The Battle of Ebulon (14 page)

Ignoring them — though the wave of
curiosity, fear and hope that came from the crowd was tantalizing
to his dreamself, the emotions dribbling out like honey beading on
a bit of beeswax — Andrew stepped towards the stature, locking eyes
with the porcine figure.

“Fomori,” he whispered. “Did me mother not see
fit to wipe you out, eh?”

He extended a hand, running
it along the side of the agonized face, then glanced up to the
human figure and the blade he wielded. Giving a derisive snort,
Andrew stepped back.
As if humans could
actually kill fomori. Give me a break.

He glanced over his shoulder, hearing the sound
of booted feet stomping on the cobbles and saw that most of the
crowd who had been present to witness his arrival were now gone.
Coming through one of the side streets, between a tall and garish
building that claimed to offer “Fine Clothes and Notions Abound”
and a more humble building of brick that was chuffing bread-scented
smoke from the chimney, were six men. Larger still than those who
had fled, all six had skin the color of onyx and eyes to match. The
shortest was a full foot taller than Andrew and the largest had to
be approaching seven feet; all were garbed in blood red steel chest
plates lined with thick fur and leather sleeves, with matching
greaves and boots. They carried an array of weaponry — thankfully
none of it iron, so far as Andrew could tell — ranging from short
swords to long spears, all with silver adornments and looking
deadly enough for a town guard patrol. Five were wearing similar
helms, the shape pointed at the top and above the eyes, with
stylized birds etched into the sides. The one in front — the
largest and likely to be their leader, Andrew assumed — wore a
plumed headdress, decorated with what appeared to be raven
feathers.

Ah, he bears the sign of my
mother. Likely without even realizing it.
Andrew smiled. “Hile, sirs.
Adhradh
an Morrigan?
” He doubted such would get a
response, assuming they even understood either English or Gaelic,
but he didn’t see the harm in trying.

His violet eyes widened in
faint surprise when the one in front grunted out a response, his
tone terse and commanding despite the playful voice with which he
had been addressed. “Hile.
Dean mar a
dheanaimse.
From whence do you
come?”

Andrew cocked his head. They
had heard of his mother here?
Wherever
here is
, he amended. He shrugged, taking a
step towards the guardsmen as he raised his palms. “From somewhere
far away, I think. A place far less pleasant than this. Someone
called, I came. I’d like to talk to your leader.” A flippant tone
had crept into his voice; it was clear to him that they were
unlikely to skewer him on the spot, and whoever was in charge was
likely to have better answers, from Andrew’s past
experiences.

The guardsman shook his head. “The bones were
cast; Lady Falloth knew you would come. She instructed us to see
you to lodgings and keep you there until King Yadi calls for
you.”

One of Andrew’s eyebrows popped up. Kings?
Ladies? Such might have been common in the days of his youth, or in
the place he had been born. But he was far more accustomed to the
idea of presidents and business moguls... and police who wore cloth
uniforms and kevlar. Still... it was better than where he had been.
He shrugged again. “As you will.”

The lead guard grunted and nodded. “Then
follow. The Overhollow will serve as your home, and your needs will
be met there.” He cast a disapproving eye over Andrew. “And a
tailor will see to your clothing. Yours is unfit for our
climate.”

Andrew glanced around, wondering what the man
was talking about; it was a bit chilly in the square, but certainly
no worse than where he’d come from. Then he noticed the snowpack to
either side of the street the guards had come from, and similar
drifts along the other walkways, and understood. Something in the
square — likely the statue — was enchanted in some way, keeping the
area clear of snow and ice. He nodded, centering his gaze once more
on the guard.

“I... see. Alright, then. Lead the way, I
guess.”

They had turned and formed an honor guard
around him as they led him to the place where he’d thought his
dreams would once again be made real.

