PAGAN FIRES

PAGAN FIRES, by Rev. Joe Kelly, artwork by Karolína Wellartová

 

1

 

The peaceful still of the mire burst apart with the pounding splashes of panic-winged feet. Small furry animals scrambled for cover, little wading birds tittered and took flight, as the lad tore through the rushes, his streaming sweat half-frozen, his lungs aching from the bitter cold as he gasped and panted in his panic. Desperately he threw himself into a stand of tall reeds, clawed amid the stinking vegetation for what little concealment he could find.

In the midst of the reeds the boy halted on hands and knees, wheezing, hacking up his cold-stripped lungs. His hands, elbow-deep in the icy muck, were numbed to the bone; his feet were lifeless, frozen lumps. His whole body shook with exhaustion, with terrible cold, with mortal fear.

Through the fen echoed the bays of the bloodhounds, the bloodthirsty shouts and whoops of the hunting party. Now and again Rob heard harshly barked orders: Forster, Drummond’s Captain of the Hunt. The bloodthirsty bastards. What had he done that was so wrong?!

He gasped, choked down thick spittle, caught his breath, and moaned, “Where are ya? You damned little devil–where are ya?!”

“Rob MacFarlane?” Rob froze at the high-pitched, hoarse little voice. “Is that you, boy?” A nasty little phlegmy giggle came from the rushes. Rob turned; and though he’d seen the grotesque face many a time before, still he felt his stomach churn with horror at the bug-eyed little monster, as its fleshy, fishy lips curled with deviltrous mirth.

The thing squatted on its haunches, like a little demonic monkey, grinning at him. “In need of my aid, are ya?”

Rob swallowed hard. “Get me out o’ this!”

The imp tittered. “Get you out, eh, Rob? But you yourself got into it! I warned ya–be respectful of the powers I might summon; fritter them not! But what did you ask for? Love spells!” The thing cackled. “You come to me, a-beggin’ the aid o’ the mighty Seer-Prince of the Sea, and for what? Love spells–you fool boy!”

Despite his fear, despite the pain and the cold that racked him, Rob snarled back at the thing. “Mock me, aye–have your laughs, but damn you, we’ve a pact, you and I! You give me power, and I give your King Whisperer souls! Well, I’ve given him souls aplenty, surely more than I owed–that means he’s in my debt now, and you’re goin’ to…”

Rob’s voice petered out. At the thing’s menacing glare the courage of desperation abruptly deserted him. Its growl was hoarse, guttural: “Do not presume to command King Cocuru, young fool. His reach is as infinite as imagination; in his eternal slumber he might slip into your dreams, and tear your mind apart with but a flick o’ his fingers.”

Rob shuddered, bowed his head. “I’m sorry… please… accept my humble apologies, oh devoted servant of the Lord of Dreams.” In the distance, the sounds of pursuit drew closer; the dogs bayed excitedly, the hunters and dog handlers howled and hollered their joy of the sporting chase, of the bloody end that was sure to come soon.

The little monster grinned at the sound. “Drawin’ close, aren’t they? Seems to me you’re in dire straits.”

Rob’s eyes flashed back up; but it was desperation that lit them now. Shuddering as much from the fear as the cold, he hissed, “Please! I’ve been a good servant, haven’t I? I’ve made King Whisperer happy, have I not? Can’t you help me? I beg of you–please!”

The beast’s grin broadened to an impossible, sickening breadth. “Aye, I’ll help ya… but for such aid as you need, there’ll be a steeper price yet to pay.”

“Then I’ll pay it! Anything–only get me out of this!”

The thing tittered, and leaned forward. “Then open wide, Rob MacFarlane.”

 

***

 

The baying of the bloodhounds was thunderous. They were drawing close; their tails wagged with excitement. The trackers, long dirks and hunting knives in hand, waved to the men lagging behind with fowling pieces and short-barreled rifles. “He’s close!” they shouted, “Come on–we’re right on top of him!” The rest of the villagers shouted back, eager, whooping, as they shouldered their guns and checked their frizzen pans. It was a merry chase, for these bloodthirsty buggers.

Gasping for breath, Forster swore viciously as he pounded his way through the stinking slush. “You dog-men!” he shouted, “Back with us–don’t run so far ahead! And get those damned hounds under control! Drummond wants a legal trial–not a lynching!”

One of the trackers halted and turned back with a grin that was more than half snarl. “MacFarlane’s ravaged our daughters too, eh? And he’s killed our brothers and our sons in his damned duels and his robberies! We’ll catch ‘im, aye–but we’ll give ‘im such as a devil-worshipin’ rake an’ murderer like ‘im deserves!” He turned back and whooped to the other trackers, who yipped and hollered back, bloodthirsty as their beasts.

The hounds bounded ahead into a stand of tall reeds. The trackers rushed to follow. Forster swore and bellowed for command, but the villagers ignored him. They drew steel and cocked their hunting pieces and closed in for the kill.

A horrible dog’s scream froze the party in their tracks.

From the reeds came a vicious squalling, the snarls and snaps of dogs, the crashing of rushes, hideous yelps and whines as something fought back against them–something that was butchering them. Abruptly from the rushes came running three panicked animals, tails between their legs as they yelped their terror, crippled legs hobbling, blood streaming from deep gashes.

A chilled silence settled over the hunting party. The only sound was of the splashes of the retreating dogs, of their yelping cries as they scattered in flight. Gradually the men began to mutter to themselves, “A boar?” “Nay, no boar could do that to a pack o’ hounds.” “Did the bastard set a trap for ’em?”

Backsword and pistol in hand, Forster shoved his way past the fearful-eyed dog handlers. He peered into the reeds, muttered, “What in the name of God–”

From the reeds exploded a gigantic, snarling bogey of legend, hell and mad fury incarnate. In a flash the roaring muck-drenched beast fell on Captain Forster and tore him screaming in half.

Somebody screamed, “KILL IT!” Guns banged in a ragged rattle of musketry. Amid the acrid smoke the screaming villagers fell upon the mud-and-blood-spattered bogey with long knife and cudgel, beating and stabbing with a wild courage born of blind fear. But the towering monstrosity only howled louder as the wounds did naught but fill it with rage. With a blinding lash of black claws it gutted the first man it could reach, and effortlessly snapped the arm of another who swung desperately with a cudgel.

Cries of terror and despair shattered any remaining courage: “Run!” “It’s a demon!” “It can’t be killed!” Begging help from sweet Jesus, shrieking their mortal terror, the party threw their weapons aside and routed, scattered blind into the mire.

But the thing was swifter than they. The cries of horror, the screams of men rent limb from limb, lasted long into the evening.

 

2

 

The glowering curtain of clouds matched the sullen atmosphere of Lord Drummond’s estate. The starchy, scowling servant who took his reins glanced darkly at Conor Dubh’s faded traveling clothes, at the big-bored musquetoon and long-barreled cavalry pistols, at the well-worn hilts of his dirk and claybeg. His myriad armaments, his rough and hardy clothes and tack, marked him as a mercenary, a rogue, a killer for hire; and Conor’s easy blue-eyed Irish smile brought only a fresh snarl of disdain from the servant.

