Song of the Fairy Queen (3 page)

The Court wizard had no doubt been among the first to die – as had Morgan’s – but there was another…another chance. Or so legend had it.

Focusing both heart and mind, Oryan sent out a Call, picturing the one he needed so desperately…

Ahead of them they heard the sounds of fighting.

Oryan swore. “Whatever happens, they must not take Gawain.”

All of them knew it. If Oryan’s line was to survive the boy was their only hope. All of them knew of Haerold, the rumors and the truths – which were far darker.

Morgan and his men sprinted ahead in a great flying wedge, Morgan at the lead as the last of the King’s men defending the back servant’s stair fell before a surge of invaders.

In a clash of steel and flesh they came together, Morgan’s Marshals and the intruders, the intruders caught unprepared for the new assault.

No one stopped for even a second nor even paused.

Liliane looked the boy Gawain square in the eyes.

“On my back,” she said fiercely, “and you stay there, my Lord. You don’t let go. You hear me?”

The boy nodded and she swung him around behind her – freeing her hands, freeing her swords.

They would have to kill her to get to him.

Swords flashed as Morgan hacked a way through and his people drove into the mass of fighters, scattering them, cutting through, cutting past. The dark-clad invaders fell but they took Armand with them, an ill-timed thrust getting past his guard and armor both.

An invader leaped at Oryan but the King – no slouch with a sword himself – cut the man down on the fly with one quick swipe of his longsword as those of Morgan’s men behind him joined the battle, too.

Then they were past. Not a single invader survived their assault.

Distantly to their rear they could hear the sounds of running men coming toward them. Boots clattered. There was the crash of doors being kicked in, as they searched, and then shouts of frustration and fury. Searching. Not theirs then.

Pain pierced Oryan’s heart.
Gwen? If they had come so far…then she had fallen…

Grief nearly swallowed him. His beloved Queen, his Gwen, was gone.

Forever.

For the sake of their son, he kept moving.

They raced up the stairs of the circular tower, desperate to reach the top before Haerold’s men reached them…before his magic found them.

Below on the stair came the sounds of battle, the clang and clamor of steel on steel, the grunt and groan of men in combat as Morgan’s men held the door. They hammered the invaders back and back, slammed the door shut and barred it quickly. It wouldn’t hold long.

They burst out into darkness as the wind whipped at their hair, their clothes, as it battered at them.

Far beneath them in the courtyard below, the castle Guard fought a hopeless battle. Steel rang on steel, metal crashed on wood… Light flashed luridly, greenish and unnatural… magic… Men died in the roar of those flames…Shouts, screams and desperate cries filled the air clearly even so high above.

Oryan looked up to the black night sky to find it filled with gossamer wings…

A slender figure dropped to the parapet, crystalline wings flaring, a cascade of golden curls shimmering down over her shoulders to nearly her waist. She wore only a simple shift that showed signs of battle. That shift clung to a slender body with ripe curves at breast and hip, to flutter about shapely thighs. Blood stained it, some of it her own to judge by the rent in it. A sword belt hung on those curved hips, a bow at her back between her wings.

So they had been surprised, too.

Torchlight illuminated the fine, amused features of her face, the large liquid eyes…

Morgan’s breath caught.

She was beautiful as only Fairy were or could be… mischievous, fierce when necessary and wild.

Her bare feet touched stone with a soft patter barely heard above the wind.

Morgan looked to his King.

Looking up, Oryan was clearly astonished, no more than Morgan, he’d scarcely dared to hope for help, but not that Kyriay, the Fairy Queen herself, would come.

“What would you, Oryan?” Kyriay cried over the sounds of battle still going on below, her voice soft, but clear and strong. “Haerold’s forces attacked mine too. I heard your call.
So we came, thinking that you might need aid.”

The attack on her embassy had come out of the night as if from nowhere. A flare of magic had alerted her and awakened both her and her Fairy sentries, if not, sadly, Oryan’s or Morgan’s… Even so, they had fought desperately for her.

She winced at the memory, at the sharp sting of death so close. Still it had been a battle for her and her people just to find space to take flight. With a wrench of grief and anger she remembered Ariol’s fall. Then Glennis, her wings striving for height before she spiraled to the ground, a black arrow piercing her. That young life ending as she crashed to the ground.

Kyri grieved for Glennis and her mate…

Besides Oryan, Kyri saw young Gawain and Morgan – Oryan’s High Marshal, who she’d until now only seen in passing, a tall, handsome, powerful man with piercing eyes so clear and bright a blue as to rival a fairy’s wing.

These others then must be his people.

One face that she didn’t see that she should have, that she sought to see and ought to see.

Gwenifer.

Her breath caught…on bitter sorrow.

