Story #139 - Fey'ted Thrones VIII

Fey'ted Thrones VIII

The Fey in front of him made him uncomfortable, but so did those marching beside and behind him. Alhandro knew his position in their center to was to protect him from unwanted attack, but the feeling of being trapped was making it difficult to breathe.

None of them had been anything but polite to him, but none had gone any further. He wasn't sure what Lomir had said to the other Fey to get them to agree to this plan – he hadn't been permitted to attend the meeting – but it was clear that there was some division on the issue.

Earth Fey were notably absent from the group as it marched, though Water, Fire and Air were all represented. He had never seen Fey in full battle armor before, and he had to admit that the sight was stunning. There was no uniformity as one might find in an army of his people, but instead sweeping shoulder plates, massive helms and cruel-looking weapons that seemed a matter of personal preference and significance rather than derived from a standard form.

The Fey were substantially different than his own people in that regard; as half-King, he had been expected to make many decisions that would affect hundreds or even thousands of people, all without the aid of a council or equal. Pyulon had been poor advice at the best of times, but he had still spoken to his Fey adviser on occasion out of desperation more than anything else.

What he had learned in his short time in the Fey realm was that their structure was much more egalitarian than what he was used to. Lomir was called Mystral, which, by his actions, equated to first among equals. The older Air Fey could not make major decisions for the entire group without convening a meeting first, and even then had mentioned to Alhandro that getting others to agree – especially the Earth Fey- was a difficult task.

He stepped quickly to the side to avoid the barbed spike-tip of a Water Fey to his right. The near miss hadn't been intentional; there were simply so many of them jammed on to the path that accidents were bound to happen.

The path the used – calling it a road did not suit its nature – was thin, smooth and flat. Alhandrao had seen no stones or grass along its length and while there were trees on either side of it which passed by at regular intervals, their gait was leisurely for an army on the move. He had asked Lomir about it the last time he had seen the Fey, but his answer had been cryptic.

“Distance is no bar to us. Desire, however, limits our speed,” Lomir had said, and would not speak of it again when asked.

He sighed. Lomir had become increasingly distant over the last few days of marching, and while Alhnadro could understand why, it did not change the fact that it left him alone once again. That loneliness was something he was used to, but the elder Fey had been intelligent and kind, and he found himself wishing for someone to speak to. Lomir bore the burden of bringing him here without the permission of the others, and it appeared that he now had to make sacrifices to keep the others of his kind happy.

“That's an impressive weapon you have, good Fey,” he said to the swirling liquid mass beside him. It was banal, but he needed something to take his mind off of the war his brother intended to start, something to distract him from the conflict that was coming.

A watery head swiveled on its rippling body. “Thank you.” The voice was shard-like, each word seeming to come from multiple speakers, which together formed a subtle harmony.

“How is you carry no weapons, half-King?” The Fey asked, and Alhandro spread his hands.

“My training lies in the sword, which was taken from me on my capture. Other weapons I have less familiarity with,” he dropped his voice, “and I hardly need something else to set me apart in your realm.”

The was a sound of rippling water that he took a moment to identify as a laughter.

“I am Rusthis. My people were displeased at your appearance here, but I knew such a thing must happen eventually.” He hefted his polearm above his swirling head. “The traitor king will pay, as will the slimy Fey who helped him.”

Alhandro knew Rusthis spoke of Pyulon, and there was an underlying concern there. None of the Earth Fey had accompanied them, and there was real worry that they would choose to join the traitor in the realm above. A war between the Fey had not happened in centuries, but was not unprecedented.

“Halt!” A voice called from the front of the group, and the line came to a ragged stop.

Above them, Lomir and two winged guards flew, each in a set of burnished golden armor. There could be no question of who was in charge when the feathered Mystral was present, but he seemed unwilling to use that power for fear that others would take it away from him. It was a shame; Lomir could accomplish much more if he simply gave in to the position and power he had been assigned.

“We have arrived!” Lomir cried out. “We wait until nightfall, and make the crossing. Each is responsible for their own arrival in the other world, and each must understand the risks in doing so.” He swept low to the crowd. “Many of you have never left our realm, and with good reason – not all we do has logical consequence above. Use discretion, use sensibility, and do not allow yourselves to become provoked. The traitor and his minion will be arriving soon with their armies, and we must be prepared to engage them. Galtara will not fall so easily as was thought.”

- D

Story #84 - Fey'ted Thrones VI

Fey'ted Thrones - VI

Alhandro sat back heavily in his chair. War? Had he heard the Mystral correctly? His mother had told him that they Fey could be implacable adversaries, but the last time they had taken arms against anything but their own kind was eons ago.

