke here. My gun, its barrel
  brimming with bullets cast of pure silver, was my only
  chance.
  It was a test of will now. Could I grab, aim, and fire
  the gun using only my left hand, before she opened up
  my skull and began savaging my mind like she had Mr.
  Stogh’s?
  I had the gun. But as I brought it about, I heard the
  horrifying sound of bone chipping and cracking. The
  beast was breaking through, and my own blood was
  clouding my vision. Not knowing the outcome of my
  action, I hoped for the best and pulled the trigger.
  Fortunately, at close range, any shot is a good shot.
  I only grazed her in the shoulder, and as I had seen
  before, a normal bullet carried neither force or mass to
  cause this beast even a moment’s hesitation. But the
  silver bullet was a searing poison in her blood, and the
  creature reacted to it like a man would. It hurt, and it
  hurt bad.
  The beast slipped off the bed and pulled me and the
  upper mattress with it. We all fell upon each other and
  my own linens were tangling me up at the precise
  moment when I needed to finish the kill! I fired again
  blindly, and, as I heard no yelp of pain, I assumed I
  missed.
  Just then, another sheet rose up and hit me square in
  the chest. My gun flew out of my hand. This time,
  however, the deadly linens saved my bacon, as they
  remained caught on the corner of the bed, and stopped
  the beast in mid leap. I fell back into the corner of the
  room, but the beast was not atop me.
  As the monster tore through the sheets with tooth
  and claw, I lunged for the great shape with the necklace
  as my weapon. Driving it deep into the body, the
  monster’s reaction was indeed gratifying. While the
  beast howled like a demon from Hell, I grabbed the gun
  and levelled it at my quarry.
  The beast emerged from the sheets a second later and
  levelled its gaze at me, and my gun. I smiled at the
  monster like Dongo always had for me and said, “she’s
  poison, boss.” The great wolf leaped in vain as a hole
  opened up in the top of her skull — a hole lined with
  silver.
  EPILOGUE
  That would have been the end of my long illustrious
  career, had the local paper this morning not read “Mur-
  dered Men Become Werewolves!”
  The Ghost was alive and loose and this time I could
  be sure he was no gentleman thief. I never did find out
  how he had plied his trade in the early days. Could he
  change shape? He could now. Could he fly, turn invis-
  ible, or walk through walls?
  The possibilities became infinite as the ultimate crimi-
  nal became the lifelong nemesis of the universe’s only
  “Immortal Detective.”
  But that’s another story.
  Tales of the Night Walker
  
  If you’ve enjoyed reading about the Possibility Wars, you can now
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SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Torg/Torg Dragons Over England.pdf