by Sean McMullen
Sean McMullen recently completed his Ph.D. by studying the popularity of medieval fantasy in literature and movies. The degree doesn’t have much bearing on his job as an IT Analyst in the Australian Bureau of Meteorology, but it might have had a bit of an impact on his fiction, including this new tale. Sean—oops, make that Dr. McMullen—says about this story that the design of the ships’ engine was tested in model form and later confirmed by a real marine engineer.
It was Anno Domine 1449, and the world was about to change. An idea was approaching the market town of Keswick, just north of Derwentwater. The name of that idea was La Hachette, and she already had a following.
The Brother
Sir Gerald always rose from his bed a half hour before first light and walked from Keswick to the Derwent River. Every day, for seven years, the hour before dawn and the hour following sunset would find the knight sitting on a rock that had become known as Gerald’s Watch. The rock was near a bridge of planks and poles that spanned the river.
In Keswick it was well known that Gerald did not tolerate company while he waited and watched, and so he was surprised as well as angered when a figure came into view in the half-light before morning. At distance it looked to be a man carrying an infant, then Gerald noticed that the bundle was glowing. The intruder stopped a little upstream. The knight was able to make out the shape of a helmet and the gleam of chainmail in the weak light.
Gerald strung his bow before striding down to the water’s edge. The intruder had arrived at the very worst time possible, and Gerald had opened his mouth to say as much when he saw a little boat on the water. Curiosity smothered the knight’s anger.
The boat was half a yard long, with six thick candles burning along its keel. Astride them was the metal rendering of a long, thin dog, its head facing backwards and its tail raised to display its bottom to wherever the boat might go.
“Sir, do you know who I am?” asked Gerald, deciding to be polite because he was intrigued.
“You are Sir Gerald of Ashdayle,” replied a soft but commanding voice. “You sit here every morning and evening, seeking revenge.”
“And who might you be?”
“I am Tordral.”
“The master armorer?”
“None other. Look into my boat, what do you see?”
Although inclined to tell Tordral to move on, Gerald looked.
“I see a metal dog, and beneath it burn six candles. From its head protrudes a spigot.... A sufflator! The brass dog is a sufflator. I have seen them used in France.”
“Very good. Turn the spigot, and steam gushes from the jaws.”
Suddenly Gerald remembered why he was there.
“If you know me, you must know I am not to be disturbed,” he said sternly.
“What use has a sufflator?” Tordral asked, ignoring the warning.
“I—ah, they are vessels that are half filled with water and heated by a small fire until steam gushes from the mouth. They may be used like a bellows to make a fire blaze up, even in wet wood.”
“True. Now watch.”
Tordral turned the spigot in the dog’s head. A jet of steam blasted from its mouth, so loudly and abruptly that Gerald sprang back and put an arrow to his bow in a single movement.
“Be at ease, Sir Gerald,” said Tordral above the sharp hissing.
The armorer aimed the boat into the middle of river, then released it. Amid clouds of steam, it drew away from the bank. Gerald crossed himself.
“Had I not seen, I would not have believed,” he said fearfully.
“As a child, I found that a rock flung from a boat’s stern will propel it forward a trifle.”
“But your boat flings no rocks,” said Gerald.
“My boat is flinging steam.”
Gerald stared after the boat. It was now moving at the pace of a walking man.
“So, your toy can cross a river,” he said, again remembering that Tordral was intruding. “Am I meant to be impressed, or—It’s gone!”
“Observant of you.”
“At the river’s midpoint, it vanished. How? Where? It did not sink, I was watching.”
“You know the lore of boundaries, Sir Gerald. This stretch of the Derwent River is special. It exists in both our world and another. The banks are a boundary between earth and water, the midpoint is a boundary between one half of the river and the other, but crossing between worlds involves more than just crossing a river. You can only do it where the boundaries exist in both worlds, and during the half light boundary times, dusk or first light, that are neither night nor day.”
“Are you saying that your toy has gone to another world?”
“It has left this world, I claim no more.”
Gerald walked out onto the bridge and looked down into the water. There was no trace of the boat. Here was none of the ceremony and incantation of religion or hedgerow magic, yet here was something extraordinary. He walked back to the east bank. Tordral was dressed in chainmail, but wore no surcoat or cloak, as warriors would. It was as if chainmail instead of cloth had been used to fashion a very ordinary tunic and trews. The helmet was an archaic type that left the lower half of the face visible even when the visor was down.
“Sir, what are your intentions?” Gerald asked.
“I am an armorer, you are a knight. You need a weapon, I devise weapons. I have just demonstrated a weapon.”
“That toy, a weapon?”
“Oh yes,” said Tordral. “It can reach your enemy, even if your enemy is in another world.”
“Tordral of—Tordral, what is the whole of your name?”
“Tordral is all of it, sir. I have a past that is best left unspoken.”
“As you will. Would you walk with me back to Keswick? It is past dawn, so my half-light vigil is over.”
The Armorer
Tordral was aware that Sir Gerald was not an ally as yet. Gerald was a warrior, and warriors were well known for being suspicious when faced with novel weapons. He had to be won over slowly; there was no advantage in pressing the matter too hard.
“Your mode of clothing intrigues me,” said Gerald as they walked. “Why wear a helmet and chainmail, even when at leisure?”
“It hides my form. I have been twisted by our common enemy.”
Gerald smiled. Tordral feigned not to notice.
