Storm Warned (The Grim Series) (6 page)

“Peoples of the Nine Realms, we are gathered on a matter of great importance.” Strength was woven through the clear, crystalline tones of the queen’s voice, and Caris found herself leaning forward in spite of herself.

“As the Lord of the Wild Hunt indicated, this is our home. It will always be our first home. However, our numbers are many, and the mountains here are old. The power that flows through this earth, that forms the very touchstone of our magic, is not infinite. It is no longer great enough to support us all. At best, we risk stagnation. At worst, we risk war among ourselves.

“As you know, we have proposed to follow the example of many other fae kingdoms. Our brothers and sisters to the north and to the west have established new holdings in the younger lands, and so must we.

“When the king lived . . .” Here Gwenhidw paused, but Caris didn’t think it was for effect. “When
my husband
lived,” the monarch continued, “he negotiated with other fae tribes for many years until he succeeded in claiming a choice territory for our people. Arthfael rightly named it Tir Hardd, the Beautiful Land. There the earth magic pulses like a thousand hearts, and on its surface alone, it is nearly seven times the size of the human country of Wales above us. Below, however, where earth magic holds sway, Tir Hardd is vast, many times as large as all the Nine Realms taken together.”

The crowd had obviously heard this before. There were many heads nodding, and a few soft murmurs, but some in the assembly seemed to struggle to be silent. Finally, a gnomelike creature near the front, one of the
coblynau
, could not hold his tongue any longer, and stood up. “Begging yer pardon, good Majesty. There’s been talk of the new territory fer a long time, and I’m sure it’s every bit as grand as ya say, but that won’t matter to my clan,” he said loudly. “Won’t change a thing fer us. The Tylwyth Teg control everything here, and they’ll do the same there. They’ll own everything and they’ll run everything. There’s not a thing in Tir Hardd fer the rest of us to look toward.”

Though those immediately around him drew away as if he were about to be struck by lightning, many more in the hall jumped to their feet and clamored their agreement. Unfazed, Gwenhidw smiled. “Your point is well taken, Druce Aldergrove. Some have too much power and others do not have enough, so there is no longer a balance in the Nine Realms. This is exactly why we must not build on old foundations if Tir Hardd is to be a sanctuary and a new beginning for all. In short, we must change.”

“And exactly how would you have us
change
, my Queen? The Tylwyth Teg have always ruled because we are fit to rule.” Caris recognized Maelgwn by his voice before she spotted him on the far side of the vast chamber. He continued without waiting for an answer: “It has been so since the beginning of our worlds. Surely you would not have us discard our traditions because of a few malcontents?”

Not surprisingly, the place erupted into shouts and roars, the tumult amplified by the rock surfaces. It seemed that everyone was arguing at once . . .

Until an explosion of light shook the immense room to its foundations. Grateful she was already lying down, Caris struggled to put her clumsy paws over her ears as thunder reverberated off the walls and vibrated through her body. The heart-stopping display startled the vast assembly into absolute silence, but Caris was one of the few who knew what had happened: Lurien, as
llaw dde
of the queen, had used the full power of his light whip upon the steps of the dais. A magical weapon, whoever held a light whip could summon and control a hunt. The guilty were chased down with it, and captives were driven like cattle before it. Hounds were compelled with it. And she, Caris Ellen Dillwyn, had been changed by it when Maelgwn led a hunt of his own.

She doubted that a light whip had ever been used to bring order to the throne room before.

All were once again kneeling, even Maelgwn, as Lurien’s words replaced the silence. Quiet and deliberate, they carried to every ear, and his tone was far more frightening than even the weapon he still held uncoiled in his hand. “You will remember that you are in the presence of your monarch, and you will receive her words,” he said, then bowed to his queen and moved to stand at the foot of the dais—next to a smoldering pile of stone rubble, where his supernatural whip had struck.

