The Nimble Man

CHAPTER SIX

Doyle followed the sentries through the impossibly lush forest. At first glance it appeared to be too dense and overgrown for passage, but the primordial wood obliged their needs and parted to let them through. The people of Faerie existed in a symbiotic relationship with their environment, bonded to the land where they had lived forever.

The sentries quickened their pace, one of them turning to give Doyle a cruel smile as they began to run through the wood. The sorcerer kept up with them as best he could, his heart hammering in his chest as if to escape. He knew they did not appreciate his presence, and would do everything short of killing him to make sure he was aware of that fact. But there was no time to concern himself with the hurt feelings of the Fey. They were all in danger; this world, as well as worlds beyond it.

The guards came to an abrupt stop in front of a downed tree. It was enormous, easily dwarfing the mighty Redwoods of Earth. Doyle welcomed the brief respite, reaching into his back pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his sweating brow. The wood was eerily quiet and he did not recognize this path to the city of Faerie, but that was far from unusual, for the forest often changed its configuration to keep the great home of the Fey safe from danger. It had done this since the Twilight War. Many enemy troops, having found their way into the Faerie realm, never reached their destination, eventually succumbing to the elements of the forest world.

One of the sentries rapped three times on the trunk of the felled tree with his spear. Figures and shadows shifted in Doyle's peripheral vision, and then the forest was alive with movement. Fey warriors emerged from their places of concealment around and atop the enormous fallen tree. They had been there all along, but had not allowed themselves to be seen. A chill ran up Doyle's spine as more and more of the armored soldiers made their presence known. Their pale faces were tattooed with magickal wards of protection, the symbols adding to the ferocity of their appearance. Doyle was familiar with the Lhiannan-shee, the elite fighting force of the Faerie army, but he had thought their ranks disbanded after the Twilight conflict. Something was definitely amiss, and he began to wonder if he had made the journey to Faerie too late.

A Lhiannan-shee wearing the markings of a commander crouched atop the fallen tree and glared at the sentries, and at Doyle.

"Why have left your post at the gate to the world of Blight?" The normally pleasant tone of the Faerie tongue sounded harsh coming from the commander.

The world of Blight, Doyle thought with sadness as he wiped his brow. How the people of this magickal realm had learned to hate the world of his birth. At one time, the doorways between the two places had been gossamer-thin, but humanity's blatant disregard for the environment had disgusted the Fey, and they ceased interaction with man.

"The doorway was opened from the other side," one of the sentries, apparently their captain, explained. He pointed to Doyle. "And from the world of Blight, he did come."

The commander of the Lhiannan-shee gazed upon them, his eyes lingering on Doyle, and a ripple of disgust went across his face. With a feline grace, the commander leapt almost delicately down from the tree, but Doyle had seen the ferocity of the Lhiannan-shee in battle, and knew they were far from delicate. The commander strode toward him, uncomfortably close, his dark Fey eyes shiny and black like polished lake stones.

"You stink of the filth that is humanity, but there is also something of Faerie about you. How can this be?" the commander asked, his long, spidery fingers caressing the hilt of the short sword hanging at his side.

These warriors were young, perhaps unborn when the Twilight Wars were fought. They did not know him, and that served to further drive the point home that he no longer belonged here. Doyle felt an intense wave of sadness wash over him, but quickly cast it aside and looked deep into the commander's dark eyes.

"Lhiannan-shee, what was your father's name?" Doyle demanded in the language of the Fey, his pronunciation and intonation perfect.

The commander was taken aback and gripped his sword hilt all the tighter.

"What was your father's name?" Doyle repeated.

"Niamh-sidhel," the commander replied with an air of pride.

Doyle nodded, raising a hand to stroke his beard. "A brave one indeed. He fell during the battle of the Wryneck, but not before one hundred Fenodyree sampled the point of his sword." Doyle paused, remembering a Fey warrior with an unquenchable thirst for human beer. "He is remembered in both tale and song."

Doyle sang a bit of a remembrance song, the first verse telling of Niamh-sidhel's love of his people and his mistrust of the Night Kind. It had been quite some time since Doyle had sung, and he felt mildly foolish.

The commander's hand left his weapon, his ferocity turning to melancholy. "Who are you to sing of my father with such reverence?" His voice was now just a whisper in the woods.