“Ah, then be called my friend. May I ask of your boat?”
He feigns quick friendship, to render me eager and careless, thought Tordral. Now is the moment for extreme care.
“My boat has no secrets, it merely combines all four elements: air, water, fire, and earth. It is a living creature, but without life.”
“Impossible!”
“By being impossible, it can cross between worlds. Rules do not constrain it, Sir Gerald, neither rules of natural philosophy, nor philosophy unnatural.”
“Could you make it large enough to carry warriors?”
“No.”
Gerald gasped with surprise. Anyone wishing to part him from his gold would definitely have claimed it possible.
“But surely your toy is reality made small?”
Tordral knew that this was another awkward moment. Understanding the boat’s principle required intelligence, and intelligence was not high on the list of requirements for knighthood. Still, Gerald came from a family that valued scholarship, so there was hope.
“There is an effect called diminishment of scale, Sir Gerald. To be impelled by a jet of steam, even a small barge would need a sufflator of truly vast size. Try to build a sufflator bigger than a common barrel, and it will burst.”
“Why is that?”
“I cannot say. Perhaps the nature of steel itself, perhaps the ability of blacksmiths to render steel hard. A barge impelled by the biggest workable sufflator would not outpace a duck in no great hurry. The slightest breeze or current would drive it back.”
“But you clearly want my patronage. What do you propose?”
“A bombard, Sir Gerald. A bombard that can shoot an iron ball using air, water, fire, and earth.”
Gerald shook his head and gave a little snort of disappointment.
“I have tried shooting a gonne across the river at half-light, just as I have tried shooting arrows. The shots merely hit the far bank. They stayed in this world.”
“As they would.”
“Well then, Master Tordral, what is a gonne but a bombard made small?”
“Gonnes and bombards propel metal balls by black powder. That is merely earth driven by air and fire, but I can build a steam bombard to shoot balls of iron between worlds. Steam, which is water, rendered into air by fire burning wood.”
“All four elements. Could you really do it?”
“You have seen what I can do.”
“And your fee?”
“None.”
“No fee?”
“Our common enemy has twisted me, Sir Gerald, I want only vengeance. Just provide metals, timbers, and such other materials as I need. Beyond that, the upkeep of twenty men and women for three months, and one breech-loading bombard, made of bronze, with a bore large enough to admit a mailed fist without contact.”
“An odd list. Costly, but not unreasonably so.”
“The weapon exists only in my head, so it must be lured out with gold and toil,” said Tordral, aware that the knight’s trust still had to be lured out as well.
They reached a small tower on the edge of Keswick. Gerald took out a brass key and opened a gate in a high wall. Behind the wall was a beautiful but unkempt garden, with bowers and stone seats half-smothered in bushes and vines.
“I must go my way,” began Tordral.
“No! No, stay. For seven years I have been plagued by physicians selling eye potions to make elves visible, rogues peddling goblin traps, and fraudsters selling fairy nets. They demand gold, but offer no proof. You offer proof, but ask no payment. For that you have my attention.”
“I am honored.”
“You say you were twisted by our enemy, but your very name derives from the French word for twisted.”
“Indeed, but that was not always my name. Are we allies?”
“You tempt me. I have kept vigil at that bridge for seven years. I have seen eyes watching me that float upon air, I have shot good arrows with heads of cold iron at illusions that dispersed like smoke, and I have fallen into slumber then awakened to find my bowstring cut. Their laughter mocks me from invisible lips, yet still I stalk them, because ... come in for a moment, I would show you something.”
They entered the garden, which was bright with flowers and heady with their scent. Gerald turned about several times, his arms outstretched.
“Enchanting, is it not? The illuminations in holy books show paradise as a vast church, but I think it is a garden.”
“Briar roses, grown in spirals,” said Tordral, slowly pacing along a path leading to the center. “Dozens of them, except for that big, wild bush in the middle.”
“My grandmother was one to control people, animals, and anything else alive. It was she who twisted the wild and untamed briar roses into spirals. After her death, my sister Mayliene tried to straighten one of them, but it snapped at the base and died. She planted a young briar in its place and let it grow quite free.”
“That central bush?”
“Yes.”
“A symbol of freedom amid those without hope,” said Tordral, nodding.
Sir Gerald pressed his lips together and breathed heavily and evenly, as if trying to fight down the urge to sob. He was betrayed by a tear which meandered down his cheek.
“Master Tordral, tell my sensechal all you need. I shall support you.”
“So very easily?” replied Tordral, genuinely surprised by the sudden change in the knight.
“You and my sister ... you are of a kind. I think she would have liked you. I know you would have liked her.”
Gerald gestured to a stone seat half smothered in ivy.
“Fourteen years ago that was her favored place for reading. She knew five languages, and read Aristotle as easily as any French roman courtois. I was lying on the grass, not four yards away, when a great lethargy washed over me and I was scarcely able to move. As I lay helpless, an elf lord came. He tried to entice Mayliene away to Faerie. Do you think that sounds insane? Feel free to laugh.”
“I believe, pray continue,” said Tordral in a voice held studiously level. This was the moment a charlatan would sound sincerely sympathetic, so this was a very bad moment to offer sympathy.
“She refused his advances.”
“Brave girl, elves take badly to rejection.”
