Faerie
1 PROLOGUE Before the creation of Eld only
three entities existed in our ether ‑‑ the essences Ylf, Hume and
Dwr. They stopped their travels here,
and created the dimension (or plane) of Eld.
They peopled it with a race of beings we call Gods, then, after
millennia of watching their perfect creations do perfect things and lead
perfect lives, they tired and went elsewhere to play. Perfection, after all, isn't the most exciting thing to observe. In leaving, they left the Gods of Eld to
their own devices. The deserted Gods,
each having been granted the power of creation, joined to build a single world
for diversion. In this world they
planned to prototype flora and fauna. -0- The deities christened this first
world ‑‑ dimension and land ‑‑ Faerie. They also built the first city in the land
which they peopled and called Faerie;
after the land. The creators
took advantage of hindsight and instilled in their creatures enough random
flaws to make them unpredictable and therefore interesting ‑‑ even
to the Gods. Feeling, affection, passion and
sentiment were haphazardly combined from the dimension of zealous emotions and
added to each being's sentience in varying strengths. Some of the creatures they created had mixes from the emotional
plane which caused the sentience they achieved to be self centered and
sinister. This malignancy in the
populace was devastating to the innocents and counter to the designs of the
Gods. When the city of Faerie was
designed, therefore, the creators took a step to protect the innocents and
promote the growth of good. They
created Topan, a separate world for the forces of evil, to which they migrated
the malicious, the cruel, the heartless, the bestial; all ungodly beings ‑‑
for the Gods themselves were good.
These evil beings preyed on each other for a while but soon reached a
standoff and the beasts sought easier victims.
The black‑hearted filtered back through the access‑way the
gods had built to migrate to the world of evil they had now devastated. Chaos ensued as the misshapen warriors and
wizards flowed back. The distraught
leaders of the good beings who peopled Faerie, where the access portals exited,
beseeched the Gods to somehow end the destructive flood between Topan and Faerie. With an artistic touch, the creators
complied. They fashioned a bastion of
milky white gem‑stone to shelter the portal. A magical gate they created to ensure the exile of Black, the
generic name used in Faerie for evil controlled the access-way. The creators used white, the presence of all
colors of light, to banish Black, which is appropriately defined as the absence
of light. The gate, known as the Gate
of White, was guarded by the three supreme creatures in Faerie; one from each
of the three main races in the land.
They lived in the Hold of White and were titled as Keepers. Special advantage was given to each
Keeper. Powerful magics were bestowed
on the Ylf Keeper Wizard to maintain the barrier gate. Magical armor was conceived and given life
and powers which could be used only by the Human Keeper King and the dwarven
Keeper Warrior ‑‑ a sword of fire to the king and a living axe to
the warrior Faerie would support their every need, as bees do their queen and
they, in turn, Kept the gate. Three other portals which led to
other dimensional worlds the Gods created and protected by lesser magics. These were placed, one in each racial sector
of the capital, to be protected by that race.
The Gate of Yellow was dwarven to hold, Blue was the gate for Ylves, and
the Hold of Humans housed the Gate of Red.
Like the Gate of White, each was housed in a Gemstone bastion, a hold,
in which lived the Liege of the responsible race, and he defended the gate. The gem hues vividly showed the
representative racial blood color of the inhabitant race. The members of each race created their
dwellings around the hold of their leader and intermixed where they met as all
the land within the main walls was occupied.
The town then grew and expanded along roads pushed into the surrounding
lands by each group. The only problems
in the land were with the scattered groups of evildoers who returned before the
Gods had ended the flood with the gates and an occasional dragon. These remained from an ancient and lengthy
exodus that may be told at another time.
The evildoers were slowly destroyed but, like a virus, seemed to re‑emerge
periodically. This then, is Faerie in general
terms ‑‑ described as one might describe electricity to an
Aborigine in the Outback of Australia.
The heathen must study the basics at length before he can possibly
understand it fully but he will know enough to recognize the glow of a light
bulb. 2 TROUBLE IN WHITE Synopsis Only -- This section chronicles the death of
the three leaders of White. This
section occurs just prior to the attack on the Red Hold in the actual
chronology of the tale. The White
Wizard is killed by the psionic White King (created by Bylyll) which then vanishes.
The blue dragonnette attempted to stop his new masters attacker but too
late ‑‑ it flees from the hold.
The death of the Wizard of White kills the magic of the Gate and the
black hellhounds destroy everyone in the White Hold killing the Warrior of
White and the Real King of White as they vainly attempt to get to the Fire
Sword of White. It was stolen by the
psionic do in the wizard and lies by the Gate.
to attack the Red Hold. The
White Hold, magically, closes and seals itself. 3 BREECH IN HELL Bells were tolling in alarm from all
four holds. The White Gate had,
apparently, been attacked first and closed.
How had the black warriors entered into the land, the ancient dwarf
wondered. Mytrx leaned heavily on his
golden battle-axe, bleeding from several wounds. He had defended the Red Gate and had held this hall against
unreasonable odds; but this attack was not reasonable in any sense. No one had believed such an attack possible. The wounded warrior recalled the
legend of the beginning of the city.