"I am Arthur Conan Doyle, and once I called this wondrous place my home."

The Lhiannan-shee's eyes widened with the revelation, and Conan Doyle dared to think that perhaps he had not been entirely forgotten in the land of the Fey.

"I have heard this name. It is spoken in whispers here," the commander said. "There is much anger and sadness associated with your name, Conan Doyle from the Blight."

The memory of the day he had departed Faerie was fresh in Conan Doyle's mind, as crisp as if that particular recollection had been minted only the day before. His grief had been like a gaping wound as he sealed the private doorway from his home to the land of Faerie, believing he would never again look upon its abundant wonders. Now he felt that old wound tear open again, and begin to bleed freely.

"Believe me, commander, I am aware that I may not be welcome here. And I would never have entered Faerie unless circumstances were dire," Conan Doyle explained. "Allow me to pass into your great city so that I may warn your King and his Seelie Court of the impending danger."

The son of Niamh-sidhel narrowed his gaze, his gleaming black eyes studying Conan Doyle. At length, the commander turned to his soldiers and raised his long, pale arm, bracelets of rock and wood clattering against one another. The Lhiannan-shee tensed, ready to respond to their commander's signal. He showed them a balled fist, and then opened his hand, his incredibly long fingers splayed wide.

They responded immediately, the melodious sounds of Faerie spell-casting filling the air. Conan Doyle watched as their hands weaved intricate shapes, each an integral piece of the magick that was being cast. It took but seconds for one of the gnarled knots in the bark of the great tree to begin to grow larger, and larger still. The thick bark moaned and popped as it was magickally reconfigured, and soon they were looking at a tunnel through to the other side.

"My thanks," Conan Doyle said with a bow of his head.

The commander of the Lhianna-shee responded in kind. "The sentries will escort you the remainder of the way where you will speak with the Lady Ceridwen."

The mere mention of her name gave Conan Doyle a spasm of pain. He had hoped to avoid any contact with Ceridwen. He had hurt her more than enough and did not want to cause her any further grief.

"I mean no disrespect to the great lady, but my errand here is most dire. It should be brought to the attention of King Finvarra."

The commander gazed longingly through the opening in the tree. "I am afraid that is impossible, Conan Doyle from the Blight."

Conan Doyle felt another spark of panic. The Lhiannan-shee again deployed, the king unable to speak with him; something was very wrong here.

"Then at the least allow me to speak with the one who leads the Seelie Court," he asked, struggling to hide his frustration.

"And you shall," the warrior agreed, signaling to the sentries.

"Many thanks to you, son of Niamh-sidhel," Conan Doyle said as he followed his escorts into the tunnel's entrance. It was damp inside the great tree, the ceiling dripping with sweetly scented moisture. Conan Doyle paused and turned to glance back at the commander. The other Lhiannan-shee were curiously watching Conan Doyle, this stranger to their worlds, as he moved through the dripping darkness. "And who now leads the Seelie Court?"

"Why, the Lady Ceridwen, of course," the commander replied.

Conan Doyle felt his pulse quicken and his throat go dry. Something fluttered in his gut.

"Oh my," he said aloud as his escorts took him firmly by his shoulders and he was urged deeper into the tunnel.

From the darkness of the tunnel they emerged into the light, and Conan Doyle had to shield his eyes, for the sun of this world shone brightly upon the splendor that was the kingdom of Faerie. He heard the snap and creak of their tunnel passage closing behind them, but could not pull his eyes from the fabulous view that lay before him. Though he had seen the forest citadel of King Finvarra many times, and even lived within its abundant halls, he still marveled at its magnificence.

Nudged from his reverie by his escorts, Conan Doyle left the shadows of the great tree and proceeded down an open hillock to an elaborate suspension bridge that would allow access to the fabulous settlement nestled in the breathtaking valley before them.

Faerie legend claimed that the kingdom, and all its intricate structures, had been made from the desiccated remains of a long, forgotten god. As Conan Doyle and his Fey companions crossed the great bridge and the buildings loomed closer, Conan Doyle could think of no reason to doubt this ancient tale. The citadel of the royal family rose up from the center of the kingdom, its high, pointed spires the color of polished bone. There was an organic look to the place, all straight lines and rounded curves. His memories did not do it justice.