“Indeed. He—he had his revenge. He afflicted her with a cruel but subtle blight. She had to be sent to a convent, to be cared for as an invalid. For seven years she languished there, then one morning her footprints were found leading into a river. I returned from the wars in France and came here, to my family’s summer tower. I have kept my fruitless vigil ever since.”
“Not fruitless, Sir Gerald. Over the years I have gathered many others blighted by Faerie into my company. It was the story of your vigil that drew me here.”
“Then if you succeed, my vigil of seven years will be time well spent.”
The Blacksmith
A massive blast echoed among the hills around Keswick. The shouting and bustle in the town market suddenly died away, then slowly picked up again. Shepherds cursed as startled sheep and sheepdogs scattered in panic. Sir Gerald was on the way to see Tordral, and although his palfrey was used to bombard fire, the horse drawing the cart behind him reared and almost bolted. The encampment where Tordral worked was on the shores of Derwentwater, a quarter mile from Keswick. A barn had been turned into an immense blacksmith’s shop, and so much smoke was pouring from it that a stranger might have fancied it to be on fire.
As Jon, the blacksmith, carried his dead apprentice out of the barn, he noticed Gerald approaching, escorting the cart. After leaving the youth’s body with the women of Tordral’s company, he greeted the knight.
“A serious accident?” asked Gerald.
“No, just a stupid boy. He thought to play the fool while the rest of us took cover. A bright and cheery soul, but stupid.”
“Here is an Italian gold florin, looted in France,” said Gerald, tossing the coin to Jon. “Have it sent it to his family, with my condolences.”
“Consider it done, lordship,” said Jon, bowing.
“So, the accident was not serious?”
“No accident, just trialings.”
Jon deliberately kept his manner brusque, and measured out his words with care. People had the idea that hard, strong smiths made hard, strong weapons, so he had an image to live up to. Jon was also painfully aware of having a rare and conspicuous accent.
“You seem unmoved by the death of your apprentice,” said Gerald reproachfully.
“The dead are gone. The living have work to do.”
“A good philosophy, if bleak. You should have been a knight.”
“I was.”
The concept of a knight abandoning his position and status to become an artisan was too much for Gerald to comprehend. He dismounted in silence and left his palfrey with his carter. Jon led the way into the barn, explaining that parts were not entirely safe.
“I cannot see Tordral,” said Gerald anxiously as he looked around.
“Away on Derwentwater, taking plumbline soundings.”
“For what reason?”
“Didn’t say.”
Gerald stumbled over a piece of wreckage, and very nearly fell.
“Someone seems to have been roasting a steel dragon over a spit when it exploded,” he said, pointing to a tangle of grotesquely twisted metal.
“Fine result, lordship,” replied Jon. “See here? Progress.”
The blacksmith pointed to a shard of metal the size of a hand that had embedded itself in a shelter wall of rough-hewn logs. Gerald gasped with surprise, which gratified Jon. The shard had struck a four-inch-thick log with such force that part of it was protruding from the other side.
“By the very heavens!” exclaimed the knight. “How did you do this?”
“Steam burst, done with care.”
“So steam really can be as potent as black powder?”
“Yes. We have been trialing steam explosions, of late.”
“They have been upon my mind as well,” said the knight. “Should it come to that, everyone within five miles has been aware of them.”
“There’s many types.”
“Many? Is not one boom much the same as any other?”
“Not so. Either a sufflator’s barrel bursts, or a connecting pipe gives way. I began making steam pipes weaker than the sufflators, so bursts would do less damage. Then Master says, make the pipe repair itself. Clever one, the Master.”
“I ... please explain?” asked the knight.
“Master Tordral used ashwood sliverts holding a plugsert within the pipe. When steam pressure gets near to bursting, the plugsert bends the slivert a mite, and steam escapes until the pressure’s eased. Master calls it a steam guard.”
“I understood none of that,” Gerald admitted.
“It works,” said Jon with a shrug.
“But your sufflator has terrible damage,” said Gerald, waving at the wreckage again.
Jon tapped the shard embedded in the log.
“Intentional,” he explained. “I was trialing how forcefully steel shards can get flung.”
“I see, even though I don’t understand. Jon, I have been thinking.”
“I leave that to the Master, lordship.”
“Your steam bombard is a device of air, water, fire, and earth, but the metal projectile that it flings is merely earth. Surely it cannot breach the portal between worlds, as did the little boat.”
“True, lordship,” said Jon, already aware that the knight was leading him to an ambush.
“Then why is Tordral wasting your time and my gold on steam explosions?”
“Master Tordral says iron balls, shot from a steam bombard, will destroy portals between this world and Faerie.”
“Destroy them?”
“Aye.”
“Not pass through them?”
“No.”
“It’s not what he promised.”
“We discovered same by trial. Trials don’t always tell us what we expect.”
Jon was always left in charge when Tordral was away. He was known to speak slowly, and because he spoke slowly and chose words with care, he could be trusted to tell a lie with absolute consistency.
“Destroy portals to Faerie, I do believe I like that better than crossing them,” Gerald decided. “How much longer?”
“Can’t say. The like’s never been done.”
“I cannot bear the cost forever, Jon. My brothers say I squander the family inheritance, and the king complains that we do not support him enough against the French.”
“Then use the old ways, lordship: riddles, curses, spellwords, gifts, talismans, tricks, and vigils.”
“Yes, yes, I concede. One cannot fight Faerie with Faerie’s weapons, yet my support will not always be mine to give.”
“We understand, lordship, and we work for nothing.”