Conor Dubh chuckled and tried to shrug it off. But the sting of disdain smoldered in his belly. He despised them, these arrogant little men who wondered what possible business such an unseemly character could have with their esteemed lord. Like a wise man once told him, all the little devils are proud of hell.

A dark smile tugged at Conor’s mouth–he’d like to send them all to hell. Just draw his claybeg, and with a Black O’Brien roar… but then, they’d hound him from one end of Britain to the other–and besides, he’d not get paid that way. Instead, he drew his worn cloak closer against the damp chill, and breathed deeply, watching his breath smoke as he blew.

He was led to a back entrance, by a sty of snorting pigs rooting about in the muck. The chief butler received him as he dismounted. The prim middle-aged servant examined the lean, rangy, long-limbed black Irishman with grudging approval. With an effete, precise Oxford Elizabethan accent, the butler addressed him: “Conor Dubh O’Brien?”

“I am.” Conor managed a stiff smile as he hitched his belt.

The butler glanced at the weapons at his side. “Would you be so kind as to remove your weapons before entering?”

“Afraid no.” Conor’s smile did not so much as flicker. “I can’t let the accoutrements of my trade from my sight. Never know when I’ll have to use ’em.

Stiffly, the butler said, “Sir, I may assure you, you’re in no danger of sudden attack whilst visiting my lord’s estate. This may be Scotland, but it is not the Middle Ages.”

Conor shrugged. “Nevertheless, my steel and my pistols stay with me.”

The corners of the butler’s mouth twitched; doubtless, he was thinking, bloody Irish. Discreetly, he shifted his smallsword closer to hand, then turned smartly and led the way into the manor house, pausing only to tense his shoulders and sigh at the sound of Conor stamping his riding boots clean in the foyer. Conor grinned darkly at his back, and followed the little man inside.

Conor was conducted swiftly past halls of cold marble, past pompous, glowering busts and stiff-limbed portraits that sneered with arrogant disapproval at all who passed through the manor house. In a small, dark side room, the butler indicated Conor’s seat, which he took luxuriously.

The butler took a deep breath, sat stiffly, and rattled off his instructions: “You have been hired to make use of your rather unique talents. The Earl of Falrick requests that–”

Conor put up a hand. “Where’s Lord Drummond?”

The butler’s jaw clenched. “You will understand if he is otherwise occupied.”

Conor grinned. “No time for the riff-raff, eh? Fine. What do I call ya, friend?”

“Sir… you may call me Archibald.”

Conor chuckled. “A fine name for a servant! Very…” He waved his hand lazily. “Proper.”

Archibald sniffed. “As I was saying… the Earl of Falrick requests that you apprehend, alive, unwounded if possible, the criminal known as Rob MacFarlane. He is, at present, believed to be lurking in Sutter’s Fen. That was, at least, where he was tracked to last. You will be paid, half the agreed-upon amount now, half when you retrieve Rob MacFarlane, alive.” With delicate fingers he pushed contract and quill across the table.

Conor frowned. “A few questions, before I sign.”

“Of course.”

“What for did ya track me down? Why not get a gang of hunters from the village, set the Earl’s dogs loose on this MacFarlane? They’ll beat him clear of the bush in no time.”

Archibald’s eyes were stern. “Unfortunately, we did just as you suggested a few days ago. The entire hunting party was massacred. And not by human hands.”

Conor brooded a moment. “Are you sure it was deviltry? He might have friends, and bandits can be damned vicious beasts.”

Archibald shook his head firmly. “Rob MacFarlane has no earthly friends. He is a loner, a pariah, against whom a growing number of superstitious accusations have been leveled. Had you asked me last week, I should have dismissed them as the gossip of ill-educated village folk.” The butler’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and his impassive face paled just the slightest. “But it is a rare man indeed, Mister O’Brien, who is both willing and able to tear a pack of bloodhounds to pieces.”

Conor’s brows perked.

Archibald nodded. “Not to mention the entire hunting party. And the wounds which I examined, appeared, to my untrained eyes at least, to be the marks of claws. Claws, like a lion’s.”

Conor nodded, smiled thoughtfully. “So. You’ve the need of someone who can handle man or monster.”

“As I said.” Archibald sighed. “You see, sir, why we called upon your expertise.”

Conor nodded; then, there was an awkward silence. He suddenly felt quite inadequate before the impatiently shifting Archibald. Daemon-Slayer General, that’s what he’d billed himself as. Daemon-slayer… hell. He’d slain but one beastie, and the memory of its ghost-claws ripping through his flesh still haunted his nightmares. He knew a little, from the tales of his childhood; a few things more a witch-woman had taught him. She’d wanted to teach him so much more… but he’d gotten impatient. “Damn it, Moira!” he’d said, “I’ve spent damn near twenty years trackin’ and slayin’, I can pick the rest up as I go, can’t I?”

And now, here he was, with no idea what to say or ask, much less what to do. He could practically feel Moira’s disapproving eyes on him. “Er…” he fumbled, “d’ye have any sort of description of–”

The shattering of a window brought both men to their feet.

Silence followed the crash. Both men glanced at each other, drew swords and charged out of the room and down the hallway, the surprisingly spry Archibald taking the lead.

They found the broken, gaping window in moments. A trail of crunched glass and drops of some ill-smelling muddy liquid led down the hall. Archibald shouted, “Caroline’s room!” and resumed his headlong run.

Conor shouted after him, “Caroline?”

“Lord Drummond’s daughter–that damned MacFarlane pretends he is her suitor!” Archibald bounded up the stairs two at a time, Conor hot on his heels. They rounded a corner, and came to a door hanging open as a shriek ripped the air within.

“CAROLINE!” Archibald charged through the door–and halted so abruptly that Conor had to stumble sideways to avoid bowling him over.

When he righted himself, Conor almost dropped his claybeg. His eyes bulged, his face blanched, as he rasped, “Morrígan, Lugh, An Dagda–be with me!”

On the floor sprawled the delicate Lady Caroline, lips trembling, big eyes wide with frozen horror. Looming before her, whirling to meet the unexpected interruption, was a demoniac monstrosity, a bogeyman straight from a child’s nightmare. Its body was gaunt, the powerful muscles wrapped in too-tight skin; its limbs, gigantic and rangy, terminated in wickedly sharp, filth-caked claws, like those of a gigantic vulture.

But its face was the worst. Its mouth was monstrous, gaping, batrachian, filled with long, needle-sharp teeth. Its ears and nose were featureless amphibian holes. But its sickly sallow eyes, creased with alarm and hatred… its eyes were horridly human.

The beast howled–no bestial noise, but the anguished cry of a wicked man whose furious lusts have been denied.

Conor and Archibald charged.