Caris could swear that Gwenhidw looked amused, but the queen continued as if there had been no interruption at all, and her voice was solemn. “Our new territory lies across the Wide Waters. It is beneath rolling plains framed by two mountain ranges that mortals have named the Cascades and the Rockies. I myself have made the journey there several times, to determine that this land is suitable for all of my people—not just the Tylwyth Teg, or just the Bendith, or just the Gwyllion, but
all
. The earth beneath is rich with magic and raw materials, fed by the energy of living volcanoes and mighty rivers. Tir Hardd merely waits for our people to shape it to their will.”

The throne room remained quiet as the monarch described a detailed plan for the transplanting of the faery kingdom. It would require a staggering amount of magic that could be achieved only if the many tribes put aside their differences and worked together. But it was when Gwenhidw explained how the new territory would be
governed
that the monumental room erupted with commotion once again. This time, however, it was with cheers and blessings upon the queen’s bold proposal.

Only a few were displeased, and as Caris expected, the naysayers were all Tylwyth Teg, with Prince Maelgwn at their center.

“You have said that we cannot build on old foundations,” he declared boldly. “If so, then I say that a new land requires a new ruler.”

“And no doubt you wish to be that ruler,” said Gwenhidw. Her face was composed, her voice calm as a summer breeze, yet there was power behind her words like waves gathering before the wind. “You are quite free to bring your claim before a meeting of the envoys, Maelgwn. They will decide whether it has merit.”

“What envoys?” he asked, clearly surprised.

Her answer was directed not to him but to the assembly. “I call now for a delegation of envoys not only from each of the Nine Realms but also from every tribe and every clan in the kingdom.
Mark me now, that all must be fairly represented.
Send them to my courtyard when six suns have risen. But be certain,” she cautioned, “that the leader you select is the wisest and most trustworthy among you. And he should have at his right hand and his left those who are your most magically gifted. Because it is your chosen envoys who will work together not only to expand the Nine Realms but to ensure that each and every group receives a fair and generous share of the new territory.
And it is your chosen envoys who will assist in governing it
.”

The queen rose from the Glass Throne then and motioned with her hands that all should rise with her. “My beloved subjects, we are embarking on a great adventure to a greater destiny. I foresee the day that Tir Hardd will be the envy of all fae nations. Those of you who wish to remain in our ancestral home may do so, for we relinquish not that which is ours. Those of us who imagine greater things for our peoples, however, will be traveling across the Wide Waters. I myself will go with you, and together, we will build anew.”

To the shock and delight of her subjects, Queen Gwenhidw bowed to them, her palms outstretched as if in supplication.

Magic must have revealed her hiding place, because Caris couldn’t imagine how else Maelgwn had managed to find her in the chattering chaos of excited faery beings. His face was a mask of fury as he shoved a sinuous
beannigh
and a monstrous
fire drake
aside as if they were nothing and seized Caris’s silver collar in his hand, lifting her clear off the ground as if she were merely a rabbit, not a massive dog that nearly weighed as much as he did. “I need grims for a hunt,” he declared, shaking her roughly. “Many of them, do you hear me? Search the kennels quickly and bring every grim you can find to the stables. We leave at once.” She dangled from his fist—and knew to make herself as limp and lifeless as possible, lest she attract his attention—as he snapped a command to the Fair Ones who followed in his wake: “Leave nothing that you value behind. Bring every weapon, every artifact, every relic that possesses a modicum of power in it. We will need it all.”

“We’re not coming back?” whispered Rhedyn. Caris was sorry to see her still among the prince’s retinue—especially when a faint shimmer along the faery woman’s ear revealed that she wore a
glamor
, an enchantment often used by the Tylwyth Teg to heighten their beauty and mask real or imagined imperfections.
Hiding the evidence of Maelgwn’s bullying, no doubt.

“Did you not hear Gwenhidw’s words? She has forced our hand,” said the prince. “We have no choice but to carry out our project a little earlier—but we will reap the rewards that much sooner.”

The prince threw Caris against the stone pillar and stalked out as she slid to the floor. Of the entourage that followed him, none spared the black dog a glance, save Rhedyn. She said nothing, but her gaze was filled with apology. And something that looked like shame.