His great grandfather, Ldrvl, Lord Perand and Xylyll, the ylf wizard, at
the side of their offended Gods, had driven out the Black Wizards. The Gods had then imprisoned them and their
evil servants in the foul world the evil wizards themselves had spawned. Jealous of the power of the Gods and led by
the Black Wizard, the evil magisters had fashioned a world of their own in
another dimension. Their evil desires
had so warped their concepts and values that grotesqurie was beauty and chaos
was law, at least in their eyes. Their
creations reflected that which they found pleasing. All manner of ghouls, hellhounds, ogres and other monsters
resulted, each one seemingly more hideous than the last. Power hungry, the evil magisters did not
wish to share the universe with the creatures of Faerie. The Wizards attacked Faerie from their
hidden dimension using an army of their newly created monsters in an attempt to
destroy all good. This aggression so
angered the Gods, that they utterly devastated the evil Wizards dimension. After which, they closed all access to
Faerie as well as removing the links to the elemental planes from the evil
black region. Since all magic requires
these links the locks between dimensions altered and weakened the Black
Wizard's powers. After the links were
closed, the Deities imprisoned all the evil usurpers in the hell the errant
conjurer had created. The Gods then
combined all the material links between all dimensions and Faerie and Created
the 'Gates of color' so that the evil
Wizards could not return. The Gates
excluded the black region. The Keepers of
White were empowered to tend them. The
positions were granted to the three mortal leaders and their heirs as a reward
for standing by their Gods. Tonight the
Gates must have failed, thought the pensive warrior. Oh, for some good dwarven armor, he
thought, but there had been no time ‑‑ he had dressed for socializing ‑‑ thank the gods for 'DwrThorne'. The lusting axe trembled in anticipation of
more battle. "Wizard, cease your hurried
note taking", he said to the tall thin figure hunched in the corner over
his magic tome. "The moment those
beasts scrape their fetid dead from the top of the stair they'll be on us
again." The blue robed figure did
not respond; unless more rapid scrawling can be counted as a response. "Do my words fall on deaf
ears?", he growled, "Crank up one of your nasty magics to defend us or summon a demon to aid us; ‑‑‑ Do
something besides write in that cursed book". "They come wizard!",
he added shouldering his golden battle axe and limping toward the
smashed door to the hall. His golden mail shirt and yellow leather garment were
not for battle, he thought. They would
have been beautiful if they weren't covered with the gray-black gore spattered
there from the chopping foray he had ended moments before. He had piled the black beasts bodies deep
enough to block the one entry to this room. Sounds of armed warriors cautiously
approaching could now be heard from the hall. Reaching the doorway, he shouted,
"Come forth you spawn of hell.
Let the Warrior of Yellow spill your juices and dice your deformed bodies
for your accursed Gods!" Two large black figures in heavy
armor leapt, as if pushed, from the hall.
The dwarf's axe snapped the broadsword held by the first and, with the
follow through of the stroke, divided him in half at the waist. The second was avoiding the thrashing parts
of his fallen comrade as the second swing of the spinning death machine
descended on his helm. It was split
through, down to the breast plate. The
dwarf had to kick the second victim off his lodged blade. The butchered carcasses tumbled, flopping
and clanking, down the stair. "Send me more!", he
shouted at the top of his lungs and shrieked the blood curdling dwarven battle
cry. Silence was his answer, for the
moment at least. He stroked the humming blade of his
axe soothingly. It had sent more than a
score of the filthy slaves of the dark regions to meet their maker this day;
most in the first attack. They were not
so rash now, he thought, loosing a sigh of momentary relaxation. He wondered nervously what the beasties were
about now. As if in answer, a quarrel zinged
past the ruined door and smashed into the stone wall. The shaft disintegrated, leaving the head buried deeply in the
shattered stone. I can not fight a crossbowman with
an axe, he thought. "Wizard!", he hissed,
without looking away from the door, "Get your scrawny hind parts over
here, now!" Like a shadow from a lamp just
lighted, the blue robed ylf appeared at the warrior's right hand . "I am done with my 'scrawling'
Mytrx, my stumpy friend.", the magician sneered, "Is there some small
service I may render you?" "A crankbowman.", he
stated, spreading his hands to indicate to the wizard that he was helpless
armed only with an axe. "You are in luck dwarf.",
he chuckled. "His, however,",
jerking his thumb toward the hall, "is about to run out!" The magister opened his tome, "Evil to
evil as dust to dust - Quantum hazzum", he read. He raised his hand, which momentarily disappeared up to the
wrist, and plucked a small blue light from the air. With his free hand he pointed at the floor before the door. The light he held flickered out and
reappeared by the door where he pointed.
It dimmed slightly and crept quickly up both jams to the keystone,
framing the entry. A thin glowing haze
of blue filmed the doorway covering it like the transparent lid of a serpent's
eye. "That bowman's next shot will curl
his own toes.", tittered the ylf to the tired dwarf. He had not completed his conjuring a
moment too soon. The 'swack' of a
bowstring announced the delivery of another missile. It vaporized with a hiss
as it struck the blue shrouded opening, leaving a slightly darker spot. The spot glowed more brightly and hummed as
it welled into a fierce light. With a
shriek like lightning striking, it drew a bright line into the hall, retracing
the arrow's flight. A resounding
explosion and a flash emanated from the room below. Cupping his hand to his ear, the
wizard sniggered, "I dearly love the boom at the end of that
one." With his eyes still closed,
as if in passion, he continued, "He never knew what cooked him. Its too bad I can only catch that spell once
in a while. By the way", he added,
"that magic haze will kill the next couple of things through that
door. Then the defense is up to you and
your axe!" "Did you magic the Red Lord
away?", asked the dwarf, still contemplating the doorway. "Yes, he went to disable the
Red Gate and close up the doors to the gate house.", he said.
"He will reappear shortly; that is, if the still lives", he added,
as he removed a short bloodstained stave from his bag. He also produced a small silver dagger from
beneath the folds of his cloak. "Here, let me nick you for a
drop of your golden blood.", he said, moving toward the warrior. "If you wish to forfeit your life,
you will, ylf!", he growled, stepping back and poising the axe
defensively. "What mischief are you about that begs my blood?" "It is the wish of Kelleh, the
Red Lord,", the said, nicking his own finger, "that I conjure a stave
of vengeance." He dipped the
center of the stave in the blue tinted blood that welled from the small cut.
