Dark Lord of Geeragh Read online

  Where had my pride led me? I felt chilled with the sudden realisation that I had just talked my way into the confines of the castle of Geeragh. And I had no one to blame but myself.

  Lord Bress dismounted, threw his reins to Groundsel and began to saunter off towards the campfires beside the dark-haired princess. Burdock, Groundsel and the soldiers moved off to tether the horses.

  I had further cause for regret. Behind me came an impatient sigh; poor Speedwell, he who had shown me the greatest kindness, was to leave the hunt in order to play nursemaid to me. I turned towards him slowly, embarrassed and reluctant to meet his gaze…

  And something flashed, there between the tree trunks, behind and beyond where the young knight stood before me.

  The sunlight fell green-tinted through the canopy of leaves, but the creature moved forward a little into another patch of clear sunshine. It was a deer - a white deer! But strange, so strange, its antlers seemed to be made of silver, and they and the creature’s coat sparkled as if coated with the dust of diamonds. I heard myself say, “Oh…!” as the creature lowered its head, the better to peer, timidly, at the clumsy group of interlopers who had invaded its world.

  Speedwell had turned in the direction I was facing, and as I moved forwards he did a strange thing, reaching out and holding me tightly by the arm, his gaze on the exotic creature before us, his voice a harsh and urgent whisper in my ear, “Fen, no! Say nothing of this…!”

  Did the wind shift? Or was that first hound possessed of keener eyesight than its fellows? Across the clearing he suddenly howled like an avenging spirit and all his kin began baying, moving forwards…

  It was one of the soldiers who cried, “Deer! A fine buck, My Lord!”

  When I looked again the deer had gone and the ground between myself and the place it had stood was an undulating sea of white and tan and black bodies as the hounds dashed after their prey.

  “No!” I cried, but my small voice was drowned in the baying of the hounds, the cries of the men and the confusion as all who had horses took to their saddles. Speedwell pulled me out of the way of a knight on a blundering war horse; Lord Bress passes us, pausing only to say, “Follow with the boy at a distance if you wish,” to Speedwell. Burdock yanked in his horse in the middle of the melee, “Come, little brother,” he called cheerfully, “I saw the boy sight the quarry - let him be in at the kill!”

  “Burdock, that wasn’t -!” but Speedwell’s words were lost, and Burdock, knights, ladies, princesses and a smattering of soldiers were gone, thundering and halloing through the green woods.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was not a long pursuit. Sharing Speedwell’s leggy mount, who didn’t seem to object at all to my added weight, we were not far from the tail of the field. Coming down a lightly wooded slope towards a clearing, we were in time, Speedwell and I, to see the close of the chase.

  A tree stood alone in the centre of the clearing: it was an ancient tree, with its summer-leafed branches weighted down with age and bending towards the ground, as if the tree would have liked to seat itself for a while, for a rest.

  We saw the hounds come rushing into the clearing, snuffle about and head straight for the tree. There was more snuffling about, and then, as if by a silent consensus, the dogs decided that they had their quarry, and rushed and leapt about the trunk, snapping at the air, landing upon each other at times, and biting at one another in irritation before returning to bay at the tree.

  Ahead of us we saw Lord Bress and the rest of the hunters ride up, and at the same time the dogs seemed to quieten. I thought someone must have called something to them - but was that what happened at a hunt? Didn’t the hounds tear the quarry to pieces? I had little knowledge of such things, and did not want to know. The deer had been such a wondrous creature, quite the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my short life, and I was sick at heart and grieving for it, and feeling not a little responsibility for its impending fate.

  Speedwell drew in our mount with all the others at the edge of the clearing, in a kind of semicircle about Lord Bress. I wondered at this odd, respectful distance from the tree, and then my confused young brain came to itself: why were the hounds leaping after a deer in a tree? And barely had that realisation come to me when I saw that the hounds were no longer leaping, yapping, baying - they were settling down, seating themselves, some lying on their bellies, all facing the tree, their attention on the branches but turning their heads in a curious, puzzled fashion.