The thing dodged the needle-tip of Archibald’s smallsword. Conor lunged, caught it off-guard, and ran a foot of steel through its shoulder. The monster screamed, swiped for Conor. He pulled his sword free and leaped back just in time to avoid having his throat ripped out. Archibald danced back in, seeking the thing’s heart–slashing claws sent him springing back.

The demon snarled as it backed up cautiously, both men following carefully. With a voice like the sucking gurgle of a fen it growled, “She’s mine, d’ya hear? You won’t keep her from me, ya bastards–I killed Cap’n Forester, and I’ll kill you, and any other Drummond throws in my way!”

The beast whirled about, sprang, and smashed head-first through the window. Conor’s long-barreled pistol leaped into his hand as he charged the window, expecting to shoot the thing as it scrambled to its feet. But the beast was already racing across the grounds, tearing big slivers of plate glass from its flesh as though they were splinters. Conor fired a shot, and swore as the thing barely twitched at the ball smashing into its back. It vaulted the low wall of the manor, bounded across the road and cleared a field wall, where it disappeared amid the dead weeds of a fallow plot.

Conor turned as Archibald, sword sheathed, lifted Caroline gentle as a wet-nurse to her bed. Conor thumped his pistol into its holster as Archibald wetted a kerchief to pad Caroline’s forehead. The butler muttered grudgingly, “I suppose I should thank you for your impertinence earlier… your swordarm was badly needed just now.”

Down the hallway there came a shouting. Conor cleaned his blade of the foul brown ichor that the creature had bled, and sheathed it just as a puffing, red-faced Lord Drummond came charging into the room. “Caroline!” he bellowed, “Is she all right? What’s happened?” The potbellied lord had an old naval officer’s hangar in his hand, and he swung the short sword about as though he were back on the deck of one of His Majesty’s warships.

Conor smacked the Earl’s shoulder with a grin. Drummond jerked back with visible repulsion at the touch as Conor reassured him, “It’s all right! She’s safe. Whatever it was that came for her, we fought it off.”

A moment of embarrassment crossed Drummond’s eyes, to be swiftly hidden behind his lordly facade. Taking a moment to straighten his clothes and powdered periwig, he ran his eyes brusquely over Conor, and drew himself ramrod straight with a sneer of disdain. “You’d be O’Brien, then.”

Any affability Conor felt for the man slipped away. His grin turned cold and mocking as he bowed low. “At your service, my lord.”

Drummond’s eyes flashed at the naked mockery, but he kept a stiff upper lip. Turning to Archibald, he said, “Well. I see you’ve everything under control.” The strong undertone of Scots brogue had left his voice. “I’ll leave you to it.” With a last glance at his fainting daughter, he turned and walked starchily from the room.

Conor glared darkly after him, then shook his head and turned back to Archibald, who was still attending to Caroline. “Well,” he said. “That thing must’ve been Rob MacFarlane’s demon servant. You say MacFarlane lusted after the Lady?”

Archibald nodded.

Conor mused, “That thing did as well… and it said Caroline belonged to it–not to Rob.” He paced back and forth. “I need badly to find MacFarlane. Probably he conjured the thing to try to escape your hunting party earlier. But, being ignorant in whatever deviltry he worked, the thing escaped his control. We’re lucky the damn thing was so cowardly, otherwise…”

Abruptly, Caroline’s eyes opened, and she sat bolt upright. Horror etched her face. “No–no!” She batted away Archibald’s coaxing hands. “Archibald–sir–that thing… it wasn’t conjured by Rob! It WAS Rob!”

Conor stepped closer. He muttered, “Lass… are you sure? How do you know?”

Her voice quavered, but in it was a strength born of hatred and disgust. “It spoke like him… his face, his voice, were all twisted, by the awful black magic he worked upon himself… but I saw his eyes! I tell you, sir, it was him!” She threw her face into her hands, and began to weep. Between sobs, she gasped, “God almighty, save his soul… I can’t believe it… but it’s true… what everyone said, it’s all true! He’s in league with the Broonie!”

 

3

 

Reverend Grant nodded. “The Broonie of Falrick. Aye, that’s an old legend.”

Conor took another stiff drink of bitter ale and gazed about the church’s interior. It was a damned old building, still humbly decorated in the antique Celtic Christian style; parts of it almost certainly predated Hastings by hundreds of years.

The priest befitted his church, a short, frail, horseshoe-balding man with a friendly smile and a quiet demeanor. “Aye… ’tis but a half-remembered fairy-tale to frighten children nowadays. I can’t understand why the Lady would be so convinced it were true.”

Conor shook his head, his eyes dark. “Had you seen what we had, Reverend, you’d not be discounting any fairy-tales just now.”

Reverend Grant turned over Archibald’s hastily written note. “And if Archibald hadn’t vouched for ya, I’d think you a madman, come wanderin’ into my church.” The old Reverend chuckled.

“Reverend. The story, please.”

“Aye, of course.” Reverend Grant took a full swallow of ale, sat back and peered into space as he recalled. “As the story goes, the Broonie was a terrible plague upon Falrick, hundreds of years ago. He worked great and terrible mischief, through the hands of those he possessed.”

Conor’s eyes sharpened. “Possessed?”

“Aye. Rogues and malcontents, from all corners of the Marches, went to him, seeking the strength and the power to grasp that which they most desired. But that strength came with a price: inevitably, the Broonie tricked or convinced them to let it enter their bodies. Thus, it fed upon their souls, and misshaped them into images of their own sin; and they were driven unto madness in the pursuit of their lusts. It’s but a fairy tale, you see, a fable about greed and sin.”

“And this fairy tale wouldn’t happen to specify what the Broonie actually was, would it?”

Reverend Grant smiled. “As a matter of fact, you’d know well what it was, being an Irishman. It was a child of the Fomorians–so the tale goes.”

Conor’s whole aspect darkened. “Aye… the Fomóire.” So that’s what it was. A fool Conor was, aye–a charlatan, even; no expert in demon-slaying, but a rogue with a wild tale and a quick tongue. With another bogey, he might have been at a loss. But one of the Fomóire–those blasted bastard children of the sea… he knew how to handle them. For the O’Briens Dubh had not forgot the old tales, the most sacred legends that were kept secret from the prying monks.

Reverend Grant looked at him curiously a moment. He shrugged. “Well, were I to guess, there’s some natural explanation to this mystery. Most likely, you saw Rob MacFarlane in disguise, trying to pass himself off as the Broonie to frighten folk.”

“And the hunting party?” Conor did not glance up from his dark reverie.

“Rob’s trained his own animals, perhaps a pack of wolf-hounds, in secret. The man’s been going it alone for years now, and this weren’t his first scrape with danger. Surely, he realized he needed help, were he to survive.”

Conor brooded a moment more. He shook his head stiffly. “No. What we saw was no disguise.”

“Well, perhaps some ghastly surgery, or–”

Conor rose abruptly. “Listen. Reverend. I need your help.”

The Reverend blinked nonplussed up at him. “Aye, brother?”

