Faerie Apocalypse Page 2

  “Mine is no enchantment,” said the dog-man. “I am a shape-shifter.”

  The mortal shook his head and looked away. “I have not the means,” he said. “I’m no sorcerer.”

  “Then we shall trouble you no more.” The dog-man set about freeing itself from its tether with its dagger. The falcon fluttered its wings uselessly and cried its pain.

  The mortal spied a plain stone building in a laneway that was barely visible from the main thoroughfare. He could not read the sign that hung above it, but the door was open and it had the look of the kind of place he sought, so he went inside.

  The dry goods store smelled variously of damp earth and treated wood and metal polish, but, the mortal noticed, the odours did not comingle. All manner of ordinary items crowded the shelves, hung from the ceiling, or were stacked upon the floor: oil-lamps, ropes, axes, cook-pots, and of course, dry goods.

  The storekeeper was grey-haired and straight-backed, with eyebrows that grew into its sideburns. It wore trousers, a loose white shirt, a leather waistcoat, and pince-nez spectacles.

  “I need some things,” the mortal said.

  “Name them, and I will name the price,” the storekeeper replied. Its voice was smooth and without accent.

  “I have only the currency of the mortal realm.”

  “Good,” said the storekeeper. “Then I know your coin is true.”

  The mortal bought a length of rope, tent pegs, soap, a straight razor, a whetstone, a flint, candles and some dried meat that the storekeeper told him was goat. He paid fourteen pounds sterling for the goods. The storekeeper accepted notes as well as coins.

  “What do you seek here?” it asked, when the transaction was done.

  “I have everything I need, thank you.”

  “Here in the Realms of the Land.”

  The mortal considered the storekeeper again. Seeing no harm in the telling, he said: “I seek the most beautiful thing in the world.”

  “Aye, indeed? Can you identify this object?”

  “She is the Queen of the Faerie.”

  “Which Queen would that be?”

  “The Queen of the Faerie,” the mortal repeated. He had not expected scepticism from a creature of the Realms.

  “There are many Realms in this Land,” said the storekeeper. “And many Queens. Can you name the one you seek?”

  “The only name I know is Titania.”

  The storekeeper shook its head. “I have not heard of that one.”

  The mortal gave it some thought. “If there are many Queens, which among them is known to be the fairest?”

  The storekeeper shrugged. “Opinions differ. The judgment must be yours to make.”

  “Fair enough,” said the mortal, and quit the store.

  6. A King Rides

  Forth

  Far away, a king took the goblet from his lips and tilted his head to hear an exchange spoken many leagues distant. His smile faded as the words sounded in his ear. His court ceased their merriment and looked to him in askance.

  The king stood up from his throne. He dismissed his court and summoned his squires to help him into his smoked-silver armour. He buckled on his swords and, barefoot, mounted his burnt-gold stallion. Then he took up his battered wooden lance, and he rode forth in anger.

  Someone was seeking his Queen.

  7. The Dog-Man and the Not-Falcon

  The mortal followed the river out of the village and through the hills. As twilight fell he considered his fortune so far. The episode with the merchant disturbed him, but he felt good about the slaves he had freed from servitude. He had not made any progress towards his goal, but he had learned something about the nature of the place in which he sought it, and it seemed to him that was a pretty good start. If he remained patient and cautious he would find his queen eventually.

  In the distance he spied a fire. It was dark, now, and some other traveller had made camp amidst a stand of trees by the riverbank. He went towards it as quietly as he could; knowing that he would not find what he sought by avoiding company, but wary of strangers in this strangest of lands.

  The dog-man from the marketplace sat cross-legged before the flames, turning a strange and unappetizing bird on a spit. It looked up at him and nodded, though he had not yet announced his presence.

  “How did you get here ahead of me?” asked the mortal. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the firelight, he noticed black feathers scattered all around the campsite.

  The dog-man grinned. “The direct way.”

  This did not answer his question, but the mortal was not going to ask twice. “You killed the not-falcon,” he said.

  “Aye,” said the dog-man, turning the bird. “It was, as you say, not truly a falcon, though it wore a falcon’s shape. It couldn’t fly, or hunt.”

  The mortal sat down beside the fire. “And it could not have escaped you.”

  “Aye,” said the dog-man.

  When the dog-man removed the charred carcass from the fire it did not offer the mortal any, for the portion was scant. The mortal took some goat jerky from his rucksack and they ate in silence.

  “Tell me, mortal man, how did you find passage into the Realms of the Land?” asked the dog-man, when the meal was done. “There are few of your kind who venture here now, and I fear the Ways that once led here have turned back on themselves.”

  “There was a tree,” replied the mortal.

  “What sort of a tree?”

  “A tree of…indeterminate species,” he replied.

  “The Worldtree.” The dog-man seemed impressed.

  “I prefer my own name for it,” the mortal replied, smiling.

  “If the Worldtree manifested for you, you must have some important purpose here,” said the dog-man, leaning close enough that he could smell its carrion breath. It was panting. “Some quest of terrible import.”