  We all sat there in our saddles, and watched, occasionally glancing at each other.

  With a few, final whimpers, the last dog seated itself. Even our horses were still. There was no sound in the forest but the wind in the high branches of the trees. The whole scene was a little unnerving.

  I heard Burdock say, “My Lord…!”

  But the Lord of Geeragh was moving his horse forward. “Stay here,” he said, to no one - perhaps to everyone. All the knights stirred, looked at each other worriedly, with some frustration - but no one dared move.

  I heard it again, then, the sound of bells, tiny bells, their music very sweet and haunting. I leaned forward to Speedwell. “What’s that sound?” I asked in my lowest whisper, which still sounded loud and clumsy in that stillness. Groundsel, on his horse beside ours, looked at me. Speedwell turned in his saddle, and his eyes… his eyes were almost frightened.

  “What sound?” he asked hoarsely.

  “The little bells.”

  He stared at me a long moment, then turned slowly to gaze at his ruler. He called, suddenly, “My Lord, there is danger here! I beg you -”

  The Dark Lord of Geeragh was dismounting from his horse. He dropped the reins in the grass and his horse stood still: its ears forward, it, too, seemed to have all its attention centred upon the tree at the heart of the clearing.

  Burdock yelled, “My Lord, I must protest!” so suddenly that many of us jumped. He was moving his own horse forward when Lord Bress turned to him. “Stay where you are, Burdock, I command it.”

  Burdock stayed, though his broad shoulders almost trembled with the effort not to disobey. We all watched as Lord Bress moved forward, until he was directly under the tree. He had to step over some of the hounds; they looked up at him mildly, then turned their attention back to the tree. Finally Lord Bress stood still, the top of his head hidden from us by the lowering branches of the old tree. Burdock didn’t like it. I heard him growling deep in his throat.

  We sat there, courtiers, soldiers and myself, and waited. We waited a long time.

  Thoughts roamed through my head: my mother seemed so far away… A boy had died in these woods…If I were to die - if all of us were to die of some malign magic - who would tell my mother? And would she want to live, having lost not only her husband, but her son, also?

  And Lord Bress, there in the clearing, his head lost in the branches, communing, it seemed, with the fates-only-knew-what - he was the closest to the danger. What if the evil that existed here slew only him - as it had killed the boy Loosestrife not twelve months before? If Lord Bress died, here in this forest, I was then free of my mother’s terrifying demand, free of her curse. She would not be angry with me: I could go home again, and things would be the way they were.

  And I was sitting there, getting stiff from my hours of unaccustomed horse-riding, thinking with fondness of my little room in the loft of our cottage, thinking with longing of the beach and the tide-pools on the headland, thinking with some degree of tolerance of the sons of Dougal the blacksmith, when the Dark Lord of Geeragh moved out from the shadows and called, “Send the boy here to me.”

  For a long moment , no one moved, least of all me.

  “Send him I say!”

  Everyone turned to look at me. Burdock said, “He must mean you.” He sighed. “Come, boy,” And he dismounted from his horse and reached for me, “I’ll take you.”

  We walked slowly out from the safety of the gathered courtiers, my courage braced somewhat by the fact that so many eyes
were upon me, and by the strengthening warmth of Burdock’s hand upon my shoulder.

  Lord Bress called, “I said, send the boy, Burdock, not bring him. Go back.”

  I noticed, then that Burdock’s other hand, his right, had been upon his sword hilt all this time. He now stiffened. “My Lord, this is foolhardy…!”

  “Go back, Burdock, as I’ve commanded you!”

  Even across the space between us, I felt the cold force of the man’s will. Burdock hesitated. He looked down at me, squeezed my shoulder, then, wordlessly, walked back the way we had come. I looked at the Lord of Geeragh, felt the pull of his will, and walked forwards.

  “It seems,” he said quietly, when I was close, “that your presence is required.” He walked under the canopy of leaves, and I limped over to stand beside him. Lord Bress stood gazing upwards. So did the hounds, So did I.

  I saw nothing.