*****

The Overhollow had turned out to be
a practical castle carved into one of the mountains. The guards
claimed it had been done ages ago by one of the great Lords of
Ebulon; supposedly, after doing so, the Lord had then begun to
tunnel below the earth, venturing into the kingdoms of Those Who
Lie Beneath, leaving his estate uncared for. The Lady Falloth had
allegedly taken up residence some five years prior, at the
insistence of the King, who claimed that what was beneath the
Overhollow needed guarding. The whispers of invasion had only
reinforced that belief; now that the invasion had come — things the
guards called Orcs, which Andrew interpreted as the fomori of his
own youth — there was concern that the Underhollow might likewise
be infested, leaving Lady Falloth with the unenviable position of
having to watch both the gates into her sector — the Rose Quarter —
and whatever might bubble up from below.

All of this Andrew digested
with elation; freed from his cell in the miserable pit of Homeview,
summoned to a place that promised both the fear and vengeance that
his dreamself craved
and
his ancient enemies lying in wait? The only
trouble would be how poor his living conditions were to be — at
first, anyway — and how many restrictions on his “games” this lady
and king might place.

Those thoughts were dispelled when he was led
into his quarters and abandoned there. Finely furnished — with
great leather couches, three fireplaces to battle the constant
cold, a plush monstrosity that made the queen-size waterbed in his
previous den seem like a toy, velvet drapes and silver runners
everywhere — the lounge, bedroom and small toilet that made up his
quarters seemed more lavish than anything he had known save for the
deepest pits of memory, from the time when he and others like him
were worshipped as gods. Even with no running water or toilet paper
it was more than pleasing to him.

When a knock had come half an hour later and he
had opened the door to see two women — one wearing a functional
fur-lined jerkin, the other with a shimmering see-through gown,
both with pale skin, ice-blue eyes and thick blonde hair, he
couldn’t help smiling.

The one in the jerkin had set about taking his
measurements, holding up several small slates of different hues to
his skin and disdainfully tugging at the crow’s nest of black hair
that he hadn’t bothered to try to style.

The other had apologized for her sister’s
behavior. “I am Irana. This is my sister Jolia. She will leave us,
soon. Won’t you, sister?”

The seamstress had grunted, and continued
poking and prodding at Andrew with pins and a long runner of
leather that had been notched in several places.

Irana smiled, settling
herself onto one of the couches and curling her legs under her.
“And once she is done, then your...
other
... needs will be met,
hmm?”

Andrew’s lips quirked into a smirk even as
something below his waist twitched and spasmed with anticipation.
He could feel his fingers lengthening, his teeth shifting in his
mouth as liquid steel crept out from his gums to coat them, and
willed the change back. Later he would let his real self out to
play, but it wouldn’t do much good to frighten off the
seamstress... at least not when she was working on his leg and held
scissors and pins, anyway.

“I don’t think you know what kinds of need I
may have, sweetness.”

She arched her brow, then
shook her head, laughing. “And I don’t believe you know where you
are. We can smell your kind,
Tuatha
. You of the dark courts are
not unknown to us. Did you not see the marks of the Morrigan? Lady
Falloth is knowledgeable in whatever she wishes to be. Including
the needs of such as you.”

Andrew’s smirk faded when she used the old term
for his kind; perhaps these people knew what they were talking
about after all.

“Ah, now there is the proper expression.
Respect and caution. They will get you far, especially with the
dangers that lie in wait here.” She rose, flapping a hand at her
sister. “Go, Jolia. You linger too much there, and we both know he
isn’t for you. Get to his clothes and be on your way. He and I have
much to discuss.”

Jolia, still silent, rose. She bobbed her head
once — an aggressive maneuver, lacking any sign of respect that
might have been implied, making her look like an angry chicken —
and practically bolted out the door.

Once she was gone, Irana stepped closer to
Andrew, moving sinuously, adding more sway to her hips than was
necessary; he found himself thinking of the woman who had brained
him, and how much this one resembled her. Again, the change started
to come over him, and he clenched his fists in an attempt to resist
it.