“I need some things.” Conor began to pace back and forth. “Some holly berries. The older the bush, the better. And iron filings–no, wait, they’ve got to be lodestone. Rosemary, some wolfsbane if you’ve got it…”

Reverend Grant’s brow furrowed darkly. “What on earth for? Don’t tell me you’re involved in false magic and witch’s tricks!”

“Are you listening?” Conor snapped. “This is important! Rosemary, thyme, clover, wolfsbane–salt, too. Damn it if I can remember all the herbs, but that should be enough! And I’ll need a she-cat. Black, preferably, all the better if she’s in heat, but as long as it’s a she-cat it should work.”

Reverend Grant leaped to his feet. There was a sudden light of righteous indignation burning in the kindly old man’s eyes. “In the name of God, brother! I’ll not stand for such obvious flimflammery! I shall have to inform Lord Drummond–”

Conor waved irritably. “Drummond knows I’m an expert in things like this. It’s why I was hired; he knew there was foul magic afoot. Now, if you please…”

Reverend Grant drew himself up to his modest full height. “I don’t believe Drummond would honestly fall for such superstitious nonsense. You’ve obviously tricked him somehow into believing your charlatanism. And what’s more, I’ll lay odds you’re in league with Rob MacFarlane, and this is all some scheme to inveigle the good Lord Drummond. Well, sir, I will not be a party to such chicanery! I shall have to go to Lord Drummond at once, and inform him that he is being swindled, and I shall pray he comes to his senses!”

The ferocious black Irish grin that spread over Conor’s face deflated Reverend Grant’s indignity. The old man shrank, withdrew, as Conor advanced on him, nodding, blue eyes blazing. “Fine. You tell ‘im that. You tell yourself there’s no such thing as goblins or ghouls or evil spirits. I believed such myself, until I came face to face with one and I felt its demon-claws that shouldn’t exist ripping into my flesh. But you go on, and tell yourself there’s nothing beyond your rational Christian world. Hide yourself in your sweet lies of logic; drown yourself in them.”

His grin vanished. His eyes flashing with the mad Black O’Brien fury, Conor grabbed the Reverend by his collar, hauled him bodily up and slammed him against the church wall. He held his snarling face so close to the shivering Reverend that Grant winced at the flecks of Conor’s spittle in his eyes. “But first,” Conor growled, “you help me find what I asked for–and mallacht na Morrígan ort if you don’t, and that girl pays for your stubbornness with her life!”

 

***

 

“I simply cannot believe it, my Lady.” Reverend Grant shook his head, as he sat by Caroline’s bed and held her hand gently. “Such things simply do not exist in this world. ‘Tis but superstition and mummery that you’ve let take hold of your heart–I beg you to listen to me, to listen to reason!”

Outside the wind was howling, and the trees had the gloomy glazed sheen that portended an ice storm. Archibald peered watchfully out the window. Through the solid sheet of water that hammered the glass, there glimmered a solitary lantern, swinging to and fro as the vague, hunched figure that carried it staggered determinedly through the deathly cold storm. Archibald watched the man with a grudging approval; they were no military men, but Drummond’s servants were damned loyal.

Caroline shook her head at the Reverend’s words; but where Grant’s eyes were yet lit with a sort of desperate plea to reason, hers were hollow with the despair of those who have borne witness to the horrors that lie beyond the light. “You will see, Reverend,” she murmured. “You will see, when Rob returns… and God Almighty help us, if Mister O’Brien cannot kill him.”

The Reverend’s eyes hardened momentarily. “The Good Lord protect us from Mister O’Brien–!” He stopped himself. “If the Lord shall deem fit to intervene, it shall be to turn your eyes away from the tricks and superstitious lies this man has cast over your eyes!” He shook his head. “How he could have so fooled you–you, Lady Caroline, you are a wise and a sensible young lady, not so prone to hysterics. And you, Archibald!” He looked up with the light of accusation in his eyes.

Archibald glanced darkly back as he muttered, “You did not see what we saw. ‘Twas no trick, no costume. It was a fiend straight from the pit of Hell. The Good Lord protect us, indeed.”

Momentarily, Reverend Grant’s eyes flared with anger. He sighed, visibly swallowed his frustration, retrieved his big wooden crucifix and turned back to Lady Caroline. “Let it be, then. My lady… though you will not listen to reason, at least you hold true to your faith. Pray with me, then; help me to sing a good hymn. The light of sweet Jesus will dispel all darkness.”

Archibald turned back to the window, peered outside as Reverend Grant murmured his hymn. The butler muttered an irritated oath; the lantern had disappeared.

Behind him, the Reverend was singing quietly, “Yeah, though I walk through death’s dark vale, yet I will fear none ill, for thou art with me; and thy rod and thy staff comfort me still.”

Neither at first noticed Archibald stiffen.

 

***

 

Conor muttered and snarled and cursed to himself as he ground and mixed furiously. The sacred holly berries were mashed; he’d made enough for three or four of the damned Fomóire. Just in case he had friends.

Now, he had to grind together the last of the mix of lodestone, salt and herbs. A long, tedious, arm-numbing job.

Damn that cunning-woman! She’d given up her cat and herbs, at least. But one look at Conor, and you’d thought the Devil himself had strode into her hut. She’d stuck a bony finger at him and rasped, “The Old Gods! The old demons of Ireland–I smell them upon you! Their accursed darkness runs through your blood! Pagan! Devil-worshiper! Christ protect me from this sorcerer!”

Only Grant’s quick intervention had stopped Conor, in his fury, from smacking the poor old woman to the ground and kicking her in the stomach for good measure. He would’ve felt rather bad about that, afterwards, when he had time to consider it.

But nobody called the Morrígan a devil.

He paused to wring out his arm, and glanced down at the little black cat. She was curled up by a warm stove in the corner of the back-room of the manor, contented, chewing on a bit of cheese. Conor smiled half-cocked, and said, “Well. At least you don’t think I’m a devil-worshiper, eh?” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Or maybe I am. The rites I’ve seen my family do in secret… the blood sacrifices…” He shook his head. “Hell. Hell with the watery wine and the crackers and the incense. No substitute for the real thing. Fight fire with fire, eh?”

Abruptly the little cat rose, and looked about, her eyes wide and spooked.

Conor frowned. “Don’t tell me I’ve set you off now, too.”

But the cat wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the door now. Her hackles, her ears lay back, and she hissed.

There was a furtive shuffling somewhere down the hall.

Conor felt his hackles rise as well. His face froze and his veins ran chill with the sudden rush of a coming fight. Quietly, he retrieved his claybeg, and hurriedly he began to rub some of the sticky berry juice over it.

 

***

 

Archibald’s smallsword swished from its scabbard. Reverend Grant halted in the middle of his hymn to frown at the willowy-limbed butler. Archibald’s graceful frame, somewhat frail with age, was suddenly tensed with a soldier’s oaken hardness.

Archibald’s delicate Oxford accent was undercut by his native Low Scots brogue as he muttered, “He’s here.”