“Ah, I know that, and I appreciate it. Come out to the cart, I brought a token of that appreciation.”
Several men and women had gathered around the cart, which Gerald’s squire Kalran was guarding. Jon was not prepared for what was in the tray.
“A spiral briar in a pot?” he exclaimed.
“A symbol, Jon, a living symbol for us to follow, like a pennant, banner, or coat of arms. A symbol of those people twisted while they were young and soft, then grew older, harder, and very, very thorny.”
Jon put his hands on his hips and nodded. Images floated before his eyes, and none of them were from the world of humans.
“Beautiful flowers can grow from twisted stems,” he said to the rose as much to those around him. “This will remind us of it.”
“So, you too had a dear one taken?” asked Gerald knowingly.
“I was once a surpassing fair young knight, lordship. Even Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine thought me worthy to be her lover.”
“Eleanor of—but she died two and a half centuries ago.”
“True. You see ... an elf queen thought me surpassing fair as well.”
The Shipwright
The ship being built on the shores of Derwentwater was of an ancient Norman design. It had the solidity of a barge, heavy decking, and was cut off flat at the bow. Amidships was a low cabin, and within this was a clay and gravel bed for a large hearth. It was nearly complete when Tordral arrived for the twelfth weekly inspection.
“As I sees it, Master, ye got purpose conflictin’ problems,” said the shipwright, Ivain, as they circled the vessel with Tordral’s apprentice Harald.
“Explain,” said the armorer.
“It’s scale, ye know? Derwentwater’s a puddle. Why build a ship big enough ter carry horses, when ye could ride around the lake as easy?”
“The why is my affair, Ivain. You are charged with the building.”
“I done that. Twenty yards long, five yards beam, ready ter launch, but....”
“But?”
“There’s bits I don’t understand. Ye got the bow cut flat. That’s bad in heavy seas. Water gets in.”
“Derwentwater is only three miles long, its greatest waves are scarcely above ankle height. I want the bow clear for the bombard to fire. What else?”
“A bombard on a ship. It brings no advantage.”
“Why not?”
“Word o’ new weapons gets out, sailors talk, ye know? Buy ‘em a few ales an’ their sense flies south like the swallows in autumn, then—”
“Come to the point.”
“Point is, soon everyone’s got a ship wi’ a bombard. If two ships wi’ bombards fight, they’ll sink each other every time. A bombard’s too bleedin’ powerful, an’ wood is nae strong enough. There’s no advantage.”
“Advantage or not, my ship must have a bombard. What else?”
“It’s the two holes in the bow, and another two in the stern.”
“Fine holes they are, too.”
“Those at the bow are a fingerspan below the waterline.”
“As they should be.”
“Those at the stern are half a yard below.”
“And placed precisely as I asked.”
“Holes in a ship make it inclined ter sink.”
“Ah, but the holes are to take two brass pipes that will run the length of the ship. They are for the water to flow along.”
“Ye want water to flow inside the ship?”
“Indeed I do.”
The shipwright muttered something in an obscure dialect and scratched his head.
“This is a ship of dreams,” explained Tordral. “Your place is to build, mine is to dream.”
Ivain folded his arms, stared at the ship and shook his head. He had no idea what he was building, but if Tordral was happy, that was enough for him.
“May yer dreams be the nightmares o’ Faerie, Master. Oh, an’ see? I built a frame for our spiral briar’s pot.”
“Splendid. She is one of us, she must not be left behind.”
“Master?”
“Ask.”
“We of yer company, we’re all twisted by Faerie. Took me, they did. When I returned, nobody wanted ships such as I’m skilled for.”
“I do.”
“Master, I always wondered what they did to yerself.”
“As they cheapened your skills, so they took my vision, Ivain. I can but focus a handspan from my nose, and must use concave spectacles like Emperor Nero’s emerald glass to see at distance.”
“They’re in yer visor?”
“Yes.”
“Hah, that’s clever! Elves got magic, but none’s so clever in scholarship as yerself, an’ scholarship beats magic any day. Last question?”
“Last answer.”
“What’s the ship’s name?”
“I have dreamed her name to be La Hachette.”
“La Hachette? Aht, like that. Pretty name, but strong. I’ll paint a battleaxe on the bow.”
“The image suits her, Ivain. She will like that.”
The Sergeant
Sergeant Renard had decreed that the bombard was to be trial-fired on the flatlands south of Derwentwater. Against the advice of his English crew, he also ordered that the weapon be left on the waggon that had brought it there. A target tower of logs had been erected on the shore of the lake, and the bombard deployed a quarter mile inland. Renard had been expecting Tordral and Sir Gerald to attend the first firing, but not the ox cart that came with them. It was being driven by a priest, and in the tray were four nuns.
Introductions were made. The abbess and three nuns were from a convent north of Bassenwater, and the priest was from Keswick
“We heard of your bombard,” said the abbess, batting her eyelashes at Renard. “We are very curious about it.”
Renard noted that she was young, pretty, and vivacious, and suspected that she did not rule her little domain with a rod of iron. An excess daughter of a great and rich family, disposed of into the service of the church, he decided.
“The bombard is a fearsome engine,” the French sergeant warned. “Are you sure that your heart is equal to it?”
“I have encountered my share of fearsome engines, Sergeant Renard. Yours will not affright me.”