The trio came to an abrupt stop at the end of the bridge, before an intimidating gate that very well could have been made from the ribs of some gigantic deity. Conan Doyle gazed between the slats of the gate to the courtyard beyond, and saw that there was no sign of life. If his memory served him correctly, this was highly unusual, for the courtyard served as a marketplace for the citizens of the kingdom, and usually thrived with activity.

Conan Doyle turned to his escorts. "Why is it so quiet? Where are the Fey?"

They ignored his question. "Our responsibility is fulfilled," the more talkative of the pair said with little emotion, and they both turned back down the length of the bridge, leaving him alone.

"How will I get inside?" Conan Doyle asked their departing forms.

"That is not our concern," the sneering sentry said over his shoulder.

The sound of a bolt sliding home distracted Conan Doyle, and he turned back to the gate. To its right was a door of thick, light-colored wood, its pale surface marbled with streaks of a darker grain. The door began to slowly open outward, and he watched as a hooded figure, clad in robes of rich, dark blue, with golden brocade about the sleeves and hem, emerged.

"I am here to speak with she who leads the Seelie Court," Conan Doyle said formally, squinting his eyes in an attempt to discern the features of the one whose identity remained hidden within the darkness of the hood.

"We know why you have come, Arthur Conan Doyle." The mysterious figure reached up with pale, gnarled hands to pull back his hood. "The land has warned us of your return, and the grim tidings you bring."

From a copse of nearby trees a murder of crows rose into the air, screaming their panicked caws. Nothing remained secret for long in the realm of Faerie. Even before he had removed the hood, Conan Doyle had recognized the voice of the king's grand vizier, Tylwyth Teg.

"Greetings, Tylwyth Teg, it has been a long time." Conan Doyle bowed his head.

The vizier's hair was long, wisp-thin and white, like the delicate webs of a spider upon his ancient skull. It drifted about his head and face, caressed by the gentle breezes that rose up from the valley. As always, Tylwyth wore a scowl of distaste. He had never approved of Conan Doyle's presence in Faerie, and vehemently opposed any attempt to teach a human the powerful magicks of the Fey.

"The wound has not yet healed from when last you were among us," Tylwyth snarled, his cadaverous features giving him the appearance of an animated corpse.

"I would not have returned, but for the danger that threatens both our realms," Conan Doyle summoned as much reverence as he was able. "Please, I must be allowed to speak with your mistress."

Tylwyth Teg again raised his hood, then turned and passed through the doorway from which he came. "You come too late, son of man," he hissed cryptically as Conan Doyle followed. "For catastrophe has already struck our kingdom."

The vizier shuffled across the empty courtyard and Conan Doyle shuddered with the sense of foreboding that permeated the air. Carts that would normally be overflowing with produce lay abandoned in the corner. Booths used to display the finest wares of Fey craftsmen were empty.

"What has happened here, Tylwyth?" he dared ask as they entered one of the outer structures of Finvarra's citadel. "Where are the merchants, and the people?"

"They are in mourning," the vizier croaked, stopping in the high-ceilinged hallway to remove a ring of keys from within his robes. Even the citadel itself, which normally bustled with life, was deathly still.

"Who, Tylwyth?" Conan Doyle asked, as the vizier produced a key that resembled the petrified branch of some primeval tree and unlocked a heavy wooden gate. "Who do they mourn? Has King Finvarra — ?"

The Faerie advisor gestured for Conan Doyle to proceed through the gate, which led into the king's private garden. "Who do they mourn?" he echoed, shaking his head sadly. "The future, perhaps? Perhaps they mourn the future. But it is not my place to explain."

After Conan Doyle had stepped through, Tylwyth Teg pulled the gate closed behind him with a resounding clatter. Conan Doyle frowned and glanced back through the bars of the gate at the vizier.

"Step into the garden and all will be made clear, Conan Doyle."

Knowing he would get little else from Twylyth Teg, Conan Doyle turned and strode into the garden. Either side of the stone path was adorned with the largest red roses he had ever seen. The faint sound of gurgling water reached him and he knew that he was near his destination. A moment later he caught sight of the top of the fountain in the garden's center. Though he could not see more than its apex, he recalled an intricate ebony sculpture of a great fish, water jetting from its open maw to rain down into the pool that surrounded it.

