The Woodcutter (24 page)

“I come to offer my alliance and assistance,” continued the Woodcutter.

She looked at him, red shoes moving, red shoes dancing.

She looked at him and, through the daze, her eyes cleared for a moment, “Cut them off. Cut off my feet so that I might live. Cut them off so that I might sleep.”

She held out her moving feet, dressed in the dancing red shoes.

The Woodcutter backed away.

And she took his confusion for refusal.

Her mind retreated once more into the cloud, “Do not speak to me of allegiance. I do not want any. Go away.”

She waved her hand lazily in the air.

The Woodcutter stood for a moment and then turned to go.

She suddenly sat up, her head wobbling dangerously upon her neck.

“Wait. What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Woodcutter,” he replied.

She rubbed her face with her hand, “Drat. They told me you would come.”

She stood up, her eyes glassy.

“Guards! Guards!” she hollered.

The call echoed through the halls of the castle, but no one came.

The Woodcutter bowed, “I am afraid they have all left.”

She sat upon the throne and stared at him.

“I guess this is your lucky day,” she said.

The Woodcutter bowed again and walked towards the door.

Then the air shimmered.

He felt the dust settle.

A shape filled the doorway, blocking the Woodcutter’s path.

“I’m afraid she was wrong. Today is not quite your lucky day,” said the Queen.

The drugged Dancing Lady smiled before settling back into the throne, “Oh good. Try not to be too loud. My feet ache so.”

The red slippers stopped and she closed her eyes.

The Queen laughed a bone chilling cackle that echoed across the room.

“Guards!” she cried.

The halls were filled with the sound of footsteps coming fast.

The Woodcutter turned and ran.

His way was blocked by men, steel armor clanking. He turned the other way and ran across the hall. The castle disappeared and he was in the Vanishing House.

The Queen’s laughter followed him as the Guards closed in.

He was blocked once more. Herded, he backed into the corner of the room.

His fingers lifted the Platinum Ax.

He would face the River God again before he would allow himself to be taken.

The Queen called out, “Now, now. We would not want you to waste such a precious gift on such an occasion as this.”

The Woodcutter heard the stones behind him slide away.

He turned and it was too late. Soldiers poured out of a secret entrance in the wall and he was surrounded. Thirty men brought him down as he struggled, as he fought.

They brought him down to the ground as the Queen’s laughter echoed in his ears, as the blows cracked his ribs, as feet hit his skull.

All he could hear was the Queen’s laughter, before darkness.

Chapter 72

The Woodcutter’s head lolled to one side.

His mouth was so dry. His head thumped to the rhythm of his heart. A veil of black material covered his eyes.

Her laugh.

The Queen’s laugh.

“Ah, pet,” he heard the feminine voice purr as she drew near. “I was scared I would never see you again.”

He felt a sharp nail run lightly across his neck, but he did not struggle.

“Now, you aren’t being very sporting. Shall we see if you might be more willing to play my game?”

He stilled his tongue, quieted the white, burning rage that threatened to erupt.

Focused so that he could ground himself to the earth…

Reached out and attempted to ground himself to the earth…

He reached.

And was blocked.

He reached again.

The earth did not respond.

He heard her laugh.

“Oh, good, you are willing to play. This shall be so much fun,” she said.

He heard the whisper of her gown as she sat before him, felt the stiff satin against his leg.

“Woodcutter, such a humble pack you carry. That pesky harp that you lulled us all to sleep with…”

“What did you do with her?” he demanded. He tried to sense if the harp was in the room.

“Oh, nothing,” said the Queen. “She now rests in my collection. Such a pretty thing, such a mighty enchantment in such humble hands as yours… I had to take her away, to make sure she wasn’t hurt by such rough fingers.”

She ripped his blindfold from his face. He squinted, trying to adjust to the light.

The room was made of stone. Sturdy wooden worktables lined one end of the room. A spiral staircase hid in one corner. The Woodcutter’s pack was spilled upon the tables.

Four guards were in the room, two by the door, two by the fireplace. One of the guards caught the Woodcutter’s eye. There was a disturbingly delighted smile upon his chiseled face.

The Queen walked over to the table and said, “And then there is this.”

She held up Odin’s horn.

“I can tell it is a thing of great power, but I need you to tell me what it does.”

The Woodcutter felt her spell wrapping around his lips, forcing them to speak.

“In times of need, it calls forth an ally,” he said.

It wasn’t the complete truth, but close enough to fool her magic.

The Queen smiled, “Really?”

She held it to her lips.

Blow it
, he thought.

Blow it.

But she did not.

“I’ll just save this for a rainy day.” She placed it back, then came over and patted the Woodcutter’s knee, “Now, you tell me where my dear sweet stepdaughter is being held and I won’t make this hurt too badly.”

The smiling guard lifted a glowing metal rod from the fireplace. The Woodcutter tested the knots that bound him, looking for any weakness.

“Now, dear heart, the more you struggle, the more difficult this becomes,” said the Queen.

The smiling guard and the Queen stepped behind the Woodcutter’s chair. He braced himself, not knowing when they would strike.