"See this red stain.", showing the dwarf the stave, "'Tis
Kelleh's own blood." "I have
magiced this wood to summon liquid ruby‑glass from a far plane, in
quantity to fill this entire hold, should we all, whose blood it bears,
die." "Ah, drowning, a fitting death
for those black rats of hell.", he said approvingly, "I will put my
blood to that! No cutting
though,", he said, probing at a gash in his forearm, "I have one or two from those black
beasties already." The wizard dipped the stick in the
yellow fluid that began to trickle down the warrior's wrist as he squeezed the
wound. With a blue crackle of his
forefinger the old ylf then closed and healed the wound. All that remained of the gash was a reddish
welt. "My thanks for the healing
magister.", growled the dwarf, "Can you cure these others so they
won't drip." He gestured to his several other wounds. The old ylf did as requested. Then, with several words taken from Eld
days, he tossed the enchanted stave to the center of the room. "Let us pray that stick is
never needed.", he muttered to no one in particular. There was a blue flash at the
doorway and three skulking ghouls turned to dust that settled to the floor. The protective blue haze was gone. "The show is yours now my
stumpy friend.", said the ylf good naturedly, as he retreated to his
corner again and began to chant softly. The black region's warriors, forced
from the hall by the crushing mass ascending behind them, flowed like a dark
morass from the archway. The leading
group carried heavy war shields, in anticipation of the deadly Dwarven blade,
already notorious in their ranks. They
came armed with long halberds, as well, to try and skewer the berserking yellow
menace before his axe found their fragile parts. Their dark canine features were twisted into fanged grins in
anticipation of the slaughter of this arch‑nemesis under the sheer weight
of their numbers. The dwarf, spinning like a child's
top, swung his gleaming axe in a wide swath below their advancing shields. He cleaved pike shafts and appendages with
equal ease. The first row went down
like wheat before a well-honed scythe.
With a quick reverse, he punctured the helm of another with the spike on
the back of his weapon. The pike stuck
fast as the beast slumped. With a
dwarven curse, he spun his full bulk into the metal-banded haft of the axe in
an attempt to extricate it from his victim.
A watchful black pike man interrupted his swirl. He stabbed his long halberd spike at the low
unarmored underarm of the dwarf as he strained to free the trapped weapon. The yellow warrior seemed to freeze for a
moment, lifted gingerly to his toe tips in an apparent effort to lessen the
pain written on his craggy brow, and then slowly sagged toward the stones. Yellow froth, at his lips, accompanied his next labored exhalation and he dropped
to his knees, mortally wounded. His
lips formed the name of his god but no sound issued forth. "Mytrx, my valiant brave
friend, your god has heard you !", thundered a new voice, "You shall
be avenged!". The sudden silence accompanying the
ending of the struggle at the door had turned all ears from the sizzling
ethereal return of the Red Lord. He now
stood majestically in shining red plate armor at the left of his jewel
encrusted throne. In his hand gleamed
a two‑handed broad sword that shone with a red light which exhibited the
life it enjoyed. It throbbed with the
berserk desire to drive life
from evil, nor was it long denied. Half score of the black warriors in
the room died where they stood, with an unissued shout of victory torn from
their tongues. The one or two attackers
in the doorway who escaped with their lives knew fear. The unarmored dwarf, though ferocious, had
only been a momentary impediment to their onslaught in comparison to what now
faced them. The Red Lord advanced to the door in
three blade strokes. His ruby shaft
flashed almost scarlet as it fed upon
the death of evil. Black weapons clattered,
clashed and shattered against the red mythril plate worn by Kelleh, the
vanquished beasts swung their last futile blows. Their desperate attempts were
wasted. No weapon wielded by any
mortal, save the one carried for the Gods by his father, Eamon, Keeper of
White, could best Kelleh's armor. The Gods, who created all, had
supplied magic and sorcery to the Ylf magisters of Eld as part of a supreme
protection from evil. The art of
crafting and tempering armor using this Ylven magic, the Gods gave to the
Dwarven armorers of Eld. The red armor
and sword had been fashioned by the Dwarven master armorer Drytll under the
golden mountains of their God, Dwr. For
the millennium since its crafting, it has magically fit all the Lords of Red. The onyx flood from the hall ceased,
replaced quickly by the sound of conjuring chants from the dark and malevolent
hall. "Aylyzn, do you know that
sorcerous tongue?", Kelleh asked the wizard. Unanswered, he glanced around to find the ylf bent over the
prostrate dwarf he had tugged and dragged from under the carrion by the
door. Silence from a plainly heard
question was an answer in itself. It
told Kelleh that the Wizard of Blue was deep in another dimension seeking the
means of resurrection for Mytrx, the Warrior of Yellow. Wisps of smoke, like floating
anthracite dust, issued from the direction of the alien chants in the hall
below. The wisps twisted and twined
like serpents dancing to some slow unseen instrument. A cloud began to coalesce in the entryway. "I fear there is great ill
afoot!", he said slowly, his strong voice echoing hollowly inside his
helm. He tested the consistency of the
cloud with his sword, 'Red Vengeance', and found sparks and metallic flashes
his response. Kelleh knew that to interrupt a spell
being cast sometimes released on the caster and all around him the
indescribable powers the conjurer was evoking.
The way things looked, he was glad he had transported his young son to
safety through the red gate before he had disabled it and secured the gate
house door with the token the ylf had given him. He had left his only son in the hands of the Gods of Faerie, in
Erin, shielded only by the folds of his own war cloak. The cloud enlarged and thickened as
Kelleh moved back to try to protect his helplessly involved magister from the
fate the vapor surely held. He
reflected on the conjured gaseous spells Aylyzn had called up before. All had been deadly, to be used offensively
on the subject of the magic poison. Ah!, but wait, thought the Lord, Aylyzn
always maintained contact with the cloud to control it. He, was one of the most powerful wizards of
the land. Surely no other magister
could control a gas without contact, if Aylyzn could not. The evil vapor now obscured more
than half the throne room ‑ he must act now, he thought, desperately. If he could kill the magic user at
the far end of the cloud without releasing whatever evil it was he was evoking,
they might have a chance. Without
hesitation, the Lord sheathed 'Vengeance', who throbbed violently in protest,
and grasped the pike halberd that had slain the dwarf. He charged toward the doorway into the
forbidding cloud holding his breath.
His eyes, as soon as he entered the cloud, were useless. Either the gas had blinded him or the darkness
was complete in the cloud. With a clash of armor, he crashed
into the stone jamb of the door. He
viciously thrust the long lance shaft he had snatched through the open portal
and was answered by an unearthly shriek.
The pike was wrenched out of his hands as a resounding explosion threw
him across his throne room, against the wall by the throne. The smoke had thinned with the death of the
evil sorcerer, but it now swirled through the entire room. Kelleh's lungs screamed for air, as
he held his breath against the vapor.