“War, Mystral?” He asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. He had been prepared to rule both Silver and Gold as long as was required, but war had never been discussed as a likely event during the time of his occupancy. The treaty kept the borders of both his realms safe and so long as obligations to the Fey were honored and promises kept, stability should have been the result. “Are things really so dire? Could my brother truly be so threatening?”

Lomir's small eyes darkened and he leaned forward, face drawn. “They could not be more serious, Your Majesty.”

There was a tap at the door and Lomir looked up, then called for the visitor to enter. A winged Fey slipped into the room, head down, and stepped quickly around the desk to present Lomir with a crisp parchment. After a nod of thanks, Lomir motioned for his servant to leave.

“As I thought, Your Majesty,” he said, holding out the parchment for Alhandro's inspection, “your brother has already begun the attack. Slithus heard the first volleys when he came for you in Dirlat.”

He didn't take the paper; Lomir had no reason to lie, not after breaking the agreement to bring him here in defiance of the other Fey, and if the words on the paper were no more than fabrications, he would never know it. Best to take the air Fey at his word and move on.

“I find that concerning, Mystral, but it still seems to plant the matter firmly in my lap. Alhendra was attacking in our realm when we left. Return me to Tir'dal and I will raise an army to deal with my wayward brother.” He said it with more confidence than he felt; his brother and Pyulon must have been in planning for years to execute such a coup and he would likely find a great deal of opposition in Tir'dal from both the Guard and the army.

“I cannot do that, Your Majesty,” the Mystral said, and Alhandro felt his cheeks color. No one spoke that way to a king! “Were I to let you go, you would surely be killed within hours of reaching your city, and you will be needed in the battle to come. Again, I invoke the clause.”

He shook his head. “I see no reason for such haste. You claim an attack on your realm has come at the urgings of my brother's minion, but I see no evidence of that here. I trust you insofar as I must be protected for you to retain your position, but belief without proof is a luxury no king can afford.”

Lomir was silent for a moment, studying him over clasped hands, and finally the older being smiled. “Your mother has taught you well, young King, and while I would wish that you could simply take my truth as such, you are right to question. Come with me and I will show you.”

He rose and motioned for Alhandro to do the same, then clapped his hands sharply. The door to the chamber opened and two winged guards bustled in, one taking up a station behind Alhandro and the first remaining at the opening.

“If you would, please,” Lomir said, motioning forward, and the Fey fell in behind the first guard, leaving space for Alhandro to do the same behind him, and the little group moved out into the hallway.

The Mystral's home was quite large; in ten minutes Alhandro was taken aback by sweeping terraces, vaulted ceilings and the view of a garden made up of flying, interconnected bridges. His palace in Tir'dal had been well-appointed, but this was an entirely new level of luxury.

Finally, they arrived at a round room paneled in dark wood, smaller than many of the others they had passed. It held no windows and the only light came from a softly glowing green orb in its center which rested on a dark metal pedestal.

“Leave us,” Lomir said shortly, and the guards bowed deeply and retreated, closing the door behind them.

“Do you know what this is, Your Majesty?”

Alhandro shook his head; it was a scrying stone of some kind, but much larger than any he had ever seen. There were many types, each with their own purpose, and he would rather have this one's function explained than try to guess.

“It is a window, and opening into your world, one that lets us ensure that what is being done above does not impact what goes on below. Observe.” Lomir moved forward, placing both hands on the sides of the stone and taking a deep breath. On the side of the room opposite their entry, the wall shimmered and disappeared, to be replaced with a section of highway that Alhandro was all too familiar with.

The road into Dirlat.

On each side of the roadway were machines of war – great, hulking things with massive arrows and heavy rocks used to break down city walls. He had never commanded troops, but his mother had insisted he at least learn the basics of military strategy.

As he watched, he saw one of the machines draw back, ropes straining as its tension was brought to bear, and then release a massive boulder, which arced up and then crashed hard into the dirt below. A slight vibration ran through the floor of the room – an artifact of the magic, perhaps?

“I don't understand,” he began, “why are they attacking a lone stretch of road? Practice? Are they unsure of how to use their equipment?”

Another boulder flew and there was a second impact, this time rumbling the entire room. Though the large rock had done little to the ground aside from gouge out at small hole, Alhandro noticed it was glowing softly, as if responding to something nearby.

“By the Thrones!” He cursed. “That it, isn't it? You truly are below!”

Lomir let his hands fall from the stone and the scene faded, and he turned to face Alhandro. “Yes, Your Majesty, and if we do not do something soon, your brother will rule here as well.”

- D

Story #60 Notes

60 stories. Almost two months. I must admit, I'm fairly impressed with myself.

Overall, I think the quality of my work is improving, so I'm happy with where this thing is going. For the two or so of you that regularly read my stuff - thanks! It's much appreicated.

Today's story is the "other" serial story I'm working on, Fey'ted Thrones being the original one. I'm enjoying the world of Barry Howe and the Deacons, and we'll see how it pans out from here.