  “I am looking for the most beautiful thing in the world,” the mortal said. “The Queen of the Faerie.”

  “Ah,” said the dog-man, making a man’s grin with its dog’s teeth. “A lover-man, looking for someone to love.”

  “I seek the Queen of the Faerie,” the mortal said again.

  “There are many Queens,” said the dog-man, “And they are all beautiful.”

  “So I have been told,” said the mortal, displeased with the news. He had hoped the storekeeper was mistaken, or had perhaps been trying to discourage him by magnifying his task, but he did not believe the dog-man to be capable of such deception.

  “But do you know which Queen to seek?”

  “The only Queen I know by name is Titania,” said the mortal. “In my world, she is the most famous of Faerie Queens.”

  “That means only that she is careless with her name, and meddles beyond her own borders.”

  “Perhaps,” the mortal replied, “but I have nothing else to go on. Unless you can name me the fairest Queen?”

  The dog-man gave it some thought. “You will only consider bipedal queens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then to my eye, Zelioliah is the fairest. But I have not beheld all of the Queens. I have not seen your Titania.”

  “Zelioliah? Is she, too, incautious with her name?”

  “She is the Queen of the Warriors, and has little fear of its misuse.”

  “Well, I don’t care about names. I will know the one I seek only when I lay my eyes upon her.”

  “I hope so,” said the dog-man. “No other can know for you.” It turned its back and curled up, and became once again the scarred and mangy terrier.

  They rose with the dawn and ate their respective breakfasts. The mortal filled his canteen from the river, upstream from where the dog-man lapped its thirst away.

  “Tell me, mortal,” said the dog-man, “what will you do, when you find this Queen that you seek?
”

  “I will kiss her, and make her mine.”

  “And what if she refuses you?” said the dog-man.

  “She won’t refuse.”

  The dog-man’s frown creased its nose as well as its brows. “I make no claims to understanding of how such congresses are arranged among your folk,” it said, “but here in the Realms it is usually more complicated than that.”

  “There is no reason for it to be so,” replied the mortal. “I will know her when I see her, and she will know me.”

  “Even if that were true,” said the dog-man, “I do not believe that Faerie Queens will consort with any common mortal—if that is indeed what you are.”

  “I have been many things in my life, but I am no prince,” he replied. “If that is what you are asking. I have been a soldier and a husband and a traveller and a beggar. I am as low-born as any man.”

  “Even the lowest born man is higher than a dog,” said the dog-man. It did not appear to find this situation of concern.

  “In my experience, a dog may be just as noble as any man, or as base,” said the mortal.

  “That is good to know,” said the dog-man.

  “Now tell me,” the mortal said, “Which Realm is closest to here?”

  “The closest Realm, or the closest Queen?” asked the dog-man. “Some Realms have no Queens, just as some Queens have no Nations…and some Nations have no territories.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “In this Land it pays to be careful how you ask questions, and how you answer them. Falsehood will destroy you; truth will devour your bones.”

  The mortal sighed. “Where is the court of closest Faerie Queen?” He considered the dog-man’s advice, and so added: “The closest bipedal Queen.”

  “This year, in this cycle, the Sea City on the Plains is near to our present location,” said the dog-man. It sketched a map in the ashes of the falcon’s cook-pyre. “I will take you there, an you will it.”

  The mortal shook his head. “I began this alone, and so I must end it.”

  “It’s no bother,” said the dog-man.

  “Thank you, but no.”

  “Please?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Please,” said the dog-man. “A dog with a master has honour and purpose. A wild dog is but a beast.”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot.”

  “Very well,” said the dog-man, trying to keep the whine from its voice.

  “Perhaps we will meet again,” the mortal said.

  The dog-man barked, or laughed. Made a sound that was both at once. “We have met twice already,” it said. “In this Land, you can be certain that will eventually become thrice.”

  8. A Queen Upon

  Her Throne

  Far away, a velvet-furred page in black and crimson livery scampered up to its Queen. It hauled itself up onto the arm of her black and crimson chair and whispered in her ear.

  The Black and Crimson Queen wasted no time in summoning her guard, who came forth with her black and crimson banners waving from their black and crimson armour. Their weapons were forged of shadowsteel: black, like shadows sopped with blood.

  Bearers in black and crimson tunics made of the throne a palanquin; and thus, the Queen and her war party marched from the territory in which her black and crimson nation was currently encamped.

  Someone had named a Faerie Queen fairest, and the name they had spoken had not been hers.

  9. In the Pass

  As the dog-man’s dirt map had suggested, the mortal followed the river through the hills until they became mountains and the grassy soil abraded to sand and scree. During the day, the sky was golden behind the clouds. At night it was black.

  After some days’ travel, the mortal found a pass that led between the tallest and shortest of the mountains, as the dog-man had said he would. The way steepened, and the rock walls rose on either side of him until the sky was a narrow ribbon far above. That night, the mortal slept sitting upright in a shallow crevasse. He had no fire, for there was no wood to burn.