Neither this nor the other, thought Renard as he gestured to three yards of massive brass pipe bound with heavy bands and clamped to a timber beam between two woodblock wheels.
“It is ugly to behold, but its performance should thrill you to the very core,” he said with an eyebrow raised.
“Many worthy engines are ugly to behold yet give fair service,” she replied, riposting with a sidelong smirk.
Two nuns giggled, the third looked puzzled for a moment, then frowned suspiciously. The priest developed an intense interest in the bombard’s breechblock release lever as the two giggling nuns shared some joke about the weapon’s shape.
“Why is it wound about with briar roses?” asked the abbess.
“To remind us that even the ugly and powerful may fight for the pretty and frail,” said Gerald, who now began a short introduction to black powder weapons for his visitors.
“Why have them here?” hissed Renard to Tordral.
“There’s talk of magic hereabouts. People hear explosions, then whisper that we are magicians trying to harness thunderbolts. I want it known that common black powder weapons are responsible. Come, let us be part of it.”
They circled the wheeled gun, while Gerald proudly explained its finer points.
“Bought from the French, but built in Bohemia. It is the finest that bribery may buy, and the best fashioned in all the world.”
“It is smaller than I thought,” said the abbess.
“Ah, the eternal complaint of ladies,” sighed Renard, and three of the four women tittered. “Indeed, most bombards have a huge bore and shoot balls of stone. This is a new type, stronger and more finely made. It shoots smaller iron balls, but with very great power and accuracy.”
“We should stand upwind of it for the shot,” said Gerald, again competing for the attention of the abbess. “Observe, if you will, the target over yonder.”
“The tower on the lake’s shore?” asked the abbess.
“Yes. Would you like the honor?”
“Your pardon?”
“Renard has a spear with a burning rag soaked in mutton fat impaled on the point. At the word ‘Fire!’ you need only touch it to that little pile of black powder near the base of the tube.”
“Oh I could not!” exclaimed the abbess with a coy gesture.
“I shall help.”
“Oh no, really.”
“Anyone can do it. Renard, give it here. Now then, take the spear by the base.”
“Please, I am too clumsy,” laughed the abbess. “I cannot even be trusted to cut up vegetables.”
“I’ll help. Renard will call.”
Gerald’s hands pressed against hers on the shaft of the spear. The flaming rag hovered above the pile of black powder. Being French, Renard was inclined to draw out the moment for the couple’s benefit.
“Fire!”
The rag dropped. There was a hiss as the priming powder ignited, then they were assailed by a sound like a thunderclap bursting in a confessional chamber, together with a flash as bright as lightning and a cloud of smoke that reeked of sulphur. The abbess shrieked and flung her arms around Sir Gerald. The smoke billowed aside in time to show something too swift to be seen smash the top of the tower to splinters. Moments later, a plume of water erupted high into the air far out on the glassy surface of Derwentwater.
Renard noticed that one of the nuns had fainted. The other two were fleeing down the road just as fast as their feet could be willed to move. Ahead of them was the priest, although the nuns were rapidly catching up. The ox had not bothered to use the road, but had fled straight over a field. Behind it the cart was disintegrating as it bounced and crashed over the rough ground. The branches of briar wound about the bombard’s barrel had lost most of their leaves, and all of their flowers.
“I did not know oxen could gallop,” said Renard.
“I did not know nuns could sprint,” said Gerald.
“I appear to have hit that tower,” said the abbess.
“Nice shot,” said Gerald.
“You have your arms around each other,” observed Renard.
Abbess and knight drew apart. Ward, the yeoman of men-at-arms, put a hand on his biceps, made a fist, and smiled at Gerald.
“Was that a rude gesture?” asked the abbess.
“I—ah, it was a traditional gesture of congratulations,” stammered Gerald.
“It means good shot,” said Renard helpfully, his head tilted at an angle and his arms folded.
“Oh? Indeed!”
The abbess returned the gesture. Ward went bright red. Renard covered his face with his hand.
“Thank you so much for letting me play with your engine,” said the abbess. “I felt as if I were Zeus, hurling a thunderbolt.”
“You are so much more fair than Zeus.”
“Oh, so gracious of you, Sir Gerald! Is there something I may do in return?”
“I, well, perhaps ... the garden of Keswick Tower and its famous spiral briars have fallen into neglect since my sister departed. My seneschal does his best, but he is old. Perhaps your nuns could work upon it?”
The abbess ran her fingers down Gerald’s arm.
“A splendid idea, and we two could watch and supervise from a tower window, to gain a better view.”
She now set about trying to revive the nun who had fainted. Gerald and Renard joined Tordral at the bombard.
“What do you think?” asked Gerald.
“I think the lewd baggage fancies you,” replied Tordral.
“Indeed, lordship, I believe a view of your bedchamber’s roofing beams would please her far more than one of your garden,” added Renard.
“I meant the bombard!” snapped Gerald.
“Quite splendid,” said Tordral. “But Renard, why did you leave it on the waggon frame?”
“It is a French technique. Letting a bombard disperse its recoil by rolling back is better than chaining it down to a ship’s deck. It puts less strain on the timbers when it is fired.”
“Then we shall do so too. I shall ride to the moorings and have La Hachette rowed here this very day. Have the bombard put aboard, then fire a few shots to refine your skills.”
“As you will, Master.”
Once Tordral was safely away, Gerald turned to Renard.
“I have been meaning to ask of La Hachette,” he said casually. “Tordral is gone, but perhaps you can help.”