As soon as they were gone, Caris glanced about wildly.
A hunt?
The shadows had left the human world above by now. While grims could come and go at any time, there were ancient laws governing both the true Wild Hunt and those, like Maelgwn’s, that were organized privately: all hunts were restricted to the hours of mortal night.

Whatever is Maelgwn thinking?

Suddenly she guessed the prince’s destination . . . A grim’s heart did not beat, but that didn’t seem to prevent it from rising up in her throat. For a long moment, Caris considered disobeying. Would he notice if she didn’t show up?
Of course he would.
While there might be hundreds of black grims, she was the only female, and that had been the cruel prince’s own doing. Maelgwn would not forget her any more than he would ever forget—or forgive—her act of defiance in breaking her fiddle.
Too bad I didn’t break it over his head.

Of course, then she’d be dead—or, much more likely,
worse
. Death or a continued existence as a grim were nothing compared to what Maelgwyn could inflict if angered. He’d surely punish her if she disobeyed him. He’d also find a way to punish her if she ran to Lurien, or even the queen, and told them . . .
what
exactly? That she suspected the prince was going to Tir Hardd? Not only did she have no proof to offer; she didn’t even know if Maelgwn was forbidden from going there. After all, he was highborn, a great-grandson of the late king’s sister. And she?

She was just a voiceless dog. She couldn’t tell anyone anything, even if she had evidence and witnesses aplenty. All she could do was fulfill the command she’d been given.

Slowly, Caris rose from the floor. With her head down, she made her way unnoticed through the happy, chattering crowd to the door that would take her to the stone kennels far below.

FOUR

T
he sound of shattering glass woke him, and for a moment Liam didn’t know where he was. Another crash from somewhere above cleared some of the sleep from his brain, but the roaring in his ears continued.
Wind
, he realized. A hellacious storm was shaking the entire house to its century-old foundations. He’d fallen asleep in front of the damn TV again, but it was off, and so were the lights.
Power must be . . .

Twin bolts of lightning struck close by, and instinct had him diving for the floor behind the couch just as something exploded in the yard. Before he could take another breath, thunder battered his senses until he had to clamp his hands over his ears. The floor beneath him vibrated, and shards of glass and wood rained down around him. And something huge, dark, and heavy came crashing down beside him, narrowly missing him.

When the tumult finally died away, lightning continued to flare and flicker, enabling him to see part of a tree impaling the living room wall, stripped of all branches like a giant’s spear—and right where Brewster the Mooster had always hung. Uncle Conall’s ancient trophy had been named by a three-year-old Liam and was practically part of the family. Now the searing flashes of light revealed the enormous stuffed head upside down, mere inches from Liam’s hiding place. Its monstrous antlers had been driven into the floorboards, and one glass eye hung free like something out of a horror movie.

Every window in the room had shattered, and the force of the wind drove the rain sideways through the opening, the furious drops soaking everything.

Cautiously, Liam rose and felt his way to the kitchen, where a collection of candles, flashlights, and battery-filled lanterns collected dust on top of the fridge. He grabbed a lantern and tucked a small penlight in his pocket, but with the near-continuous flashes from the storm, he quickly realized there was little point in turning either light on. No point going upstairs either—the sound alone was enough to tell him that the windows were gone up there as well, and he couldn’t do anything more about that than about the broken glass blanketing the living room. Without warning, the house shook hard enough that pictures fell from walls in every room—this was no ordinary thunderstorm. Tornadoes were rare here but not unheard of, and Liam decided to err on the side of caution, taking shelter in the bottom of a solidly built hallway closet.
Whose bright idea was it to put the door to the damn cellar on the outside?

The door of the closet was heavy, made of thick hardwood, and he left it open a couple of inches so he could still keep track of his surroundings—but Liam also kept one hand firmly on the knob, ready to slam the door shut. Heaven only knew what was happening to his poor goats. Panicked, no doubt. He’d put them all in the barn for the night as always—the forty dairy does and the twenty-odd yearlings that were slated to be the next generation of pedigreed milkers. But the barn might not be enough. Hell, at this rate, even the damn
house
wasn’t going to be enough. Worse, he had thirty-five head of Red Angus cattle out on summer pasture, and his two Appaloosa horses, Dodge and Chevy, were with them. There was an open-sided shelter at the base of the ridge for them, but it would be worse than useless in this maelstrom—and the mare was heavily pregnant.