The room spun as his eyes searched the mist for the body of the Wizard
of Blue. The wizard still lived. His hand slowly raised, his long fingers
flicked accusingly at the door. More black demons, apparently immune to the
gas, skulked through it. With his last
ounce of strength, Kelleh crawled to the foot of his throne and drew
'Vengeance'. He passed into
unconsciousness with the effort. Only the stones of the throne room
can recount what next occurred. The beasts seeing all opposition
ended burst through the door and piled upon the helpless magister, probably in
an attempt to secure his tome of magics for their evil master. With strength summoned from Gods
know where, the old ylf rose to his full height amid the groping beasts. "Your vile master will never
have the tome of a Wizard of Blue!", he said defiantly. With a wave of his hand, his tome
floated to the side of the Red Lord. He raised his hands above his head
and clasped them tightly, fingers entwined.
From above his head, a shining vortex formed. It flashed fiery wisps as
it descended around the wizard's body.
When it reached the floor it whirled faster and faster until the beasts,
who had cowered away from it began to be sucked into its spiral. The stone on which it rested had turned to
magma stirred by the spinning fury.
When the last black attacker in the chamber had been consumed, the
spiral vanished with a soft hollow 'pop'. The wizard was gone. The Red Lord, awakening, removed his
helm. Seeing the wizard's tome by his
side, he gently laid his hand on it and weakly drew a final deep breath of the
remaining vapor. The few black minions still alive in
the hall below heard a bubbling sound emanating from the throne room. Wave after wave of ruby‑red liquid
flowed, like the fuming blood of dead hero's, from the stave Aylyzn had magiced
down the top of the stair into the main hall. Retreat, for them, ended as it
began; the gate house door had been closed after them and secured with a
powerful Magic. Once the magic silica
gel filled the sealed hold, top to bottom, it turned to crystal. 'Vengeance' no longer throbbed with
life; Faerie was without a Lord of Red. The child lay in the thicket
breathing lightly; deep in the sleep which only innocents achieve. The red cape in which he had wrapped himself
stood out against the green of the hedge that walled the thicket like a ripe
fruit on a tree in mid-summer. The tall figure stood and watched
the child for some time undecided.
Nearby lay the warm body of a wolf, dropped by a single shaft as he had
stalked the small prey that slept in the glade. At last, Corwin waded noisily into the underbrush and unwrapped
the child. He was four or five years of
age and obviously sadly treated.
Dressed only in his nightclothes he clutched a long dagger of silver
metal, even though he slept. The coat
of arms on the broach of the cloak matched the one on the dagger that the child
held. Corwin gently removed it from his
hand and slipped it into his own belt.
The shield was a red fiery sword sprouting from a green veldt toward the
heavens and the arch of a rainbow. No
such crest existed to Corwin's knowledge in English heraldry. As a gamekeeper his exposure to such things
would have been slight; as a retired captain of the Queen's Irish Guards he
knew them all. The gamekeeper's
position had been a reward from the crown for his years of valiant loyal
service. It had been granted to him and
his heirs as a boon. Corwin bundled the youth in the
cloak and strode back to the waiting charger who stood not overly close to the
dead wolf. Corwin had decided to
collect the body later. For now he
would take the child to his home for food and shelter while he went to Cork to
locate his family. A shame they would
want him back thought Corwin. Though he
loved his four daughters dearly, he longed for a son and heir to keep the post
granted to the Connor family. 4 THE KEY IN ERIN Dermot looked over the crags that
led down to the lake. They were similar
to the others he had seen throughout the Killarny basin, with green-topped
plateaus fingering down the gray‑black rocky ridges. The storm that had just passed down into the
lowlands had left a clean mist and the smell of damp earth in its wake. It had been lacking in the force that Dermot
sought; just like all the tempests he had seen in Ireland these several
months. Not one bolt of lightning had
he seen. Perhaps St. Patrick sent all the
aerial incandescence out of Ireland just like the snakes that myth said he
drove into the sea, Dermot thought. No lightning at all! The storms rumbled and roared and dumped
rivers on the forgiving lands below, but not one stroke of lightning. Not for all his waiting and watching. Dermot began packing away the camp
he had set up here in the small stand of birch at the head of the largest
ravine of the basin. Another storm
approached up the valley and if he hurried he could beat it home, he
thought. He had had enough watching for
today. This was so different from the work
he had done for the government computer group.
Dermot was the best; a Guru he was called, in deciphering codes and
computer encryption. He had retired
when the Democrats came in and de-emphasized the need for external
espionage. He had had enough by that
time anyway. The World War II project
that kept the Allies informed of the moves planned by the Japanese forces in
the Pacific had been his milkbone in cryptography. He had been seventeen then.
He had served in Korea and when Vietnam came along he was attached to
the Defense Intelligence agency in Washington, D. C. He later left the army to add his expertise to this, the ultimate
cipher group. As he packed he thought of Barbara
and the many trips they had enjoyed together before she had been taken from him
by heart disease. He particularly
missed her organized packing. Though
she had had little personal interest in his studies of mythology, he had always
been able to count on her for practical support. With her sudden death, he had plunged headlong into his research,
hoping that total immersion would dull the pain of loss. In his mind's eye he began reviewing his
heritage, perhaps from the realization of his mortality. This brought out some interesting
comparisons between locations of Irish lore and the birthplaces of his ancestors. Why not go to Ireland and 'Kill two birds
with one stone..' So here he was. The research he had done since his arrival
had led to a theory that meteorological phenomena were connected in some
fashion to activities of beings considered to be mythological. He further postulated that lightning,
because of its fantastic power, was the rift through which one passed into the
lands of lore. His quest was to find
that rift here. The ground water had slowed to a
trickle in the ravine bottom by the time he had finished stowing his gear. The rainbow that had formed as the tempest
moved north, had faded into oblivion with the reappearance of 'Old Sol'. Dermot slung his trail pack, now crammed
with his camp, over his broad shoulders, picked up his staff and strode down
the path. Since the ridge sloped
severely to the valley floor, the path, though it sloped down slightly, ambled
up the wall of the ridge that composed the ravine side. In a tall glen of trees near the top, some
forty feet above the floor of the ravine, the path turned back and sloped
uphill to the top of the plateau. As
Dermot reached this switchback in the trail he was struck by an ominous feeling
of foreboding. His grip on the staff
tightened, his knees flexed, his body readied for flight or fight. The staff he clutched had been a
proud gift from Meg. Meg was the oldest
'widow' in all of County Kerry. He had
searched her out and she had told Dermot the history of his kin, the Connor
family. She had also commissioned the
crafting of a walking staff for him.