“Why do you fight it?” Irana drawled. “You are
what you are... that is why you are here.”

She came closer still, draping one arm around
him and tangling her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck.
“Show me. Show me the killer of fomori, show me the son of the
Morrigan. Show me our savior... and I am yours. The price of your
service, if you will.”

Her eyes were half-lidded,
her tone full of promises of ecstasy. Andrew marveled at the idea
that someone would offer such to him, knowing what he was. Knowing
what he
did
. He
stopped fighting the change, allowing his hands to lengthen and
grow lean, the nails stretching out into steel claws. His teeth
shifted, becoming more akin to a bear trap as they melted into
jagged fangs. Irana lost her grip on the back of his neck as he
grew nearly two feet, and the mop of black hair became a smattering
of raven feathers. His face grew even more pale, turning pallid and
corpse-like as his eyes became glittering
amethysts.

“Oh...” she gasped. Despite her apparent
foreknowledge, seeing him in his true form had still rendered Irana
speechless.

His voice had become the buzzing of insects,
varying in pitch and tone to approximate human speech. “Yes, oh.
Now you see. And soon you will feel...”

He snapped his fingers, and a bit of carved
wood appeared in the palm of his left hand; with a flick of a
wrist, a dully gleaming silver blade had popped out. He placed the
straight razor to Irana’s cheek, drawing it down slowly and
lightly, letting the flesh bring beads of blood to the fore like
poppies at bloom. He shot out his tongue — a freakish thing, far
too long and covered with tiny barbs — and lapped at the red water
flowing from her cheek. She gasped again, but made no attempt to
pull away.

“Mmmmm. Delicious.”

*****

Andrew came away from the memory,
not wanting to think about what had happened afterward; he
remembered a scream from the hall, the stomping of boots, a frenzy
of additional shouts. Then... something, he hadn’t had time to tell
what, had burst into the room, forcing him to drop his treat. Irana
had hit the floor, crying out in pain and surprise. As Andrew had
begun to turn, he’d felt something hit him in the chest, felt the
iron within the crossbow bolt working on him, forcing him back into
the shape of his fleshself and negating any defense or assault he
might have otherwise prepared. Then something had crashed into his
skull, leaving only darkness until he’d woken up here.

Andrew froze, his unnaturally sharp hearing
having detected a scuffling sound. Movement, down the hallway.
Smiling broadly, he willed his dreamself to the front, the thinning
of his hand and fluid nature of his flesh allowing him to slip one
arm from the shackles. Snapping his fingers, the straight razor
appeared in his free hand as he allowed himself to return to his
more normal seeming.

He waited, straining to hear.
The shuffling was growing louder, definitely coming this way;
likely a guardsman coming to check on his prisoner. He could smell
the thing’s thoughts, and found them to his liking: All hate and
violence, this one. Something definitely inhuman.
Ah, taken prisoner and prevented from playing
with Irana... only to be handed a fomori playmate.
Perfect.

The shuffling stopped just beside
the door to his cell, and Andrew forced his smile back. He slumped
his head and tried to appear sleeping — not certain how well the
creature could see in the absolute darkness down here but not
wanting to make any assumptions — as he heard the jingle of keys.
The barred door swung open. A moment later he heard a grotesque,
ratcheting cough and saw a wad of phlegm shoot through the opening.
Then one of his captors stepped into the room, carrying a tray
laden with rancid meat and a cup that stank of vinegar.

Superficially, it resembled the
figure in the statue of the Rose Quarter Square; porcine features,
human shape. This one possessed only a single eye, however, set in
the middle of the forehead like some blasphemous tumor that could
somehow see. The hands were strangely twisted, with a hoof-like
extrusion emerging from the palm where the last three fingers
should have been and spiny pincers in place of the thumb and first
finger. Underneath the simple loincloth it wore, the legs were
thick and heavily muscled, tapering into hairy cloven hoofs that it
drug across the floor.