He kicked the closet wall in frustration. There wasn’t one single damn thing he could do to help any of his animals right now.
At least you’re not here, Homer.
Liam’s German Shepherd had been his best bud for just over sixteen years, but during that long canine life, the big goof had always been reduced to wedging himself under a bed during a storm. This time, Liam might have been tempted to do the same. Multiple lightning strikes continued to hammer the area as if the storm system had parked itself directly over Steptoe Acres. The strobing light that pierced the darkness surprised him with its colors—green, blue, even red, as if the aurora borealis had turned violent and was attacking the earth. Thunder slammed again and again until Liam’s head pounded painfully, but he was thankful for what he
didn’t
hear: the unbroken roar that might have signaled a twister.

It was a relief when he could finally count more than a couple of seconds between a flash of lightning and its partnering peal of thunder. He waited a few minutes more until he was certain that the storm was truly moving away to the west. Liam left the closet then, keeping low as he headed into the main floor’s guest room. He needed to get a look outside. Tornadoes usually formed off the trailing edge of a storm, and he wasn’t taking any chances. He hugged the wall beneath the window as the house shook again, then eased himself up until his eyes were just above the sill.

It was a full-fledged electrical event out there. Lightning split the sky in all directions and stabbed the hills, but not all of it was coming from the clouds. Liam blinked hard, straining to see in the pulsing
light-dark-light-dark
. There were ropes of bright lightning flicking upward here and there along the base of Finger Ridge, slashing around wildly like whips.
What the hell?
He’d read something about upward streamers in connection with lightning, but whatever he was seeing disquieted him on some primal level, bothering him even more than the battering of the house and farm. There was a wrongness to it that he could feel, an
otherness
—and the moment that impression formed in his brain, the clouds lit up like lanterns, enough that the area around the bizarre ground lightning was illuminated for the barest fraction of a second.

Riders.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, there was a dark band of riders out there in the midst of hell itself.

Without warning, agony detonated in Liam’s head and bright stars burst behind his eyelids. He seemed to hover in that state, suspended for a long, sickening moment before blackness obliterated everything.

It was far from dark when Liam finally woke. He cursed as bright sunlight stabbed his eyeballs, setting off a headache from hell even as his body protested the unyielding mattress. Wait—there
was
no mattress. He squinted at his surroundings from beneath the shade of his hand. What was he doing on the floor? And in the guest room, no less? He made a move to get up, and his stomach lurched as the room spun.
Christ.
Slowly, he put a hand to his head and felt carefully along the hairline, hissing as his fingers came in contact with a palm-sized goose egg. There was a wet smear of fresh blood on his hand when he pulled it away.

It seemed to take forever before he could manage to sit up, bracing his back against the bed for support. The effort drenched him in cold sweat, and he had to take a break until the nausea settled and his vision cleared. It was then that he spotted the culprit that had coldcocked him: a heavy crystal vase belonging to Aunt Ruby. How many times had he seen the oversize heirloom piece on the kitchen table, filled with big, showy cut flowers from her garden? How much did the damn thing weigh? Three pounds? Five? It was empty right now . . . and completely unharmed. That seemed more than a little unfair when his skull felt cracked in two. Instinctively his gaze tracked upward, and Liam realized that the vase had been sitting on a bookshelf built along the top of the window, an accident just waiting to happen. Perhaps he should be grateful. The way the storm had shaken the old house, it was a wonder the entire wall hadn’t fallen on him instead of just the vase.

Gotta get up.
Liam rose shakily and sat on the bed, waiting for the pattern on the wallpaper to stop moving before he dared stand. A few deep breaths later, he felt steady enough to shuffle his way carefully into the unholy mess that had once been the living room. Inspecting it, however, would have to wait—his top priority was his livestock. The poor animals could be trapped or scattered, terrified or injured, or perhaps even dead. He
had
to get to them. Sliding his feet into his boots by the door, he gripped the jamb for support as he rode out another wave of dizziness and nausea. Finally he made it outside, shambling onto the porch at a ridiculously slothlike pace.
Come to think of it, even a damn sloth would laugh.