He felt his palm char as the hot poker touched his skin.

He did not cry out. The sweat poured out of his skin and he closed his eyes, but he did not cry out.

“Where is she?” the Queen asked.

He said nothing and he felt the red-hot iron once again.

“Where is she?”

And then he heard the Queen gasp.

“He said you bled red…”

He could not operate the illusion without earth magic.

The poker was at once gone, but the wound still seared.

“Blood of clear? What make of man are you?”

“I am not man,” the Woodcutter spoke through clenched teeth.

The Queen’s heels clicked upon the floor. He could hear her return to stare at his hand. He could hear her step forward.

He heard her kneel and then felt her wet tongue run across his wound.

She came around to face him, licking her lower lip slowly, “Sweet. Almost like sugar.”

The Woodcutter remained silent.

“Perhaps I have been too hasty…” she said with a cunning smile.

“Guards,” she cried. “Bind our friend in cold iron. We may have a new flavor of dust for our discerning clientele.”

The door slammed behind her as she swept out of the room.

Chapter 73

The Woodcutter screamed as the guards bound his hands in iron and lifted him from the chair. He screamed as they fastened the manacles to the wall.

“Now, none of that, you,” said one of the guards as he struck the Woodcutter across the face.

The other guard laughed, “As long as you stay nice and still, the good iron won’t bite you.”

Sure enough, there was just enough space in the cuffs to float his wrists.

“Wouldn’t want to drain a guest too soon,” the first laughed menacingly.

And they left the room.

The Woodcutter shook the iron and cried out; screamed and wailed until, at last, his voice sounded like it had quieted in exhaustion.

And then he chuckled lowly.

Iron only held injury for the fae.

And he was not fae.

He closed his eyes and breathed.

Fire was his only enemy. If she had stayed with her original methodology, the story would have been different, but her greed was her downfall. Since iron did not bind him and she was not there to block him, he reached down into the earth and connected with the flow of energy.

The wound on his palm healed into a thick bark scab.

The manacle sprung open and he rubbed his wrists before making his way across the workroom. He swept up his belongings into his pack and bound his axes to his side.

He looked at the front door and at the staircase.

He decided to take the stairs going down.

A door blocked his way. The energy surged down his arms and he blasted the wood with his palms. The time for games was done.

He strode into the room, but the sight stopped in his tracks.

Thousands of eyes turned to him, thousands of black eyes begging for mercy. Iron cages hung from the ceiling and lined the walls several stories high. Inside pixies hovered in exhaustion, clinging to one another and trying desperately not to brush against the iron bars. Some had fallen upon the floors of their cages, exhausted. Their faces rested upon the cold iron, uncaring of their sizzling flesh.

Many eyes no longer opened.

Beneath the cages, receptacles gathered the falling dust and funneled it into a hole in the floor.

Quiet shock took over. The Woodcutter threw his pack on a table to free his hands and began unlatching the simple locks that the pixies could not touch. He unlatched the cages and opened the doors.

The pixies began to fly out, but far too many hovered only inches away from the ground, far too many still lay upon their cage floors, far too many were too weak to save themselves.

The Woodcutter reached into the cages, picking up as many as he could. The stronger pixies watched him and tried to imitate his efforts, tried to pick up the injured so that they could be carried to safety.

But there were too many, there were too many to save and, as the Woodcutter looked around, he realized there was no window in the room.

He stood, arms full of pixies, knowing the Queen could return at any moment. They had to get out, but there was not enough time, he was not enough to save them.

His arms were full, full of tiny bodies gasping for breath. Their bodies shivered like baby birds.

He looked around desperately for help, when his eyes fell upon a familiar shape in the farthest corner of a cluttered shelf that hung above the table where he had thrown his pack.

The harp.

She was motioning to him, trying to tug something out from inside.

The Woodcutter ran over, just as the harp pulled out a large brown bag.

The gift from the Lady in Blue.

He knew what to do.

He placed the pixies down upon the table as gently as a father with a day old newborn.

He opened up the bag’s yawning mouth and turned to the room, bellowing to all the fae, “All you pixies, get into my bag!”

A mighty tornado swept into the room. Like an invisible hand, the wind picked the pixies from the air and swept them inside the bag. In they flew, one after another.

They flew from all corners of the room. They flew so thick, he could not see through the storm of bodies.

When the last pixie disappeared from the last cage, the Woodcutter closed the bag.

It weighed little more than when it was empty.

He threw it over his shoulder as he looked at the harp in thanks. He stowed her carefully away and then he ran.

He heard the Queen’s voice discover his escape. He heard her howls of anger and rage. Footsteps rang behind him, so he ran towards the silence, ran up the curved stone staircase. Breathing hard, he emerged on the battlement at the top of the fortress. He was trapped with no way out besides the way he came.

The land spread out before him, hundreds of feet below his stony perch.

His mind searched for options as he stared at the sky, looking for a miracle.

And then he saw them.

The clouds.

He put down the brown bag and his hand felt his inside pocket, the pocket that carried his handkerchief, a handkerchief that was wrapped around several small fish bones.