Her handyman, Billy Boy did the work, and the wood came from her famous
thicket of black thorn. Billy was weak
of mind and special to the folk of Cahir East where he and Meg lived. The folk deemed those of slight wit to be
enchanted. Billy did all the work at
Widow Meg's place and tended her thorn grove for her. It was from the grove they eked out their existence. Billy patiently crafted the finest walking
sticks and shillelaghs from Dublin to Cork.
The wood works he did were of classic beauty and were sought after by
all. A sound reached the switchback; a
growl followed by a sound like the snapping jaws of a dog biting at a summer
bumblebee. Abandoning the trail, he
slipped to the edge of the precipice to look down the sheer wall. He was cautious, in the extreme, since his
premonitions of evil most time rang true.
He held the staff tightly as he scrunched his body to the edge on his
stomach. The sun freed at last by the
clouds, shone, slanting, through the umbrella of the glen. The beams fell in the center, on a small
pool. The pool was surrounded by lacey
ferns and beautiful white rocks painted with brilliant green mosses. It was obvious that the few travelers along
the path above could never have seen the glen without crawling dangerously near
the edge of the cliffs. Several sharp growls shook Dermot
out of his inspection. He heard a yelp
of pain coming from the foot of the cliffs.
He caught a quick glimpse of a young girl in a white cloak darting back
into a crevice in the wall beneath him.
The yelp had orchestrated quick jumps on the part of five mountain
wolves. He snatched his senses from the
almost hypnotic view of the glen. One
wolf, the one that had yelped, ended his retreat in collapse from a puncture in
his neck. The other four, showing due
respect, took up the cordon a bit further back. They took turns darting in to snap at the trapped child. She met each foray with a strike of her own
and soon each wolf bore a wound and bloodied fur. As Dermot looked around the visible
edge of the glen below for a way down, the largest wolf caught hold of the
girl's cloak. He pulled her, screaming,
from the crevice. There was blood on
her white cloak. The wolf kept tugging
at it to keep her off balance. Each
time she struck at the wolf leader he would jerk her around, dragging her
further from her haven. No time for easy descent now,
thought Dermot. The culprit was almost
directly below his hiding place, some thirty feet down, and his comrades were
closing for the kill. Dermot half stood
and leapt, boots first, directly for the leader's back. His aim was perfect. The feral scream, as he landed, accompanied
by the snapping of bone announced the end of the attacker's life. The three remaining wolves, with one look
back to confirm that the odds were truly going against them, faded into the
shadows of the trees. Dermot didn't see them go. The jump, though cushioned by the body of
the beast, had stunned him. In
addition, the girl, in one final desperate stab at her tormentor, had struck
her savior instead. Seven inches of
white metal pierced to the hilt through Dermot's shoulder. The pain was colossal and subsided only
slightly after the girl cautiously withdrew the poniard blade. The light had lessened with the approach
of the second storm and the treetops whispered as the winds heightened,
heralding the storm's advance. The girl spoke. Her voice had the quality of silver bells. "I struck in err ‑‑
Please forgive me the blow.", she said, attempting to staunch the flow of
his blood with a belt she removed from her robe. "I'm ok.", he murmured
bravely, not really believing the statement.
He had been wounded before but never quite so badly. "I pray I did not strike your
lung.", she said, putting her small head softly on his chest and
listening. "Please draw your
breath in deeply." He did as she bid. This child has a quality of command in her
slight voice, he thought abstractedly.
He looked down at her small head.
Her hair was short, soft and downy looking. It was brilliantly white, even in the deepening shadow brought by
the storm. He touched her head,
stroking it softly, to find if it equaled the softness it appeared to
have. Sensing his dazed inspection, she
remained motionless even though her examination of his lungs was complete. Her hair was soft as down and the wings
began at the shoulder ‑‑‑ "You have wings!", he
thought out loud. One was twisted
awkwardly to the left and bleeding where the wolf had bitten it. "Aye!", she said,
mimicking his surprise, "Wings!" "Your ‑‑ well ‑‑
your wing is bleeding.", he stammered, not believing he had actually said
it. "God, I must be
delirious.", he said, feeling his head. "Can you bind the wound with
this?", she said. She handed him a
cloth torn from the hem of her robe and turned her back to him proffering her
wounded member. He gingerly tied the white linen
around the rent in the white feathers. "Now, fold it like the other,
if you will.", she added, as he finished with the makeshift bandage. As he bent it he felt the strong
tendons that normally flexed the beautiful appendage. It resisted his attempt to do as she asked and he hesitated as
the movement elicited a small sound of pain from the girl. "Fold it down!", she insisted, through clenched teeth. The main wing joint clicked loudly as he
forced it and the wing folded down freely beside the other. She let out her breath in a sigh of relief
and fluttered the wings softly. "Good, it's mended.", she
sighed, "Only wants resting." "I'm so glad you happened along
‑‑ Had you not, these beasts would have supped at my
expense.", she said, poking the dead wolf with her small toe. "Wings!", said Dermot,
incredulously as his groggy mind returned to the subject. "Why wings?", he queried. "And why not?", she countered,
"How else could I fly? But I
shan't jest at your expense. You are
sorely hurt. I have seen you sitting in
the storms around the lake.", she said.
"Can you tell me why you do this?" He noticed that she was examining
the Connor Family Shield that Billy Boy had carved into the large knob at the
head of his staff. "I seek the land of Faerie and,
judging from your build ‑‑ I mean the wings ‑ I've found
it. At least a Fairy, or so you
seem.", he ended, sitting heavily on a large rock. His head spun dizzily. Her cheeks colored slightly. "I'm neh Fairy", she said,
breaking into a deeper Gaelic brogue.