  And then the leaves blurred, there upon a lower branch. They blurred, and danced, and I blinked to clear my vision. But my eyesight was not at fault: amorphous at first, something was appearing slowly upon that branch, a creature smaller than myself, with something of the child about it. A delicate creature, not of flesh and blood, but made of some pale, evanescent, silvery substance, that was almost like glass. It did not have finite edges - though it seemed to lie along the branch, I could see the branch through it. But it had a face, a pointed face that could have been that of a boy or a girl. It had a mouth, which smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. And it had a voice.

  “You can see me better, now the child sees me,” it said to the Dark Lord of Geeragh.

  “Thunderous stars,” murmured the Dark Lord, and I was shocked to hear awe in his voice. When I glanced up at him there was awe in his face, also. “What are you, creature?”

  The intangible child-figure sighed, like a breeze that stirred a wind chime and I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

  His voice an eloquent threat, Lord Bress went on, “If you don’t tell me what and who you are, I shall set the dogs upon you.”

  The creature leaned forward and hissed at him, then seemed to reconsider. “I am of the people called the Shee, and I don’t speak to mortals - even those of the Race of Heroes. So go away - and take your dogs with you.”

  Lord Bress gave a dangerous smile. “Take yourself off, Shee - that is, if you are able.”

  The small mouth in the pointed face set into a line, and the creature’s colour, a silvery sheen on glass - seemed to darken: it took on the look of pewter, and I sensed this was not a good thing. Lord Bress seemed half-amused by the odd captive; I wondered, suddenly, what he knew of the Shee. Was it possible he did not know the stories? If he did not, he might let it escape - and who knew what mischief would ensue before he and his court - myself amongst them - could escape this forest?

  “Are you going to ask for your three wishes, My Lord?” I felt driven to ask.

  Both sovereign and sprite stared at me. The Shee hissed. Lord Bress asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “M… My Lord, don’t you remember the stories? My mother says they came from Iera…they tell of the Shee, and how, if captured, they can be made to -”

  “Children’s tales!” scoffed the Shee. “And it has been more than five hundred years since Lord Bress was a child - if one can believe he ever was a child.”

  The Dark Lord of Geeragh half-drew his sword from its scabbard - and it was a strange thing, but the Shee leaned back upon its branch, as if nervous.

  Emboldened, I continued, “My Lord, they say that if a man can capture one of the Shee, then it can be made to grant three wishes in return for its release.”

  “Nonsense…” came archly from the branch above.

  He moved so quickly that even I, standing beside him, did not see. The Shee squealed, and I saw that Lord Bress had hold of the strange figure by one wrist. “No…..!” it wailed, and then, in a kind of defiance, “You can’t harm me! You can’t harm me!”

  With his free hand, Lord Bress drew his sword. “Harm you? I shall cut and hack at you, my friend, until you look like sliced aspic.”

  “Nooooo!”

  “I want my three wishes.”

  “The boy lies! It’s nonsense! Old-wives’ tales!”

  “I’ll hack and cut and feed you to the dogs in slivers.”

  “One wish! Only one!”

  For a second Lord Bress was still. My own breath was caught with the creature’s words. Had I been right? Had my mother and her stories been right?

  The Dark Lord had recovered. “Three wishes.”

  “One!”

  “Three!”

  “One!”

  A flash of sudden lightning - the bright metal of his sword had caught the light as it skimmed above the Shee’s head, showering it with leaves and twigs. It screamed, and I must admit I gave a squeak of nervous terror along with it, so startled was I by the sudden and dangerous move. “Two! Two! That’s the best I can do!” the Shee was gabbling, “I’m only young! Stop picking on me!”

  Lord Bress considered. “Very well,” he decided, “Two. Because I believe you, and because you feel most unpleasant, like jellied eel, and I long to set you free almost as much as you yourself wish to be free. We accept your offer of two wishes. And,” the Dark Lord added, “your word that no mischief will befall us, in case you seek revenge. This is to be an honourable transaction.”

  The Shee glowered. That is, its face darkened to a dull silver. “And for your part, your word that I’ll not be set upon again. If you see a silver stag, you’ll call off your hounds.”