“Ask, I shall answer.”
“Why a ship?”
Renard gestured north, across the lake.
“Because the enemy is stalking us. They are suspicious of what we do.”
“How can you know that?”
“Last night Ivain was taken.”
“The shipwright? You mean ... gone?”
“Not so. He was found in the lakeside woods, not long after dawn. All that he could do was rave about an elfin lady of surpassing beauty.”
“He was englamored?”
“Yes. Elves are fair to behold, and some minds are more pliant than others. Doubtless some elfin beauty appeared to Ivain with the promise of restored youth, her hand in marriage, and eternity shared in some enchanted palace. Most likely he babbled all he knew. Most likely she giggled, then vanished.”
“All he knew,” sighed Gerald. “How much was that?”
“Little of worth. How could Faerie be threatened by a ship with holes to let the water in, a hearth amidships, decking strong enough to take a bombard, a spiral briar in a pot, and a crew of angry, twisted people?”
“Agreed, agreed. In truth, that even tells me little.”
“But that is the danger!” hissed Renard conspiratorially. “They are curious, so they will be back.”
“I see, I think. But again I ask it, why a ship?”
“While floating on Derwentwater, our work goes unseen by unwelcome eyes. A ship on a lake is not easily spied upon.”
“But surely the work is almost done.”
“The Master has perfected the parts needed to power a bombard by steam, Sir Gerald. Making them work in harmony, ah, that is still our challenge.”
Gerald now set off for Keswick. Renard and Ward stood staring after him.
“He smiles and banters nonsense with ladies,” sighed Renard. “It does me good to see him happy.”
“His cheer may be our undoing,” warned Ward. “A happy man is not bitter. His bitterness provides our gold.”
“Do you suggest that we keep him twisted like the briar?”
“No, no ... but we need him. Without him there’s no gold.”
“We are lying to him about the steam bombard. He will work that out soon enough, and when he does, the gold will stop anyway.”
“Then what’s to do? Are we lost?”
“My friend, we already have the pieces. No more gold is needed to make them work in harmony, just wit. Why not cut Sir Gerald free, to grow untwisted?”
“If the pieces never work in harmony, new pieces will require more gold.”
The Clockmaker
Being a master artisan, Guy was not inclined to take orders from peers. Priests, bishops, even great lords had called upon him to build or repair the public clocks that were the pride of many towns and cities. Even though he deferred to Tordral, he was still inclined to little displays of defiance. Walking alone when all others went in pairs flouted Tordral’s orders just sufficiently to soothe Guy’s pride.
On this night Guy had a message for his master. The war had begun, even though the enemy did not know it. Tordral slept in a small hut a short distance from the barn. Through ill-fitting wooden planks Guy could see a lamp burning within. He had just raised his hand to knock when he felt a knife at his throat.
“Master?” asked Guy hopefully.
“Why are you alone?” demanded Tordral.
“I—I—”
“Never flout my orders. Always walk in company.”
“But you work alone.”
“I am beyond temptation,” said Tordral, sounding almost amused, “but Faerie’s rulers know where your softest and most vulnerable aspects are, my friend. I am a spiral briar, twisted and full of thorns. They do not have the resolve to grasp me, so they reach out for my people. Ivain was first. You may be next.”
“My apologies, in full truth.”
“Well, why are you here?”
“The footbridge on the Derwent River is afire. You can see it from—”
“Our signal!” exclaimed Tordral. “It is Lammas Eve, a magical night. Yes, it makes sense.”
Flinging the hut’s door open, Tordral smashed the pottery lamp that was burning within. Bright yellow flames blazed up.
“What does it mean, Master?” Guy asked as they set off for the lake.
“A secret ally has set the bridge afire, trapping an elf lord in this world.”
“Trapping him? How?”
“He can only return by the portal he crossed through. A bridge in Faerie parallels the bridge in our world. Destroy one, and the other is useless. Hurry, we cannot even spare the time for a piss.”
“La Hachette is not ready to fight,” insisted Guy. “The mechanism—”
“The elf may englamor the folk of Keswick to attack us. We must keep La Hachette safe.”
In just a quarter hour, La Hachette was being rowed clear of the landing. Behind them, the barn was blazing fiercely. The little ship moved slowly, even with most of the company at the oars. As they rowed, Tordral briefed the uninitiated about what La Hachette really was. Most were astonished.
“There are several islands on the lake,” Tordral concluded. “La Hachette will not stand out while moored against one of them.”
“Master, this is a twenty-yard ship on a three-mile lake. Seen we will be.”
“But not straightaway. We can barter a little more time from Lady Fortune.”
There was a bright flash to the northeast, and a fireball erupted into the night sky moments before the sound of the distant blast rolled over them. It dispersed its echoes among the hills.
“That barrel of black powder will not dupe anyone into thinking we had a terrible accident,” said Ward. “There’s no bodies or boat.”
“They may think La Hachette sank with all of us aboard,” said Tordral. “Every moment saved gives us time for trials.”
Suddenly Guy felt the full weight of what loomed over them.
“Eighty-six trials of settings and lever lengths remain,” he said as he pulled at his oar. “We manage one trial in the hour, so that is a week. Do we have food for a week, Master?”
“Perhaps. Sergeant Renard, are we beyond bowshot from land?”
“I think it,” replied Renard.