She turned to face him holding the staff and indicating the carving that
adorned it. She asked formally,
"Tell me Sir, is this the device of your family?" "So I was told by the Widow Meg
in Cahir East.", he responded. He
was feeling dizzy now and swayed a bit. "Are you strong enough to
walk?", she asked, concerned, moving to his side and steadying him. "I think so, why?" "I am comfortable in your
presence, and, if that is your coat‑of‑arms, then ... ", she
hesitated, "Could you be 'Of the Blood'?" After a bit of thought, she added, "If you can walk, you may
go with me into Faerie". "By God, I'll crawl, if need
be, for that.", he said, stumbling to his feet. He half thought he might have to crawl after all. His head told him she was right, he was,
'sorely hurt.' The muscles in his body
were beginning to cramp in an effort at self‑preservation. He took the staff from the girl and leaned
heavily on it. He would make it he
thought. The second storm had broken outside
and the first drops to penetrate the glen were falling around them. "Which way?", he asked. "Straight into the
storm.", she said, leading him to the edge of the cover. The storm roared outside as they
left the trees. The girl began intoning
an ancient magic verse as they left the protection of the wood. "Colors of the sky I see, Gates of the Fay it be, Hope that I might find the key, As I traverse into thee." Her voice filled Dermot with strange
warmth. His strength faltered and he
missed his footing with the staff; he fell.
The girl tried, in vain, to break his fall and she fell herself. The footing in these crags is treacherous,
Dermot thought. He struggled to his
feet but the girl did not rise. He
gathered her small body to him sheltering her face from the pelting rain. "Into the storm ‑‑
we must ...", she faded in a swoon.
Dermot struggled to his feet cradling his small burden as a father would
his child. The pain of the fall has put
her into a swoon he thought; at least he desperately hoped that was all it
was. Calling on every last bit of
energy in his stiffening body Dermot shuffled off into the teeth of the tempest
in the direction they had started. She stirred in his arms and
whispered a final line of the verse. "Tis Blue I seek to bring me free, to the colors of the Keepers three. All the weight seemed to lift from
Dermot's legs. The storm had ceased to
pelt them. It was still there but the
sound was gone and the sting of the drops on his bare face had stopped. The light changed too; the grey was gone,
replaced by a kaleidoscope of brightly flashing colors; red, yellow and blue, of
every shade imaginable. The lights that
blurred the storm had seemed to warm his body.
He felt a strange churning inside his chest, as if someone was
rearranging his organs. It wasn't
unpleasant but felt odd. He seemed to
be floating down a beautiful colored hole.
There was also a sensation akin to walking into a strong warm wind, of
the skin tightening on his face. The
girl stirred again in his arms. "We have found the WAY.",
she murmured, "I owe you my life a second time." "The way to Faerie?", he
breathed. "Aye, the WAY.", she answered
softly, leaning away from him to contemplate his face. "I knew the WAY would leave you more
beautiful.", she told him, snuggling back close into his chest. "We will be there by‑and‑by." "What ‑- I mean who are
you?", he stammered, turning her soft head so he could look into her
stunning aquamarine eyes. "The who ‑ my name is
Lynn, the what ‑ Well I am Evangeline, Swan Fay of Blue. Now please, rest yourself 'til my uncle
wakes us at the gate." She caught
his eyes; her's were so beautiful; his so heavy. Dermot slept as they floated down the timeless tunnel of color
toward a destiny Dermot had only dreamed of before. 5 MAGIC CHILD The ylf child in the big four-poster
bed yawned and stretched. He sleepily
rubbed his eyes with his small fists. There
were noises of arms in the streets below.
Now fully awake, he concentrated all his awareness on the muffled voices
he heard below in the main audience chamber. The conjured image formed slowly in
his mind. As if the floor had melted
away, he saw the room below. There were
hastily dressed apprentice wizards milling about their master's dais, ylven
guards shuffled out of the arms room adjusting their armor and testing swings
of the war axes just taken from the racks, bow men strung ornate crossbows and
filled quivers to near overflowing with selected bolts. It was a scene of deep alarm. He caught a glimpse of a child on the stair
that ran upward around the circumference of the main hall to the Blue Wizard's
quarters. Ascending the stair, the boy
was surrounded by the Blue Wizard's illusionists and conjurers, all obviously
in a highly agitated state of discourse with him. He broke the farseeing spell his
tutors had taught him. He had cast it without the specific token his
instructors had said was crucial to the casting, but the concentration had left
him trembling in his covers. He
wondered that he was capable of the spell without a talisman -- another paradox
concerning his abilities. The sounds of hurried approach of a
group outside his bedchamber had interrupted his casting. An ominous feeling of imminent danger now
sent him burrowing deeply into his downy comforter. The source of the agitated voices
stopped at his door. A shrill voice, strangely familiar,
reached his ear, shouting for silence and calm above the rest. The bolt to the room crunched out of
its niche. They were coming in, he thought! Bylynn struggled deeper into his
haven. He was intensely bothered by the
strange feelings of foreboding he was having this night. As the voices in the hall quieted,
he heard sounds that could only be of battle coming from the chill night. Filtered by his cocoon, he heard the
shrill voice again command the group in the hall. "Have all my people assembled
in the main hall in five minutes!" The door, that had opened only far
enough to admit a small slim figure, thudded home into the stone portal,
closing out sounds of the group hurrying away.