Grief filled Oryan’s gaze and not only for his people dying below – as she sorrowed for those she’d lost – but a still greater grief for the one who had stood beside him, his partner, his wife and his Queen. Kyri’s heart ached. Kyri had very much liked the tall, calm Queen.

“Kyriay! Thank the stars. Take Gawain, save my son,” Oryan said, as he reached for his son. “Get him away.”

Her chin lifted, she shook her head and then Kyri smiled, albeit a little grimly.

She tilted her head to them once, sharply, in salute.

“You misunderstand me, Oryan. We came to take you all.”

She gestured upwards, spreading her arms, a graceful gesture of her hands toward her people as they hovered above in the night sky above, their wings beating steadily…a dozen of them or more.

All of them were beautiful – male or female, ethereal – yet all bore swords and bows.

For a moment, Oryan couldn’t grasp it. He’d resigned himself to fighting and dying. His only hope had been to save Gawain. Not himself. Not even Morgan – his friend as well as his Marshal – although he might have wished otherwise.

Below him in the darkness and flames were the sounds of battle, the screams and shouts, fire and smoke. People – his people – were dying. He’d expected to join them. A glance at Morgan and his people showed they’d expected the same, had girded themselves to a pitched but hopeless battle against an overwhelming force.

Hope hadn’t even entered into it. He hadn’t even dared think it.

“Come, Oryan,” Kyriay said, as she leaned forward a little, holding out her hands to him, wings stroking for balance. “Live to fight another day. The Fair would rather you on the throne than Haerold. He is a cold and cruel master.”

Haerold hadn’t been kind to her folk in his own lands, what would he be like now that he had them all?

“Gawain, first,” Oryan said and she nodded, calling her people down with a gesture.

So, he thought, she didn’t doubt either who was responsible for all of this. It said much of Haerold, none of it good.

“Galan, take the Prince. Protect him with your life, if need be. He is our hope,” Kyri said, as the sure knowledge of it coursed through her and Galan came forward, smiling reassuringly at the boy. “Dorien, to the King.”

Her wings stroked, lifted her from the parapet to make room for those above and behind her.

From below came the sounds of men battering the door. It wouldn’t hold long, it had never been meant to.

There was no time, soon enough the wizards would become aware of them up here.

Kyri looked below to the sounds and cries of battle rising. The sense of dying battered at her. As a Healer, their pain and sorrow tore at her. Her heart ached as each life ended like a candle being blown out.

Morgan followed her gaze.

It was a grim scene. Parts of the castle were now ablaze. A small group of Oryan’s Guard held out in vain in one corner of the courtyard while random small battles continued elsewhere. It was a terrible sight…filled with death and dying, cruelty and slaughter…

Morgan looked down at the dead and the dying there in the forecourt and at his people standing firm and sure at his back. They would fight and die if he asked it.

The Fairy offered them a chance to fight and live. He wouldn’t ask his people to die if there was another choice if there was any chance at all.

Fascinated by the Fairy Kyri had called Galan, by the idea of flight, Gawain lifted his arms and went willingly into the Fairy’s hands.

His simple joy and pleasure briefly lightened the horror of the night for those watching those below.

Those seemingly fragile crystalline wings flared, expanded and flexed, catching air, the next stroke lifting the boy and the Fairy off the parapet to make room for another.

If Morgan was honest, a part of him doubted… Those wings, large as they appeared, hardly looked strong enough to hold the Fairy themselves, much less a man his size.

Oryan looked up as Dorien settled to the parapet and reached for him. He knew this Fairy, as he knew Galan, they were Kyri’s own people, her trusted companions.

“Hold on tight,” Dorien cautioned, “take my wrist.”

Those great wings flared, stroked hard and then they rose. Another strong beat and they were clear of the tower. Dangling in mid-air, trusting to Dorien’s surprisingly strong grip, Oryan looked back.

Morgan’s people were being cleared but even as he looked he saw Morgan and two of his people turn toward the doorway…backing up to give themselves room to draw their swords.

A part of Oryan wanted to cry out in protest.

Not Morgan.
He couldn’t lose him, too. He had no other left that he trusted, he needed, no other to stand at his back…not with Gwenifer gone. Morgan had stood at his side since they’d been boys, been his most trusted lieutenant for his entire reign.

Kyri turned too, at the motion. Her lovely face set as she reached for her bow. Her wings flared, then folded…and she dove, stooping like a hawk, those wings tight against her lithe body, golden hair streaming behind her.

In truth, Oryan had never seen anything quite so beautiful, or so deadly.

Below, Morgan clearly heard the sound of the door below crashing open. It had finally given way beneath the battering.

They’d been so close… Morgan had almost begun to believe they might yet make it, they might survive this terrible night when Kyriay and her people had arrived.

He turned to face the new danger, to give the King and his own people time to escape.

“Go,” he said, to those remaining, backing away to draw his sword as he heard the thunder of booted feet on the stairs.

They were coming, fast.