Once again, thanks for reading, and here's to another great two months.

- D

Story #26 - Fey'Ted Thrones IV

Fey'ted Thrones – IV

Alhandro didn't trust the Snake, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Slithus had appeared unexpectedly in the night, tearing his cell door from its hinges as if it were no more than a minor inconvenience. Without subtlety or ceremony the Fey had heaved Alhandro onto his back and stalked out of the city.

His speed had been incredible, squat legs churning as they ran through the muggy streets of Dirlat, but the prince was certain he had seen more than a few dead guardsmen on the way out. Slithus had killed men – good men, men doing their duty – simply to find Alhandro.

At first he thought it a ransom attempt. With his brother in control of both Gold and Silver, his life would be worth something to any number of the Fey houses. He hadn't been able to glean exactly what Alhendra was planning but if the rumblings in the city this evening were any indication, it had already begun.

Mother had spoken little of Alhendra during their years together, saying only that he was “far more like his father” than Alhandro. Her tone was clear enough; she had never been able to forge the kind of bond with her first son as she had with her second. Alhandro was glad of that, though knowing more about the kind of man his brother was and would become would have proven very useful. His father had died while he'd been shivering away in Dirlat; he had little from which to draw conclusions about Alhendra's next move.

It wasn't until the Fey finally set him down miles outside of town that he learned the true reason for his rescue.

“Lomir?” He had been startled to hear of the Mystral's involvement, but Slithus only nodded at his question. He had met Lomir a number of times during his reign in Tir'dal and the Mystral of the Fey had always been both efficient and to the point. Air Fey were known for their loyalty and dedication to a single purpose, both traits Lomir had shown in spades. Impulsiveness was also said to run in their nature, but Lomir had been as predictable and stuffy as they came.

He'd hated Pyulon, though. Perhaps that had been a better indication of his character than any other.

Alhandro had done his best to get more information out of the Snake but if he knew any more about what Lomir wanted he appeared to have no intention of sharing it. Hunkering down into the grass that first night, Slithus had simply closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, leaving the young prince with two choices: the ground or a large tree nearby. Unsure of his balance after his recent captivity, Alhandro chose the ground, wrapping the tattered remnants of his gold and red cloak around him. A week ago, it had been a symbol of his office, of the great duty he held, his responsibility to the people. It had become instead a poor substitute for a blanket, thin and devoid of meaning.

Now they walked together, their destination unclear but each unhappy in the other's presence. Slithus had tried to sling Alhandro over his shoulder again but the Prince refused, jaw set and stance open. He would fight, if necessary, to use his own feet, and likely the thought of bringing a beaten and bruised former Prince to the Mystral stayed the Fey's hand.

Alhandro glanced at the Snake in front of him, its lithe form slipping over rocks and tree branches as if they were no more than air. Weak from hunger and aching from a week on a stone floor, Alhandro seemed to find every stone underfoot, every branch slapping at his thighs. Slithus wouldn't say where they were heading, when they would get there or when he would stop moving again. The Thrice-cursed Fey wouldn't say anything!

He was a crown prince, a man of responsibility and action. He would not let some two-bit dirt dragging Fey best him, even in such a simple contest of wills. Hurrying to catch up he misjudged the distance over a large rock in the trail and caught his right foot, arms windmilling as he plummeted forward. The needled forest floor took him full in the face, tiny spikes jamming into his lips and nose. He could go no farther.

“We're here.” The Fey's voice was quiet, each word seeming to slide into the next and Alhandro had to repeat it several times to himself before he caught the meaning. Struggling to his feet, he glanced around, only to find a clearing identical to hundreds they had already passed through.

“We're where?” He had little of a Prince in him and more of a man, or so said his mother. Still, he managed to sound cold and distant, a better asking his servant why his wine was not properly chilled.

Slithus' eye slits narrowed just a hair and Alhandro took a step back. The thing was a killer, through and through.

“Here,” it whispered, and weaved its stubby arms in a complex pattern. Around them the forest seemed to melt away, sky slipping downward to drip azure lines over the softening trees. Before long a pool of color swirled at his feet, the forest in front and sky above replaced with a stark gray wall that had no depth, no form.

Underneath him the colors came to a single point, no larger than the tip of his finger and paused, their swirling mass hesitating for just a moment.

With a speed so abrupt it should have carried sound the colors swirled out, dashing up and around him, past and through him. He spun, dazed. He cried out, confused. Finally, he shut his eyes and waited. Better a blind Prince than a coward.

“Prince Alhandro?” A new voice asked - a deep, resonant voice he'd heard before. “I am Mystral Lomir. Welcome to the realm of Fey.”

Alhandro opened his eyes slowly, trying to make it seem as though he'd closed them only by choice. Impossibilities met his sight.

- D