Reverend Grant blinked. “Who?”

“Rob.” Archibald whirled, his eyes alive with danger. “The man outside’s dead.”

Reverend Grant’s frown deepened as he stood. As he walked to the window he said, “Surely he’s merely hiding from the storm–”

The door hinges creaked.

The Reverend halted in his tracks. Fear slashed his stoic expression, even as Caroline’s eyes bulged with terror.

Archibald slid his left foot carefully back, and held his smallsword in a fencing stance.

At first, there was only the black hallway beyond. And then, as the door widened, something, like a deeper part of the shadows, loomed in the doorway.

Reverend Grant shook his head, a quiver of sudden blood-freezing fear. “It’s not true… it’s not possible…”

 

 

With heavy, squelching thuds the thing tromped into the dim light of the room. The flickering candles reflected rubbery skin, glistening with half-frozen rain; they glinted off grimy, steel-sharp claws and wicked needle teeth. The eyes, the whites a nauseous jaundiced hue, were a hideous parody of the mischievous eyes of Rob MacFarlane that had so captured Caroline’s heart.

Caroline sobbed at their sight, recoiled into the far corner of her bed. Reverend Grant gasped and slid to the floor, the wall his only support against fainting from sheer terror.

Archibald, meanwhile, was as still as a statue.

The monster that had once been Rob MacFarlane gurgled a sadistic chuckle. His batrachian lips squirmed out his words: “You’ve grown brave, Archie! I’d almost think you were a man just now!”

The effete butler’s voice was a wolf’s snarl: “Take another step, Rob, and it’ll be your last.”

Rob gurgled another laugh. “So you’ve hot blood in those withered veins after all, eh? Then let’s see it!” The monster advanced.

With a flash of steel, Archibald lunged. The springy steel rammed clean through the beast’s heart. But Rob only winced and growled as the smallsword ran almost to the hilt in his chest. Archibald strained to pull the steel free. Too late: a blinding flash of claws tore his throat open. The old butler fell to the floor, a torrent of blood spilling from the gory ruin that was his neck as he gurgled and clawed futilely at the mortal wound.

The monster hissed in pain as he yanked the smallsword free. He threw the weapon to the corner with a clatter, and his expression resumed its ghastly grin as he turned to Caroline. “My love… I’ve come for you at last.”

Through the fear that lit her eyes, Caroline remained defiant. “Your love? You damned Devil-worshiping madman! Did you think I wouldn’t hear of what you were doing? You cast your Devil’s spells, you took girl’s minds and ravaged their bodies–and then you had the nerve to come crawling to me, begging for help, when the whole of the county was out for your blood! Curse you, Rob! Look at yourself–look at what you’ve done to yourself!”

Fury twisted Rob’s ghastly features further. “What I have done to myself?! Bitch! You call me a monster? When my life depended upon you, you would’ve given me up to the hangman!” The horrible grin returned. “Well… you need not worry anymore. I’ve no more eyes for peasant girls. I want only you… my love.” The beast advanced, claws outstretched.

Abruptly Reverend Grant found his courage, and with it his feet. He leaped to Caroline’s side, grabbed the big wooden crucifix and, holding forth the image of his Lord and savior, interposed himself between her and Rob. “In the name of almighty Christ, I command you, foul monster–go back!”

The monster’s bellowing cackle utterly drained his momentary bravado. His limbs shaking, the Reverend took an uncertain step forward. He quavered, “Back, I command you–”

Before he knew what was happening, the crucifix was wrenched from his hands. Reverend Grant staggered back against the wall, utter terror blanching his face. Looming over him, Rob raised the image of Christ like a primitive cudgel of a demon-worshiping tribe of savages. The beast roared, the crucifix swung down–

Reverend Grant squealed wordless fear and collapsed in a shivering heap upon the floor, clutching his head in his hands.

The beast gurgled his disdainful chuckle. He turned to a nearby table, and smashed the crucifix to kindling. “So much for my Lord and savior… all the damned good he did me. I’ve found a wiser and a nobler patron… an older and a mightier deity by far than your pallid lamb-god! One of his children courses through my very veins!” He turned to Caroline, who held a sewing needle in her hand, teeth bared in defiance even as she shivered in horror.

Rob chuckled. “You will see, my dear… I’ve so much to show you!” He bellowed his awful gurgling laugh, and then he was upon her.

Her shrieks echoed through the house, yet piercing as they were, they seemed dull and distant to Reverend Grant as he huddled upon the floor. Drips of hideous brown fluid poured from the wounds the sewing needle tore in the monster’s flesh as he grasped her. With a snarl Rob tore the needle from her fist, and, crushing her gasping to his slimy breast, the beast whirled and ran, cackling and howling his triumph, down the hall and back for the stairs.

 

***

 

Rob’s laughter, the wet thumps of his clawed feet, rang down the halls–so that when he halted abruptly, and skidded to a surprised stop, the silence was a palpable thing.

Momentarily, there was only the dull hammering of the freezing rain upon the windows. The dark and chill corridors were empty; those brave and selfless servants of the Earl of Falrick had hid themselves in terror at the demon’s presence.

There was only Conor Dubh O’Brien, standing at the foot of the stair, his long dirk and claybeg both dripping with sticky holly juice, and he was grinning like a demon himself.

Rob clutched the whimpering Caroline closer to his breast. He roared one guttural, snarled word: “YOU!”

Conor replied, “I made an impression, then, did I?”

The beast pointed a curved claw at Conor. “You called upon the names of the enemies of King Cocuru Gricenchos! I can smell their taint upon you!”

Conor nodded slightly. “I wondered what it was that had you so scared. And here, I thought you were just a chicken-shitted coward.” His chuckle was mirthless, mocking.

The demon-Rob forced a grin to his blubbery fish lips. “Aye–but I fear them no longer. Their power is badly waned. They are but shadows, but memories of what they once were. They will not protect you!”

Still grinning, Conor hefted his blades. “You see this? Holly juice. That demon that’s infested your blood–he’s of the Fomóire. Aye–you know what that means–he tells you even now! He screams in terror! I see it in your eyes, Rob!”

Indeed, the beast-Rob was recoiling once more, and mortal fear blazed in his xanthous eyes.

Slowly, Conor began to ascend the stairs. “You can shrug off lead bullet and steel blade all you like. But a drop of the sacred holly berry–and you’re done for, demon! LÁMH-LÁIDIR ABÚ!” The battle-cry ripped from Conor’s breast like the scream of the banshee, and with it he charged up the steps three at a time, his face livid with the feared battle-frenzy of the children of Black Turlogh.

With a scream of his own Rob sprang sideways and leaped clean over the balustrade to land in the hall with a smack of his rubbery feet. Conor swore, reversed his direction and charged back down the stairs. Damn it all, he had been taken by surprise–he’d not had time to prepare, to trap the beast! And now the monster was leaping ahead of him, faster by far than he could run.