“Then ship oars. Steam warden, light the impeller and patron furnaces, then close the steam gates. The rest of you, we left in haste and packed our stores with no care. Secure everything now. Sergeant, ready your bombard for action. Meg, take the spiral briar, mount her in her frame.”
“As said, ‘tis done.”
Presently steam began to hiss from the steam guards, announcing that the main sufflator was ready.
“Dexter and sinister gatemen, stand ready,” said Tordral, who was at the tiller. “Steam warden, report.”
“Pleased to declare sufflators at strength.”
“Commence heartbeat with dexter,” called Tordral.
“Dexter impeller gate closed,” called dexter gateman. “Dexter steam gate open.”
“Sinister impeller gate open,” responded sinister gateman.
They chant a spell of a new magic, thought Guy. Iron magic. La Hachette began to move, slowly gathering speed as the steam from the sufflator forced the water in the right impeller pipe down and back, like a piston. After some moments there was a bubbling chuff as the last of the water was driven from the right pipe and the steam began to escape.
“Heartbeat, dexter to sinister!” ordered Tordral, and the gatemen reversed the settings of the water and steam gates. Water poured into dexter pipe at the bow while steam forced water from sinister pipe at the stern.
“Steam warden, call the heartbeats in my place,” ordered Tordral.
“Master, is it wise to run with the patron sufflator not yet steaming?” asked Guy as he joined Tordral.
“La Hachette’s impeller can take her two miles and a half without the need of new hot water injected from the patron.”
“Movement, and from air, water, fire, and earth dancing in harmony,” said Renard dreamily. “Glorious.”
“We may be twisted and thorny, but what clever folk are we?” responded Tordral. “A steam impeller, two score times stronger than a sufflator’s jet. In all the history of the world, no ship has ever been moved thus. We can reach Faerie ... and we have a bombard.”
“Why did we never share this wonder with Sir Gerald?” asked Guy. “We should have told him the truth.”
“He was just one of many we lied to. Until just now only the six of us doing the trials knew the truth.”
“But he—”
“We told lies to our friends so that they would be passed on to our enemies. I thought they would ensnare and englamor Gerald. Instead, Ivain was first, and he babbled nonsense about a steam bombard to them. Thus they thought us twisted, but harmless. Twisted, yes. Harmless? Not if we can make La Hachette’s heart beat of its own accord, with no gatemen.”
“Does La Hachette really need her own heartbeat?” asked Guy. “The mechanism functions when gatemen work it with their hands.”
“Their hands are vulnerable to Faerie’s glamors, Guy. The impeller must function without any hand upon it. We know there is a wide, dead space beyond the portal, both Renard and Jon saw it when they were returned. Without elfin spells to protect us, mortals such as ourselves collapse there, our muscles flaccid. Unless La Hachette can travel the portal’s span unaided, she will lose way and stop.”
“And then?” asked Grace from the darkness.
“We would be marooned in the borderlands between worlds, unable to move, starving to death.”
“Don’t fancy that,” said Grace, a veteran of many tavern brawls. “Rather die fightin’.”
“Nobody will die,” sighed Tordral. “If La Hachette’s heart cannot be made to beat, we shall not assail any portal.”
“But then Sir Gerald will surely kill us for deceivin’ him.”
“Oh no, I have one last trick for Sir Gerald—but enough gloom, we have a lady who needs a heart. Guy, explain the problem to those new to our secret. Someone may have a suggestion.”
“When steam strokes end, the steam gates don’t drop with enough force for the tag levers to trip their sister steam gates and the two water gates. Without gatemen, the heartbeat cannot be passed from dexter to sinister and back again.”
“To me it seems little force was needed,” said Renard. “Have the gates never tripped of their own accord?”
“Once, yes,” said Tordral. “With lead weights on the trip levers, the gates were indeed forced to open and close by the extra impetus from the weights’ motion.”
“But there is a delay of one fifth of the impeller’s heartbeat, due to the extra time the lever takes to swing when weighted,” explained Guy. “In that time La Hachette is without the impeller and has no impetus. She would stop.”
For a time there was silence, except for the clank-clang, hiss, chuff as the gatemen worked La Hachette’s mechanical heart.
“Can someone explain something nautical to a poor, ignorant French sergeant who knows only bombards?” asked Renard.
“And English women, English ale, English—” began Ward.
“Let him speak!” called Tordral.
“Why does a barge not stop when the rowers finish a stroke and draw the oars forward for the next?”
“Because it has impetus.”
“Then why should La Hachette stop while the weighted trip levers are swinging?”
“Why because....”
Tordral’s voice trailed away. Guy scratched his head again, aware that everyone might have missed a very important point.
“Am I right to suggest that we could have had La Hachette’s heart beating six weeks ago?” asked Tordral softly. “Suddenly it’s as obvious as, as....”
“Garlic on Renard’s breath?” suggested Ward.
“You English, you eat candle fat, then insult the finest cooks in the world, who are we French.”
“Enough!” shouted Tordral. “Guy, bring a lamp. See how I tie a lead weight to the top of dexter’s tag lever. Kindly do the same for sinister.”
“Should we also tie lead weights to the impeller pipe water gates?”
“They are much bigger. I did not bring enough lead.”
“Will two bags of iron scrappery do?”
“They will have to.”
Once the four weights were attached, Tordral hesitated, more to put off almost inevitable disappointment than for any other reason. The steam guards hissed steadily.
“Master, you have steam,” prompted Guy.