  “Only fair. Very well.” And the Dark Lord of Geeragh smiled down at me. “A wish for each of us - what’s your name again?”

  But it was the Shee who answered. “Fen the Fair-haired. Son of Fenvar the Fair-haired,” it said, sulkily.

  We stared up at it. “I’m not stupid,” it added.

  “My Lord, I don’t need a wish,” I said. “I mean, there is no need to…”

  “Something of a joke, isn’t it?” The Shee leaned forward a little. “The first magnanimous gesture from the Dark Lord of Geeragh since he came to the throne - more than three hundred years ago.” Its eyes flickered from Lord Bress to me. “And what would he say if he knew what the little angel wants more than anything else in the world? What would he say if he could see into the heart of -”

  “I know what I want to wish for,” I said, abruptly.

  “Tell me,” it almost cooed. “This had begun to be such a bad day. Tell me and change my opinion.”

  “I want…” I hesitated, but then it came to me. “I want my mother to be happy again.”

  The Shee was expressionless for a few seconds, then it said, “You boring little boy. You faint-hearted, disappointing…”

  “Shut up,” said Lord Bress. Then he turned to me. “That was commendable, but a little foolish. Is there nothing that you’d wish for yourself?”

  I looked at him.

  This is the man who sent my father away to die. This is the man who made my mother so unhappy that there was room for nothing in her heart beyond bitterness.

  Afraid that my hatred was written there upon my face, I turned away. “The wish was for myself,” I murmured.

  “And you, My Lord of Geeragh?” queried the Shee. “I can’t believe that you ever had a mother…”

  “That’s enough, Shee.”

  “Would you like one? A sweet little grey-haired lady that you can beat and bully?”

  Lord Bress said, calmly, “I think I will kill you anyway. I’m liking you less and less as the seconds pass.”

  “Wish,” the Shee prompted, narrow-eyed.

  “I wish…” and he paused, and I saw, or thought I saw, a shadow pass across his face, as I used to see the shadows pass across my mother’s face sometimes. Then, in a stronger voice, he said, “I wish for that which I truly desire.”

  “Yes?” from the Shee, after a moment of impatience.

  Lord Bress frowned at it. “Th
at’s my wish.”

  “But what is it that you truly desire?” the Shee said, irritably.

  “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  “You want me to -”

  “And when you find it,” Lord Bress finished coolly, “give it to me.”

  The Shee opened its pale, glassy lips like a translucent fish for a few seconds, then said, “You’re insane.”

  Lord Bress released its wrist. He stood wiping his hand back and forth on his tunic, a look of distaste upon his face, then replaced his sword in its scabbard. “Come,” he said to me, and turned back, towards the waiting company.

  When I looked back at the Shee it was rubbing its wrist. “Insufferable…” it hissed. But it was already fading even as I watched; the last thing to disappear was its face, the last of the face to disappear were the eyes, their malevolent gaze levelled , until the last, at the Dark Lord’s back.

  But it was not finished with us. Its voice came, on the wind, with the floating of the chiming bells, “Will you go to your mirror, Lord Bress?”

  The man beside me stopped, paused, but did not turn.

  The voice was musical, “If you think some danger is afoot, some threat to your hold on this kingdom - you’d be right, wouldn’t he, Fen the Fair-haired? Changes are coming, Dark Lord of Geeragh -”

  Lord Bress whirled. “Call me that again and -!”

  The voice was a hiss, the bells suddenly discordant, “As you are, so shall you be called. Like your mirror, I do not lie.”

  Lord Bress rushed back, towards the tree, stumbling a little over the hounds, who had moved to follow us. He had drawn a dagger, an ornate thing, encrusted with jewels - but it was already too late. The Shee was leaving, the chiming bells and its laughter were fading by the second, and we were left with only the sound of the wind in the foliage.

  The Lord of Geeragh stood there for fully a minute, shaking with rage. The hounds skulked away from him.

  “My Lord?” I began, but Burdock had moved forward, on foot, leading his own horse and the great black stallion of his master. “My Lord, what happened?”