The bedchamber was suddenly bathed in a humming blue light, visible even
through the bedclothes. The eerie sound
and glow faded as the braziers around the room 'poofed' into flame. That was his father's magic, thought
Bylynn excitedly! Father is home! All is well. His fluffy hiding place erupted with his thrilled shout of
welcome for his parent. Shocked silence
followed his outburst; facing him from the door was not his father. It was the child he had seen in the main
hall. At the door, wearing Bylynn's
favorite ceremonial robe stood a replica, an apparent perfect duplicate of
Bylynn himself. Bylynn stood, frozen like a statue,
dressed only in a nightshirt, in the middle of the bed. Bravely, he raised his small arms and began
to cast the only defensive spell he knew against this unknown imposter. "Calm yourself my valiant
son.," said a voice that seemed to come from empty air. Bylynn almost fainted with relief at
his sudden reprieve. That was his
father's noble voice. His father was
indeed here; a glowing essence appeared near the imposter. "Father, what is happening ‑
that child ‑ the alarm ‑ you appearing like this ....?" "I have no time to explain my
son. Hear me out in silence. Only moments may remain! This child is your psionic twin, built by my
magic. I have created him to secure
your position here; you are too young to fully understand. You are to give him your ring and remain
inside this room until the dawn ‑ as my heir you are now the Wizard of
Blue ‑" "Father, I ..." "Please my son ‑ soon you
shall know the whole story. If the Gods
accept my... No! No! Not the
tome!" the phantom thundered. Your
vile master will never..." His
voice trailed away into the distance as his image faded. "I hear and obey my liege; my
Father.", he murmured formally, as his father's glowing essence faded. Bylynn knew his father was in deep
trouble to have spoken to him in such a brusque manner. He spoke the words of Eld that controlled
his wizard's ring and removed it from his left hand. The magic periapt had been a gift from his father at the last mid‑august
festival. It was a custom for the
novice magisters to be given a talisman ring by their master after their first
decade, as a symbol of their magical coming of age. The novice wore it for life, and at his death it went to his God
as he was accepted into the God's presence.
Bylynn was not sure of all the details.
One thing he knew for sure, only your mentor had the right or, in fact,
the power to demand that you relinquish it.
Feeling as though he was giving his duplicate his soul, he handed it the
small band. The psionic spoke an
invocation, rightly known only to Bylynn, donned the ring, returned to the
door, and exited. Deflated and confused by the myriad
of things that were occurring, Bylynn sat heavily on the bed he had risen from
what seemed to him a century ago. The sounds of battle had ceased to
resound from the town, he noted. Was
the crisis over?, he wondered. The muffled sound of a conjured
fanfare heralded the start of the meeting the psionic had called at his
father's dais. I must see this, he thought. He relaxed completely and summoned a
mental image of the hall from his memory.
Again, the floor slowly faded into the scene from below. It jelled into being as though he looked
through a window in the center of the ceiling.
If he looked up, however, he could also see the upper walls and ceiling,
as if he stood on the floor. It was as
though he sensed each and every action at the same time, his powerful
subconscious mind sifted the relevant from the trivial, and then passed the
important news to his conscious mind as perceived sights and sounds. His tutors did not understand this skill he
mused. The setting in his mind was complete
now. All the people of Blue, who owed
allegiance to the Wizard, were assembled, as ordered. Some were only partially dressed, due to the haste of his ‑
or rather ‑ of his duplicate's summons.
The alchemist and his assistants were there, as were all levels of his
father's apprentice magisters and the cleric and several acolytes. All members of the guard not at alert posts
were standing around the hall, near the walls.
Their captain stood near the dais with other members of the household of
equal rank and several ylven merchants who served the wizard. All were engaged in hushed conversation. Ascending the dais was the psionic
Bylynn. He lifted his hand for silence
as the fanfare ended. His small clear voice echoed from
the blue stone walls and filled the chamber. "I have here", he said,
holding aloft a glowing blue artifact, "the ring of my father, the Wizard
of Blue." Murmurs coursed through the crowd. "My father is dead!", he
said, almost coldly. Bylynn almost lost the image at that
pronouncement. It struck him like a
bolt of lightning. Only pure mental
courage held the scene for him. Could
it be true?, he thought. His eyes
darted to the phantoms left hand and found his own ring was in place
there. Its other hand did, in fact,
hold his fathers ring. "It is my father's command,
that I assemble you all here and allow those who honored my father to pledge
their fealty to me, his heir." Like a rug settling to the floor,
the hushed mass dropped to their knees, heads bowed. They accepted their new holder. "Inspect your thoughts
carefully; let those who find any doubt of their loyalty, to me and my family,
depart now!" "Infidels who remain, will be
dealt with, harshly, by my father's signet." The statement was carefully measured for effect. The psionic spoke the words with a strange
new power in his voice. No one in the crowd moved. He continued, "I will issue a
proclamation on what has Happened
in Faerie, as soon as I am sure myself." "I will leave you now to go and
mourn my father.", he said, holding the blue signet high in the air in
outstretched fingers. "This", he said, "is
the power and the blessing of the Wizard of Blue!". The ring flashed iridescent blue and
shone brighter than lightning. Sparks
of unearthly power fell from it at the psionic's feet and engulfed the
dais. Blinding fingers of gleaming haze
snaked their way lazily down to, and through the crowd, touching each person in
turn, then passing on. No head moved as
the questing arm of haze moved on, each person glowed with a blue magic fire,
as if blessed. When the host had
visited all in the assemblage, the light at the dais rose in intensity. There were several flashes around the hall,
two acolytes vaporized as did one half‑elf guard near the door. All that remained of each were smoldering
heaps of the clothing they had worn.
They had been tested by their lord and found wanting. Heads began to rise as the glow
began to fade. The small figure of the
child wizard at the dais was fading away with the light. The inquisition was over; the hold
of Blue was secure. Bylynn sensed a presence in the
bedchamber with him. He started
awkwardly as he broke the spell and returned his consciousness to the other
occupant of the room. Need to work on
that, he noted. His psionic twin spoke, "Here
is a medallion from your father, and his ring.", holding them out to
Bylynn. "Your father has commanded
that you wear his ring from this moment forth." "You are to wear it on the
first finger of your right hand.", he added, as Bylynn accepted the two
items. The psionic continued to stare at
Bylynn, as he hung the medallion around his neck and walked to the window. He slipped the ring on as the message had
commanded. There was a burst of sound in his
mind as it was flooded by sights and high pitched squealing that seemed to rush
over his senses. His conscious mind
held only broken images and snatches of the vast panorama that had flashed from
his father's ring. The ring gripped his finger tightly
enough to bring his full attention to its stone. An image flickered there, like a candle flame ‑his mind
perceived that his body entered the chamber of the stone ‑ his father was
there, as a specter, dressed in his magnificent royal blue ceremonial robes. "Go now and defend against your
image.", his father's voice commanded, and pointing a long finger at him,
the specter returned Bylynn's consciousness to the bed chamber. He tensed and without looking up,
crossed his wrists at his breast.