It rounded a corner, and door after door exploded under its impact as it charged through room and corridor. Conor followed, fast as he could. But by the time he reached the exit, the shattered door still swinging off its hinges and a terrified cook huddled in the corner, the thing was already nearly to the estate walls again.

Conor spat viciously. Impotently he shook his claybeg after the beast and shouted, “Loscadh is dó ort!” He turned, just in time to see the little black cat already padding into the room. Her ears were perked, and her eyes were sharp; instinctively she was already tracking the Fomorian.

Hastily Conor wiped his dirk clean and sheathed it. Just as the cat padded swiftly past him, he reached down and picked her up. She struggled momentarily, still fixated on hunting the thing she hated with her very blood, but he shushed her and calmed her as he carried her back with him.

Back in the main hallway, Conor was greeted with a storm of angry bellowing. Drummond was marching up and down the hall, his officer’s hangar in hand, and he was haranguing the servants who sheepishly crept out from their various hiding places to face his wrath.

A moment, Conor felt a pang of sympathy for Drummond. His face was purple; tears streamed down his cheeks. But then the old Earl turned on Conor, and he bellowed, “AND YOU! You mercenary, you damned blackguard Irishman, what in hell’s name did I hire you for? Because of your incompetence, my daughter’s lost to me! My daughter, and my most faithful servant!”

Calmly, Conor replied, “I did warn you, Drummond, he might–”

But Drummond shouted right over him. “He’s dead! Brutally murdered! Archibald–the beast killed him as he was trying to protect Caroline–trying to do YOUR job, O’Brien!” Like a great, fat bull, Drummond advanced on Conor, the vicious-looking hangar aimed at him. “You run and hide from a fight? Well then, I’ll give you a fight! Run like the coward you are, or stand and I’ll cut you down myself!”

Conor stood his ground, waited for Drummond to come on. The little cat scrambled nervously in his arm, her eyes wide with fright at the furious Earl. The other servants stared incredulously at the Black Irishman–he couldn’t truly be thinking of murdering their lord in cold blood, could he?

The moment Drummond was in range, Conor sprang. The claybeg blade swished blinding fast. Drummond’s face went blank with surprise, and he fell into a block with the practiced skill of an old swordsman.

But Conor had not aimed for his body. With a snap of the blade, too fast for Drummond to counter, he caught the brass knob at the top of the hangar guard and yanked it from Drummond’s hand, skinning the knuckles with the claybeg’s keen edge as he did so. Drummond swore in surprised fury and pain as his hangar went clattering down the hall.

The Earl kneaded his bleeding knuckles, and stared down a good three feet of honed and tempered military steel as it hung without a quiver, aimed directly for his eyes.

“Easy now, Drummond.” The Irishman’s voice was low, almost silky, and heavy with danger. “Control yourself… there’s a good lad.”

By turns, Drummond corked his temper, suppressed a sob of anguish and despair, then swallowed hard and breathed. A measure of his lordly aloofness returned; but with his eyes and cheeks red and marked with his tears it was undercut by a very humble sort of pain.

Nevertheless, his voice was steady as he said, “Given the circumstances, I am sure you will understand I can no longer pay you what I promised.”

Conor nodded. “If Caroline dies.” Swiftly he wiped the claybeg clean on his pants and sheathed the blade. “But she’s not dead yet. Rob still wants her for his own. I’m not sure what it means, but if we move now, we’ve a chance yet.”

Drummond looked sullenly out the high windows of the grand entrance room, at the freezing rain that hammered them, driven hard by the howling winds. “You mean to track him through that? Even if we don’t catch our deaths of cold, how the devil do you mean to follow him?”

Conor grinned, and stroked the cat. “She’s already got his scent. She tried to follow him right out into the rain.”

A light pierced through the dark despair in Drummond’s eyes. He nodded, and turned back to his sheepish servants. “You heard the man. Saddle three horses. Get all the cloaks we can carry–and extra clothes for Caroline! She’ll be soaked to the bone by the time we find her.”

He marched down the hall with purpose now, gathering his courage as he barked more orders. His servants bustled past Conor as he began to make his way for the little side room with his concoctions.

A muttering at the top of the stair halted him momentarily. Reverend Grant sat there, staring into space, with the shattered shard of his crucifix in his hand. He was babbling to himself: “Merciful Christ… why did you forsake us? Why, in our hour of greatest need, were you not at my side? Sweet Jesus… please, tell me why… tell me where you are.” His empty eyes were enough to tell Conor that he received no answer.

Conor smiled grimly, and muttered a prayer of his own as he marched: “Morrígan, if you can hear me truly, if you’re still there–and I know you’re there, I know it in my blood–send a message for me to your brothers and sisters. Clear the way for us. Protect the life of the lady Caroline, any way you can. Do this, and I swear, I’ll give you the soul of one of the Fomóire before the day’s out.”

He reached the room–just in time to see a crow fly past the window, cawing as it went.

Conor set his jaw grimly, and nodded.

It was time to meet fire with fire.

 

4

 

Perhaps the crow was a sign. Or perhaps it was mere serendipity that the dreadful, freezing rain and winds abruptly faded to the slightest drizzle as soon as the horses were ready and led outside. The noontide was still bitter cold, and the roads a mess of icy mud, but the horses were spry and sure-footed and Conor and Drummond made good time.

Along the way, they spied a farmhouse whose door swung suspiciously open. The cat mewed and perked her head from the saddlebag, so they stopped to investigate. Within, they found red carnage: the family was torn to bits; even the dog had been brutally gutted and left to die in a most horrid fashion. A nauseous stink filled the single room: the sharp tang of fresh blood, mingled with the fecal stink of ruptured innards. One of the beds was roughly stripped, and the belongings were rifled through; Caroline’s fine clothes lay, soaked and ripped to shreds, on the floor.

Conor turned back to Drummond, who waited impatiently by the door. Conor said, “He stopped to warm her and get her fresh clothes, cover for the storm. But it took him time–ate into his lead. We’re hot on his trail.” He marched out of the farmhouse, with the Earl in tow.

“What in sweet Christ’s name does he want with her?” Drummond growled. He was a military man once again, marching with a determined stride and ignoring the frigid mud that clung to his boots. There was an essential solidity to his long-softened frame that no amount of easy living could ever fully exorcise, a memory of discipline and lean living that seemed to strain against the effete, lordly lifestyle which the Earl had long wallowed in.

Conor replied as he swung into the saddle: “I’m not sure. But listen.” He fixed Drummond with a grim look of admonition. “You stay the hell out of the way when we catch up to that beast. He’s no earthly creature, understand? He shrugs off steel and lead as you would a stiff breeze, and if you try to tangle with him, you’ll end up like those poor bastards in there.” He jabbed a thumb at the farmhouse.

Drummond glowered back, every bit as stern as Conor. “If you fail in your duty–”

“I won’t.” Conor jerked his reins about, and led them down the road to Sutter’s Fen.