  When the golden ribbon of sky reappeared above him, he rose and set out again, rubbing his arms against the chill. He drank sparingly from his canteen and wondered if he had enough water to last him.

  Around noontime, a noise stopped him in his tracks. He was not sure if it was a voice or a landslide, but either prospect terrified him. There was no shelter to be had in the pass, and there was nowhere to run.

  A sheet of stone detached itself from the escarpment. It spun like a dancer en pointe, shivering and compressing its mass. The creature’s true shape was insectoid and feminine, though its back was ridged with jagged stone. Its newly exposed underbelly showed psychedelic patterns in all the colours of a rainbow.

  “Greetings,” it said. Its voice was soft, like diamonds falling onto a fold of velvet. Its face was as chitinous as its torso and limbs, but configured into recognisably human features.

  “Hello,” said the mortal.

  The rock–thing looked him over. “Where are you from?”

  “I’ve come from the village, over the hills.”

  “Yes,” it said, “But you are not from there, nor from any of the Realms.”

  “The Realms are wide and varied,” he said. “Surely you cannot know them all.”

  “This is true,” said the rock-thing, with delight. “But one need not have seen all the Realms of the Land to be able to identify those who are not indigenous to them.”

  “You have the right of it,” he conceded. “I am a mortal.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Something quite uninteresting, I fear.”

  The rock-thing smiled as seductively as an insect made of rocks could. “Yet your manner of speech is fair.”

  He smiled back. “One must ensure that one is understood.”

  “And yet some take pains to conceal the true meaning of their words,” said the rock-thing.

  A spear-blade as wide as the mortal’s hand and as long as his forearm sprouted from the rock-thing’s rainbow-breasted thorax. Its limbs twitched; its delicately armoured jaw worked. Fluids welled from the joints in its exoskeleton.

  The wielder of the spear levered the corpse aside and let it crash to the ground. “I just saved your life, pig-fucker,” she said.

  The warrior stood five-and-a-half feet tall in frayed leather and ring-mail armour. She wore a short sword on her hip and an enormous bastard sword on her back. Daggers protruded from each of her boots; dirks were strapped to the insides of her forearms. A sickle attached to a length of chain was looped through her belt.

  “I have never consorted with any kind of farmyard animal,” replied the mortal. “Much less a pig.”

  “Had I not saved you, you may never have had the opportunity.”

  “I was not being menaced,” he replied, angry at having been insulted twice in as many utterances. A week in the Realms and already he was unused to discourtesy.

  The warrior snorted. “Not everything that smiles prettily means you well,” she said. Her hair was brown, tied back in a ponytail and tucked inside the collar of her jerkin. Her eyes were brown. There was something unusual about her ears, but that was all that set her apart from the women of the mortal’s own world. “I’ve been hunting that thing for weeks. It murdered and ate seven of my best fighters.”

  “Perhaps it was hungry,” he replied.

  “If it was hungry, it would have eaten rocks,” the warrior replied. “It was a lithophage.”

  “I see.” He felt angry. Angry at his own foolishness, and angry that she had called him on it.

  “What are you doing here? This is not your place.”

  “I am seeking the most beautiful thing in the world.”

  “And that is?”

  “A Queen of the Faerie fo
lk,” he said.

  “Ah,” she replied, with apparent disgust. “So you’re a poet as well as a pig-fucker.”

  “I have no power over words,” he replied.

  “That is why you are a poet,” she said. “The words have power over you.”

  The mortal shook his head, but she continued before he could speak his denial. “Tell me, poet, how do you know that the most beautiful thing in the world is a Queen of the Faerie? Could it not be a whore, or a flower, or a gem, or a sunset? Or a lithophage with a spear through its guts?”

  “I just know it,” said the mortal. “That’s all.”

  “Go home,” the warrior replied. “You know nothing. On this path you will find only death and sorrow.”

  The warrior turned on her heel and walked away. She vanished from his sight as stealthily as she had appeared, although he had tried to watch her every step.

  10. The Sinewed Forest

  The mortal straightened his rucksack on his shoulders and walked on, through the pass and out of the mountains. The landscape bent and slewed around him, and even the direction of gravity’s pull canted to one side, forcing him to walk at an incline. Veins of mirrored glass and liquid flesh ran through the rock-face, and the stunted trees that grew from it were sinewy and bare. The birds that lit in their boughs were feathered with moss and squealed like swine.

  He held out his hand and whistled, and one of the pig-birds turned to look down upon him. It cocked its head and, when he crooned to it again, it came gliding down and perched on his index finger. The pig-bird preened and grunted and, when he petted it with his free hand, it nuzzled his palm with a snout that was velvety and wet.

  The mortal spread his fingers and the pig-bird flapped away, leaving a coil of black faeces on the back of his hands and a smile on his face.

  He walked until gravity returned to its usual downward vector and the hills levelled off, giving way to a forest of the sinewy trees. He wondered if the bulbous, embryonic fruit they bore could be consumed, and if, were he hungry enough, he could bring himself to do so.