He passed beneath an archway woven from a flowering vine known only to the world of Faerie, its blossoms welcoming him to the garden of kings with voices like those of tiny children. And then his feet froze and he could not move. Even his breath was stilled in his chest. It seemed to him that his heart paused as well. Laid out upon the ground around the stone fountain were the unmistakable shapes of bodies, covered by sheets of ivory silk.

"Dear Lord," Conan Doyle whispered. Everywhere his eyes fell was a body, their coverings rippling as the breeze caressed their silken shrouds, tormenting him with glimpses of the corpses beneath. There must be fifty of them.

A tremor went through Conan Doyle. He sensed movement behind him and whirled to face the object of his dread, the reason why he had expected never to return to Faerie. He had tried to fashion a ward, some sort of magickal defense that would protect his heart from the devastation he knew he would feel, but there was nothing to save him from this.

Ceridwen was dressed in flowing robes of soft, sheer linen, dyed a deep forest green. Her pale skin was accentuated by the dark hue of her garb. When her eyes met his, she drew a gauzy scarf tight about her shoulders as if experiencing a sudden chill.

"My lady," Conan Doyle whispered, his breath taken away. The ache caused by simply being within her presence was bone deep.

"You said that I would never see you again," the Fey sorceress said, her voice the lilt of a gentle spring breeze, still carrying the melancholy of a long winter. "And I had come to accept that."

When she walked across the stone floor, her dark robes billowing about her, it was with such elegance that she seemed to float, carried by the wind.

"You once told me you would never trust the word of a human. Even one that you loved," Conan Doyle said. He tried to search her eyes but there was only ice there. Never had he felt so torn. Part of him would rather have been experiencing the fires of damnation in that moment, and yet another side of his heart felt utter joy merely to be in Ceridwen's presence once more.

She knelt beside one of the bodies, her long, delicate hand reaching to draw back the sheet that covered it. A dead face was revealed to them, a twisted look of pain permanently frozen upon it.

"Why have you come, Arthur?" she asked, her thumb tracing arcane sigils upon the corpse's forehead. It was a ritual he had seen before, during the Twilight War, when an ally had been stuck down by infernal magicks. It freed what life energies remained within the confines of the body.

"To seek answers, and to warn you of a great evil on the rise," he said, tentatively kneeling beside her. To be this close to her again was almost more than he could bear. "But I fear I have come too late."

Ceridwen covered the twisted features of the fallen Fey, raising her head to look into Conan Doyle's eyes. He would drown in those eyes, and there was nothing that could be done to save him.

"Who did this, my lady?" he asked, ignoring the urge to reach out and touch her face, to caress her alabaster skin.

She tore her gaze away and moved to another of the covered corpses. "I am your lady no longer, Arthur Conan Doyle. As to the hand behind this tragedy, that is a tale almost too sad to tell." She drew down another sheet of silk to reveal the dead beneath. The countenance of this corpse was even more disturbing than the first. "This evil of which you speak has touched our world as well."

"Who is it? Whose hand has done this?"

Ceridwen glanced up from her ministrations, her dark, soulful eyes again touching his. "It was one of our own," she said, a tremble in her voice, and his heart nearly broke as he watched tears like liquid crystal run down her cheeks, to land upon the upturned face of a dead Fey warrior.

"Two hundred and fifty channels and not a damn thing on," Squire muttered as he aimed the remote control at a thirty-five inch television monitor in a hard wood cabinet. The goblin flipped past countless images, each of them dishearteningly similar — another apocalyptic vision of the northeast United States, or static. Whatever the hell was going on outside was interfering with the digital cable signals.

He reached a stubby hand into the bag of greasy potato chips and brought a handful to his mouth. Squire lived for junk food: candy and chips, burgers and fries, cookies and donuts. Especially donuts. He loved food of all kinds, in fact. It was his greatest pleasure. But the sweetest and saltiest were his favorites.

Stopping at one of the all-news channels, the goblin watched a live feed from Virginia Beach, where the ocean had begun to boil and the fish were leaping up out of the water in a frantic attempt to escape death. Somewhere off-camera people had begun to scream.