Liam didn’t feel much like laughing himself as he looked over the storm’s aftermath.

The morning was calm and bright, as if nothing had happened. Blue sky, faint breeze, heat already beginning to build. Chickens were busily feasting on the worms driven to the surface by last night’s rain—but they were doing it amid downed branches, shapeless lumps of wet hay, and sodden piles of debris. He eased down to sit on the only furniture left on the porch—a heavy bench that Uncle Conall had bolted to the wall so it wouldn’t move under his ample frame when he took his boots off at night. The many chairs and tables, the bright profusion of plant pots and window boxes, and even the porch swing, were nowhere in sight, replaced by unrecognizable garbage and a sad scattering of dead starlings. In the house yard, every one of Aunt Ruby’s elaborate flower beds was shredded. Even sadder were the many broken trees—and worst among them were the matching pair of century-old chestnuts. When Liam was six, those magnificent trees had supported a pirate fort and a rope bridge. Now they lay split from crown to root, and he guessed it must be part of one that had speared the house.

Beyond the yard, the farm looked even worse. There was no doubt in his mind now that a tornado had touched down. A trio of forty-foot metal grain bins lay crumpled on their sides like giant beer cans. It was the nature of tornadoes to be destructive. It was also their nature to be bizarrely capricious as to
what
they destroyed. Last night’s twister had played hopscotch throughout the farm, razing this building and that building to the ground, flattening some things beyond recognition, sweeping away many heavy farm implements altogether—and yet a few structures had been left standing. The house stood, the milking parlor stood, and so did a scattering of equipment sheds. Even the four walls of the main barn stood, although its entire roof was missing.

One good thing was that the goats appeared to have escaped the barn somehow—a large group of them had crammed themselves into the farthest corner of their corral. He’d have to get out there and inspect them one by one, but at first glance it looked like almost all of his milkers were there. They seemed pretty damn calm considering what they’d been through—but perhaps the poor things were in shock. Liam had shut them in the ill-fated building last night, something he always did to keep them safe from predators like coyotes. He hadn’t expected danger from the sky. Thankfully the monster storm had carried the roof clean away, rafters, ceiling joists, and all, and not brought it crashing down on the heads of his herd. In fact, the entire roof structure was mostly in one piece—about a quarter of a mile away in the midst of his alfalfa field. The alfalfa itself was unrecognizable, and the scent of wet, crushed plants hung heavy in the still-humid air. Even from where he stood it looked like an army had trampled the young crop into the ground, leaving a swath of destruction that was nearly half the width of the field.

An army.
Had he really seen riders last night? Or had he dreamed it
after
he’d been clobbered by Aunt Ruby’s five-pound vase?

He shook himself free of those thoughts and focused on the disaster in front of him. A storm was a normal, natural occurrence, and a tornado, while rare here, wasn’t unheard of. The truly strange thing, however, was that there had been no warning, and that made Liam angry. There hadn’t been the faintest indication of bad weather on the local news, no emergency warning message scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen, no annoying sound signal. What the hell happened to the Doppler radar and all that other high-tech shit that meteorologists had at their disposal?

He made his way down the steps—and was compelled to stop and rest on every damn one—then picked his way slowly along the sidewalk stones. Every couple of feet, he had to step over or around something: splintered boards, shapeless blobs of wet insulation, twisted shingles, a pair of Uncle Conall’s ample hip waders, an upside-down lawn mower, a broken shovel, countless lawn ornaments. Liam was sorry now for sometimes wishing Aunt Ruby wasn’t so crazy about gnomes. As far as he could tell, her entire collection, numbering more than a hundred—maybe even
two
hundred—and lovingly collected over the course of decades, now lay smashed all over the lawn. The many little pointed hats, disembodied faces, and broken limbs made the yard look like a bizarre battlefield.