The frozen woods of the fen crackled beneath their horse’s hooves as they reached its outskirts. All around them was a deathly silence, interrupted only by unseen animals that rustled away from them in fright through the ice-rimed brush and reeds. The little black cat had poked her head from the saddlebag, and her eyes were sharp, her ears pointed. Conor dismounted, and gingerly he retrieved her and placed her on the cold, muddy path.

She was off like a shot. They were drawing close.

Swiftly Conor remounted, and he and Drummond followed the cat closely as she led them swift and true into the fen.

Crossing from the poor, rocky fields of the lowlands into the teeming, stinking life of the fen was like stepping backwards through time, into a Britain that had never known the tread of man. And indeed, there were few trails, if any, that man had cut through that dense and primal wilderness. The cat, swift as she moved, took a winding path, leading them past morass and pitfall, so that the going was slow, and they were soon forced to dismount and scramble through the undergrowth to keep up with the little hunter.

They were two hours deep into the fen, when abruptly Conor heard it: a gurgling, warbling singing that carried evil words with it. It was a language that seemed stepped with the sea, with cold and rot, with the ancient savagery of a primal forest where half-naked men squatted about a fire and swore oaths to dark and bloodthirsty gods.

Conor grinned. It reminded him of German. That brought to mind an old joke; but there was none around to hear it but Drummond, and the Earl was not the type to share in an Irishman’s dark mirth.

The little cat led them to a rough clearing. She crouched down at its edge, laid her ears back and hissed. Taking the bottle of holly juice and the pouch of white-magic powder, Conor followed her to the clearing’s edge, from whence the ugly warbling came.

A low hillock rose in its center; at the top of it were ruins. A circle of stones, engraved with hideous leering aquatic faces and bodies, and scribbled all about with mysterious Fomóire runes and sigils of dark power. Antique evil seethed from the stones, an alien presence that corrupted the every earth of the fen.

And within the stones, dancing and cavorting, spinning and pirouetting, like a merry faun dancing in the pit of Hell, was the naked monster. And tied down on the altar about which he cheerfully circled, was the fearful-eyed Lady Caroline, shivering with terror and the cold damp of the stone.

Conor’s skin crawled at the beast’s presence. His lips peeled back in a snarl. Upon the claybeg blade, he rubbed the sticky holly juice. A little remained, so he tucked the bottle in a pocket, just in case. He waved to Drummond to hide and stay put; then, he swiftly circled the little hillock, halting now and again to hide from Rob’s gaze, while within the brush he scattered the powder. Rob was distracted, eager and gleeful at whatever horrid rite he had in mind; now and again he halted to caress the Lady, who whimpered and recoiled at his touch.

With the circle of powder complete, Conor rose abruptly from the brush, claybeg in white-knuckle fist, and striding up the side of the hillock, he shouted, “Rob!”

The beast-Rob halted in mid-dance and whirled about. His thick batrachian lips split in a needle-toothed grin. “Why! It’s my old friend, the slave to the Tuath Dé!” He rose to his full height; swollen with the Fomorian’s power, he was grown gauntly enormous. “We meet in different circumstances, you and I! This is my place of power. My patron–”

“Shut it,” Conor snapped. Grinning darkly, he held up his blade. “You think I’d come unprepared? I’ve plenty of the juice of the sacred holly. Place of power or no, I’ll sink this steel in your flesh and poison your blood.”

Rob’s face twisted with hate and fear. Through his hideously yellowed eyes Conor swore he could see the Fomorian itself, glaring at him. The old enemy of his people. “Well, then,” it snarled, “come up and face me, if you be so eager to throw your life away!”

Still grinning mirthless and cold, Conor replied, “Same to ya.” He unbuckled his cloak and held it in his left hand as he advanced on the Fomorian, claybeg point held stiffly out.

Whether it was Rob’s courage or the devil’s that gave out, it didn’t matter. Perhaps there was no difference anymore. But as Conor came close, the beast whirled with a screech and ran down the opposite side of the hillock.

Conor followed, unhurried: the Fomorian’s anguished scream told him the beast had found the impenetrable barrier. He ran screeching round the circle, desperate for escape–but everywhere he tried, an eerie green fire sparked in the air and singed his claws as he swiped against the invisible walls of white magic that held him trapped.

Beyond the hillock, Lord Drummond gaped at the sight, at the witchfires that taunted and tormented the beast. Conor Dubh laughed, a gusty hero’s laugh that welled up from some primal part of him. To Drummond he shouted, “Fight fire with fire, eh?!”

The beast turned about, the terror and danger of a trapped animal flashing in his eyes. Looming above him on the hillock, keen magic-edged blade in hand, Conor bellowed, “Pray, Fomorian! Pray to your mother and father, pray to your Lord Cocuru, all lying dead and rotting in drowned Rílleach! Your ending is near!”

Eyeballs bursting from his sockets in fear, the thing howled like a sea gale and charged.

Conor advanced to meet him, swordtip ahead–and he leaped, whirled his cloak to baffle the slash of deadly claws. A riposte met only empty air, and again wickedly curved razor claws slashed for his belly. He cursed: the Fomorian was devilish fast. Man and beast danced back and forth, leaped in and out of range, each wary of the other’s bite. Red-stained steel glimmered and black claws flashed hissing through the air.

Conor’s cloak was tatters, already ripped to shreds by the dagger-sharp blades of the Fomorian’s claws. Sweat ran down his chest and limbs, his heart pounded, steady, but hard. He needed an opening. He needed a chance.

Man and demon parted a moment. Conor gasped, gulped air. He threw the useless shreds of his cloak away and drew his dirk. The beast was demon-fast, but he fought like an animal, not like a duelist. Conor racked his brain for feints and tricks–he’d have to sucker the beast in somehow.

But Rob, the Fomorian, was no mere dumb brute. He had been thinking as well. And abruptly he came to a decision: he grabbed a stunted sapling and tore it clean from the ground. Yanking the little limbs off, he advanced once more–only now he wielded a five-foot club as easily as if it were a switch.

Conor groaned, “Oh, fuck.”

It was the Fomorian’s turn to grin. Conor backpedaled, trying to use the undergrowth to baffle the beast’s swings; but abruptly the beast charged, and the club swung blinding fast for his head.

Conor ducked, felt dirty roots graze his hair; he whirled, tried to riposte, but the demon had already danced back and was swinging again. Conor was fully on the defensive now: he stumbled back from the whooshing strikes of the club, each one like a dreadful bassy war whoop that promised broken bones. Each hit he avoided carried with it a physical impact of air as the club swung gut-wrenchingly close.

Conor’s foot caught on a root.

He tumbled backwards, twisting wildly away from the club as the Fomorian followed him. His dirk and claybeg sailed clean from his hands and skidded through the stinking slush. He was scrambling, already halfway to his feet again, even as he landed. Panic made him an acrobat, and with his hands already growing numb from the freezing mud he scrambled away from the Fomorian.

Rob gurgled a cackle as he followed. “How, now! Where’s your courage, oh mighty champion of the Tuath Dé? I told ya they’d not protect you here! Who’s ending is near now?”