"That'll help," he said, taking a swig from his bottle of beer to wash down his snack. "Nothing like a good shriek to calm everybody's nerves." Squire belched mightily, flecks of unchewed potato chip speckling his shirt and pants. Bored with watching fish die, he changed the station. Maybe a nice game show, he thought, flipping past channel after channel of the world in turmoil. He tried not to think about what was happening outside. Conan Doyle's agents were in the field, and it was only a matter of time before things were wrestled back under control. That was how it always was. If there was anything Squire had learned in his many years working for Mr. Doyle, it wasn't over until the fat lady shit in the woods.

On a pay station that hadn't gone to static, he finally found a movie. A large grin spread across his face. A nice piece of Hollywood escapist fluff was exactly what he needed. His smile quickly turned to a frown when he realized the station was showing the abysmal Keanu science fiction flick that the actor had done before The Matrix.

As if Keanu wasn't torture enough, Squire thought, continuing his search for something to amuse him.

He had clicked all the way to the end and was about to start over again when something on one of the local stations caught his eye. He leaned forward on the sofa, crumbs of potato chip raining to the floor. The handheld footage was shaky and made his eyes hurt, but he recognized the area. The camera was pointed toward a bunker-like structure in the midst of a sea of orange brick. It was the exit from the Government Center subway station, not too far away, and there were things not usually associated with public transit pouring from the underground and spilling onto the plaza.

"Corca-fuckin-Duibhne," he growled, turning up the volume. There had to be hundreds of the coppery-skinned bastards. It was like watching a swarm of bugs emerging from their nest. Whoever was manning the camera was hiding behind a newspaper kiosk, peeking out from time to time for the disturbing footage. For some reason there was no audio, and Squire imagined that it was probably for the best.

Slowly, he brought a potato chip to his mouth, eyes riveted to the television. One of the Night People had seen the cameraman, its mouth opening incredibly wide in a silent roar. The gnarled, twisted, leathery thing sprang across the brick as though in a dance, needle teeth bared for attack. The picture turned to static, and an anchorwoman who usually looked too damn cool for the room came on as the broadcast returned to the studio. Her face was pasty, and she was sweating to beat the band.

"How long ago was that?" Squire asked the set, listening to the woman's trembling voice. The goblin rose from his chair and went to the window. The red, billowing fog seemed to have grown thicker in the square below, practically hiding the park from view. There was a kind of glow about it now that reminded him of weird creatures that lived so far below the ocean's surface that they had developed their own luminescence.

"No more than a fifteen minute walk from Government Center to here," the hobgoblin grumbled, though his words trailed off as he noticed dark things moving in the blood red mist. "Shit!" Squire pressed his face against the glass for a better look. Corca Duibhne darted about the unearthly fog with an uncanny swiftness, converging upon the townhouse.

Conan Doyle's valet stepped away from the window. There was no way that the Night People could get inside the townhouse. Conan Doyle had set up all kinds of magickal wards and barriers so that nothing that didn't belong could find its way into the place. The image on the television screen again caught his attention. The anchorwoman was crying now, mascara running down her face in oily streaks. She was in the process of confessing her sins to the camera.

"I've got my own problems, sweetheart," he said, reaching for the remote and clicking off the set.

A thunderous clamor came to him from the first floor, as if something were pounding on the door to get in, but of course Squire knew that was impossible. Isn't it? Son of a bitch, it had better be.

He jumped feet first into a square of shadow thrown by the entertainment center, becoming immersed in a world of perpetual darkness.

The goblin scrambled through the shadowpaths toward an exit that would take him closest to the front door. Again came the pounding, the violent sound muffled within the realm of shadow. Squire drew himself out of a patch of black behind the refrigerator in the kitchen, the hot coils at the back of the unit pressing against his face as he hauled his body from the shadow, and squeezed out from behind the appliance.

Two Corca Duibhne scouts crouched in the center of the kitchen. He knew they were scouts because the symbol of their rank was carved into the dark flesh of their faces. No stars or stripes on lapels for these guys. Heads tilted back, eyes closed, their noses twitched as they sniffed the air in search of potential danger.

It wasn't an instant before they got a nose full of him.

I knew I should have showered this week, the hobgoblin thought, scrambling across the tile floor to pull open one of the counter drawers.

The scouts began to shriek, a high-pitched, ululating sound that warned others of their stinking kind that there was trouble present.