"Maximum Thraulum Hazzum Serventus", he chanted an evocation
he had never heard. He now slowly raised his eyes and
looked calmly, at his twin who was gesturing.
The psionic pointed both hands at Bylynn. Four bolts of sizzling energy flashed from the finger tips and
were absorbed by the shield Bylynn had somehow evoked. How had he done that?, he wondered. It must have been knowledge gained from his
father's signet. As Bylynn watched, his attacker
wavered, like a person seen through waves of heat on a summer's day, and then
faded away. Bylynn would never forget the look
of shock and fear etched on the likeness of his own face as his conjured twin
vanished. A ring clattered to the stone. Bylynn bent and retrieved his own ring and
returned it to its rightful place on his left hand. Exhausted, he returned to the bed
and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. 6 ARRIVAL AT BLUE Synopsis Only -- Dermot
and Lynn arrive at the Blue Gate, which is located in the Blue Hold, and are
met by Lynn's uncle, Bylynn. Lynn and
her uncle tell Dermot how the Gates are thought to work and about the change in
his biological clock, as well as clarifying the fact that entry is through a rainbow,
not lightning. While recuperating from
his wounds, Dermot saves the dwarven child of Mydr, the current Warrior of
Yellow. In gratitude, the dwarf lord
provides the modern Dermot with dwarven training in the use of ancient arms,
two handed swords, war axes, crossbows and the like, until he is one of the
best warriors in all the land. 7 BYLYNN'S QUEST Synopsis Only -- The blue gyrfalcon sat on a limb
overlooking the brilliant white edifice.
He longed to flap skyward 'til the cool mist of clouds that drifted
lazily over the land caressed his feathers.
From there he could watch the fields and rifts for signs of one of his
favorite meals unexpectedly doing what meals did before his rushing shadow
tolled the end of their life. He dared
not leave 'til his master released him though.
The last time he had done that, Bylynn had transformed him into toad for
a fortnight. His master sat in front of the only
visible entrance to the dome shaped tower.
Except for color, the tower was an almost exact duplicate of the three
other towers in the kingdom. It was built
of a stone that resembled marble but which was obviously much more
durable. The towers had stood for at
least three millenniums, yet, were unchanged by the ravages of time, weather
and man. The seams between the stones,
for seams were the only description for such fine joints, could hardly be found
with a fingernail. The people of Eld
had built well. Too well, Bylynn thought. Entry to the building had eluded him ever
since his youth. His magics had grown
immensely in the two hundred years he had studied. His father's tome had not been found nor was the form of his
demise ever discovered. Bylynn's
magics, therefore, were of his own making, aided by notes found in his father's
workrooms in the Blue Hold. Who could
say how many 'hunches' on casting or gestures came from the ring he wore on his
right hand. Surely, many of the words
he used, that seemed to pop into his head from nowhere, must be from his
father's knowledge. They, somehow, just
appeared when he most needed them. Why
was no aid in entering the Hold of White forthcoming, he wondered. 8 THREE MEET AT RED HOLD Mytrx
sat on the armorer's bench in deep thought allowing two of his pages to lace
him into his dress mail and harness.
The leather had the pungent smell of the dressing used by his people,
the Dwr, to keep fungus from attacking it during storage underground. The dampness of the dwarven caverns suited
the people better than it did the equipment they used. He adjusted the thigh bracer and tested each
of the four short daggers it sheathed.
He did this almost by reflex. As
the supreme leader of the dwarven race all these mundane things had been
checked and rechecked by his vassals but habits of centuries at battle clung to
him like stench to dung. His axe,
blessed 'DwrThorne' by the Gods that forged it, and gave it life, throbbed with
anticipation when he hefted it from the staples where it had rested. Mytrx went nowhere outside his hold without
that gift of the Gods. He was soothed
by Thorne's weight as he held it high in two hands and lowered it over his
shoulders into its holster at the small of his back. His nerves were jangled by the odd manner of the Wizard of Blue
in calling this meeting at the Hold of Red.
He stood and stretched, paced full stride, dipped low to test his
adjustments. He waved the two pages out
of the chamber after they adjusted a strap that he felt needed one more
hitch. As the Warrior of Yellow, Mytrx
was duty bound to attend all meetings of the Triad that ruled Faerie. These were usually held on neutral ground,
at the Hold of White. Never had one
member called a formal meeting at another's hold. Another first for the meeting involved the agenda, or rather the
lack of one. All the supreme Ylf would
reveal was that he had information vital to the future of the land. The captain of his livery cleared his throat at the portal
and interrupted his speculation.
"My liege, your son begs audience before we depart which must be
presently if we are to arrive at the appointed hour." "Enter Culdrun. Stand easy.
Tell Mydr his father waits his presence." The clatter of little boots in the
passageway confirmed that no intermediary was needed to summon the child who
skidded to a halt at the portal and then advanced with proper decorum. "Sire, your health...? The youth knelt and kissed the signet his
father offered. Not even away from his nurses yet
and he knew how to conduct himself with his sire and liege, the old warrior
thought proudly. He cast a glance at
his senior captain who pursed his lips and nodded the approval his lord sought. "On your feet my son. What a fine figure you cut in your first
armor." "That is why I begged to see
you Sire. But words cannot express my
thanks for so fine a gift." The Lord placed his hand on his
son's shoulder and gazed into the depths of his eyes as if seeing them for the
first, or last time. Testing the fit,
he thumped the lad's arm once in approval. "Use them to learn, and learn
well, as one day the leadership of the Dwarven nation will fall to you. Now captain, to the meeting and whatever
intrigue the wizard weaves." He
strode out the portal with a flourish followed by his captain, leaving the son
to ponder the long hard look his father had given him. -0-