Conor ran.

With the demon cackling madly and smashing through the undergrowth after him, Conor scrambled and ran, slipping, nearly tumbling, round the length of the hillock. He caught Drummond’s furious glare. The Earl had retrieved Conor’s big-barreled musquetoon. Conor waved him furiously back, and he ran for his goal: the glimmer of his claybeg, stuck in the mud.

He dove, skidded through the cold mud, grabbed the hilt and flipped over just as the Fomorian reached him. The beast had his club raised to crush Conor’s skull. Conor roared and lashed the blade of the claybeg across the demon’s belly.

The beast screamed in horror, stumbled back, clutching at his belly. Conor stumbled to his feet with a triumphant grin.

And then… nothing.

Rob’s fright turned to puzzlement. Gingerly he felt at his stomach. There was no sizzling, no expulsion of ichor; no sign that the holly juice was working.

Conor’s face dropped. He looked down at the blade. “Hell!” The mud had wiped it clean of the juice.

Rob looked up with a dark grin of understanding, and, club still in hand, he advanced.

Conor backpedaled, scrambled for the bottle in his pocket. He was distracted, clutching desperately for the remaining holly juice, trying to keep one eye on the Fomorian and another on the ground. He tripped and stumbled again, dropped his claybeg as he tried to steady himself.

He looked up, just in time to see the whirl of the club.

The air was smashed painfully out of him. The blow picked Conor clean up off his feet and slammed him into a nearby tree. He dropped, rolled over and lay still, groaning and wheezing for air. He had broken ribs, he knew it. Breathing was next to impossible, and his whole trunk was numb with agony.

There was a wet thump by his head. The club had landed in front of his face. Conor blinked at it in a pained daze. Clawed hands grasped his collar, and he was hauled up into the air.

He grimaced, at the pain, at the horrid reek of the Fomorian’s breath. Rob’s jaw was open, baring needle fishlike teeth, and he was breathing heavily on Conor. He hissed a laugh, and growled, “Fee, fi, fo fum… I smell the blood of an Irishman!” And he drew Conor close as his jaws stretched wide.

But he hadn’t noticed Conor’s hand in his pocket. He hadn’t wondered what Conor had been reaching for.

Conor yanked out the bottle and threw it into Rob’s mouth. Rob coughed with surprise, made to spit it out–but with a strangled roar Conor slammed his fist into Rob’s giant jaw and crushed the bottle between the monster’s teeth.

The Fomorian dropped Conor painfully back into the mud. He howled, he shrieked, his mortal cries earsplitting. A brown foam erupted from his mouth as he fell to his knees, both great hands clutching at a throat that was suddenly swelling up. He fell prone, his legs kicking and trembling as with an ague.

And then, as Conor watched in nauseous disgust, the alien possession retreated from the limbs, from the trunk, from Rob MacFarlane’s face; but even as Rob’s humanity reasserted itself, the demon took shape as well–inside his swelling throat.

Rob cried out, his voice suddenly human: “No! Don’t leave me–” But his voice was rapidly choked out. His now-human eyes bulged in horror as his throat swelled to ghastly proportions. Claws ripped through the skin, and the Broonie tore its way clear of the body that coursed with a deadly poison. But it was too late: the holly juice was in it as well. The horrid little batrachian monster already howled its mortal anguish as it thrashed free of the carnage of its late host. Its limbs twisted and shook as its body shriveled, as its skin bubbled, as the sacred venom burned it alive from within.

Within moments, there was naught left of Rob MacFarlane and his bestial ally and master, but a gory travesty of a man, and a shriveled corpse that even now disintegrated into a brown, putrefying mass.

Conor rose slowly. Stiffly, his breath still coming in wheezes, he staggered over to retrieve his dirk and claybeg, and he shuffled up the hill for the lady on the altar.

He was in bad shape: Drummond passed him in a hurry and reached the altar before he could. The girl, as willowy and noble-tender as she seemed, was made of sterner stuff that Conor might have guessed; she turned herself at once so that her father could slash her bonds, and her eyes, wide as they were with horror, were steady as she jumped up from the altar to throw her arms about her father.

Conor stood swaying, watching the reunion dispassionately. After a few moments of clutching and weeping, Lady Caroline disentangled herself and turned to Conor. “Oh, thank you, sir!” she gasped, “Thank you–I don’t know what my father promised you, but it’s not enough!”

Conor could only grunt. He turned to Drummond.

The Earl had gathered himself back together. He sheathed his little dagger, set Conor’s musquetoon by the altar, and placed his hands on his hips. He nodded smartly, and smiled with satisfaction. “Well, my boy, it seems I owe you an apology.”

Conor blinked dumbly. “An apology?”

“Well, I called you a mercenary rogue, a coward without morals. You’re a brave and honorable man, and I withdraw what I said earlier.”

Something dark strummed in Conor’s chest. It was Drummond’s manner. Smug, prim once again, very satisfied in a job well done. Quite suddenly, Conor found himself grinning savagely. “Oh. Oh, you needn’t apologize, Drummond. You had me right at the first. A blackguard Irish rogue–that’s what I am.”

Drummond gave him a disgusted look, as one would a dog that had defecated on a well-polished floor. “Oh, come now, fellow, there’s no need for such language! I’ve given you my apology, and–”

Conor cackled like a madman. “And I told you there’s no need, you King’s bootlick, you blue-blooded sheep-fucker!” Drummond’s face was already turning purple; abruptly, it paled as the keen tip of Conor’s claybeg swished up and aimed at his stomach with a deadly steadiness.

Still grinning wildly, Conor nodded, and said, “Aye–I’m a mercenary, a blackguard, and an Irishman to boot, and I’d not have it any other way, you filthy English-lover! Now, you pay me what you owe, and let me get the hell out of your tainted presence, or by the Morrígan, I’ll sheathe a foot o’ steel in your fat guts!”

And he threw his head back and laughed despite the agony of his broken ribs, fully possessed by the Black O’Brien madness. And he poked at Drummond’s belly, as Caroline drew back with a look of utter loathing and disgust, and the Earl quivered all over, seething with rage.

 

________________________________________

Rev. Joe Kelly is a connoisseur of cheap beer, good metal, and quality fantasy. He has been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly and Wyldblood Magazine. He can be occasionally contacted on twitter at @reverendjoefake when he bothers to check it.

Karolína Wellartová is a Czech artist, painter creating images predominantly with the wildlife themes, nature studies and the literary characters. She’s mostly inspired by the curious shapes and a materials from the nature, but the main source still comes from literature.

From a young age she tried to express herself and her observations on paper.  Painting and drawing were always the most important thing for her and visiting the local art school helped her understand the new techniques and the science of the colour mediums. She’s the award winning artist for “Best Book Cover in 2015” in Czechia. 

Her work has been published in American magazines such as Spirituality Health Magazine, International Wolf, Metaphorosis, Orion, and Heroic Fantasy Quarterly.  Check out more of her work at her website.