Squire spun around, glinting metal cleaver in hand, meeting the first of his attackers with relish. It had been a long time since he had killed a Corca Duibhne, and as he buried the blade in the skull of his adversary he realized he was long overdue.

"Look at that, a perfect fit," Squire growled, as the creature continued to fight. "What's that? You'd like seconds?" He drove a stubby knee savagely up into the Corca Duibhne's midsection, yanked the cleaver from its head, and brought it down again. "What a greedy little piggy."

The scout went rigid as the metal blade again shattered its skull, sinking deep. Finally hitting the tiny piece of fruit these shitbags call a brain.

The second of the scouts was across the room. It had been jockeying around, looking for space to attack. Now it pulled back its leathery lips in a ferocious snarl that revealed nasty black gums and needle sharp teeth. "He was my brother," the creature snarled, its oily eyes shifting from the corpse of its sibling back to Squire.

"Sorry," the hobgoblin apologized, bracing the heel of his foot against the corpse's shoulder, and pulling the cleaver from its head with a slight grunt of exertion. "Did you like 'im much?"

The Corca Duibhne shrugged, its long clawed fingers messaging the air. "Not especially," it hissed. "But blood is the strongest bond. I will take your life in exchange for his."

"Is that so?" Squire asked, hefting his weapon, stained with stinking black blood. "I guess it's good to have goals, even if they are fucking ridiculous."

How is this possible? the goblin wondered. Conan Doyle's magick was some serious mojo, but these bastards had breached the house's supposedly unbreakable defenses. Not good. Not good at all.

The scout began to move and Squire prepared to counter its attack, but it lunged away from him and bolted through the doorway with a hiss, fleeing the kitchen. The goblin swore beneath his breath. Night People. Buncha pussies, he thought, hopping over the body of the dead scout in pursuit.

"Wait up," he called, careful not to slip in the blood pooling upon the tile floor. "I've got something special for you."

Squire did not have far to run. The scout had only fled as far as the corridor that led out toward the foyer. It stood, its back against the wall, holding in its spidery hand the crystal knob from Conan Doyle's front door. The Corca Duibhne looked at him, and smiled an awful smile. Tendrils of crimson fog drifted into the corridor from the foyer. For the first time, Squire felt the draft, the breeze.

The door was open.

He could not see it from his vantage point, but it was clear these two scouts were not alone. Squire brandished his cleaver, ready to do combat with whatever else had invaded his employer's home. From the foyer came the sound of splintering wood, and then the heavy, plodding tread of many feet. There was a solid thump and a muttered, feral curse, and in his mind he could picture a cluster of Corca Duibhne carrying something massive and heavy.

Squire was not going to let this happen.

Cleaver clutched tightly in his grip he started down the corridor toward that single Corca Duibhne, who now tossed the crystal knob idly into the air and caught it as though it were a lucky coin. Squire wanted to tear its heart out. But a moment later he came within sight of the foyer.

"Son of a monkey's uncle," he whispered.

Eight Corca Duibhne emerged from the red fog, grunting with exertion as they hauled what looked to be a large chunk of jagged rock between them. They looked like pallbearers carrying a coffin at a funeral. The failing light from outside glinted off the object's surface, and Squire saw that it wasn't rock at all, but a kind of amber, for he could see the shape of a man imprisoned within. At that moment, he knew how his enemies had gained access to the townhouse. It was all so frighteningly clear.

"Sweetblood," he said aloud as the Night People let their load drop to the hardwood floor of the foyer.

A part of him wanted to stay, to defend the homestead from invaders, but another part of him, one far more intelligent than that stupid half, suggested that it might just be wiser to get the hell out of there. He began to search for an exit, a patch of shadow through which to make his escape.

"What, leaving us so soon?" came a voice as smooth as silk, speaking the tongue of the Fey.

Squire turned to see a statuesque female emerge from the scarlet fog. The Corca Duibhne cowered as she passed them, as if afraid she would slap them, or worse. The woman was dressed from head to toe in black leather, her hair covered in a stylish kerchief of red silk, as if to match the fog. Even though her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, Squire knew her at once.

"Morrigan," he whispered.

"You're going nowhere," she said, a cruel smile gracing her colorless features. "The fun is just beginning."

Fun like a heart attack, Squire thought as the Corca Duibhne rushed him, and he raised his cleaver in defense. Fun like a heart attack.