“Then let us again attempt the impossible. Gatemen, to your stations, Steam Warden Grace, are you ready?”
“Aye Master.”
“Dexter gateman, close watergate.”
“Dexter declares watergate closed.”
“Sinister gateman, open watergate, confirm steamgate closed.”
“Sinister declares watergate open, steamgate closed.”
“Sinister gateman, stand clear. Dexter gateman, open steamgate.”
“Dexter declares steamgate open.”
“Dexter gateman, stand clear.”
They chant another spell of iron magic, taught by trial and learned by error, thought Guy. Steam hissed into the dexter impeller pipe, forcing the water within it down and back.
“The lady is moving,” reported Renard.
“Ladyship, ladyship, come to life,” pleaded Tordral softly, kneeling on the deck, hands clasped, and not caring what anyone thought.
“Flower of the Company of the Spiral Briar, bloom for me,” said Renard, as gently as if coaxing a lover to remove her robes.
With the last of the water gone, the steam chuffed out of the dexter impeller pipe. The pressure within fell, so the steam gate dropped and closed, pushing the trip lever into motion. It swung slowly, so slowly that La Hachette began to lose speed, but when it hit the other steamgate, it triggered a release of steam while tripping sinister’s watergate locked. Water now gushed out of the tail of the sinister impeller pipe, while water flowed into the bow end of dexter. There was a chuff of steam from sinister, then the trip levers swung back ponderously, and water began to gush out of the dexter impeller pipe again.
“Did anyone touch anything?” asked Tordral breathlessly.
“Hav’nae touched dexter,” said a gateman.
“Got me hands clasped,” said his companion.
“It works,” breathed Tordral. “God in heaven with all his saints and angels, it works! Heart of iron, blood of water, breath of steam, soul of fire, my lady has life without living, her heart beats.”
“She has not perfection, La Hachette loses a little speed with every beat,” began Guy.
“Guy, we have not perfection!” said Tordral, standing up. “You are missing a full quota of teeth, Ward curses at his piles every time he visits the privy, I have crippled eyes, and the briar rose we sail under looks a victim of the Inquisition’s torturers, yet all of us have life. Gatemen, present yourselves to the yeoman of archers and gonnes. When there is light to steer by, we steer for Faerie.”
The Yeoman
First light was glowing in the east as La Hachette glided north across Derwentwater’s dark and placid surface, casting smooth bow waves and trailing smoke and sparks.
“Quarter mile to Derwentwater outflow,” called Renard.
“The portal is close,” said Tordral. “Company of the Spiral Briar, lie down, lest you fall. Sergeant, what status?”
“Bombard loaded ready, slow match alight.”
“Yeoman Ward?”
“Six gonners ready, weapons loaded an’ slow matches alight. Four archers ready with bows strung.”
“Steam warden?”
“Ready, Master,” called Grace. “Lil and Mag are feeding logs ter furnace.”
“Powder warden?”
“Spare gonnes and two bombard breech chambers loaded ready,” drawled Meg. “Anne an’ Mary are ready to load black powder an’ shot as needs.”
Ward settled down on the deck with his sword across his lap. He felt strangely confident, even though they were facing the unknown and attempting the unprecedented. La Hachette and Tordral would look after them. Tordral, the twisted stem, and La Hachette, the flower growing out of it.
“Company, attend me,” called Tordral. Everyone turned. “We are about to fight an entire world. I trust all of you absolutely, yet can you trust me thus without knowing my face? I am going to raise my visor, for the first time in seven years.”
“We know your deeds, that’s enough,” protested Ward, but the visor was already up.
The face beneath was lean, pale, finely featured ... and familiar.
“Upon my word, ‘tis Sir Gerald!” exclaimed Grace, squinting in the half-light.
“Sir Gerald was never so pretty,” said Renard. “I am French, I suspected. Only a sister could have played upon his feelings so well.”
For some moments there was no sound, except for La Hachette’s heartbeat.
“As Mayliene, I was given nothing better than seven years of sympathy,” declared Tordral. “As Tordral I hid my figure under chainmail and my face with a helmet, I gathered you all behind me, and I built La Hachette. Now I fight back. If any will not fight beside a woman, jump and swim, there is still time.”
“Women, they are fine leaders,” said Renard. “I fought beside Jeanne of Armoises.”
“And probably tupped her, besides,” said Ward. “I’m with you too, ladyship.”
“Alone, you might win against half our world, but against the whole of Faerie you need a little help,” said Grace.
For a moment everyone seemed to be glancing to everyone else.
“Nobody’s inclined to jump,” said Ward.
“The outflow, I see it!” called Renard.
“Listen one, listen all!” shouted Tordral. “Portals to Faerie are found in boundary places. Where Derwentwater becomes the Derwent River is a boundary place, and this hour of half light is a boundary time.”
“The river, it looks narrow indeed,” called Renard.
“I’ve measured it, we fit,” replied Tordral. “Remember, within the portal our strength will desert us. Without elfin magic no mortal is proof against this weakness, but we have something better. La Hachette has iron muscles and an iron heart. She will take us through.”
“To the river, thirty paces!” called Renard.
“Chaining tiller, sitting ready!” said Tordral.
Violet fire blazed out around La Hachette as she left Derwentwater. The air around them screamed with a sound that was all at once outrage and terror. Shapes like monstrous, glowing curtains of spiderwebs stretched and tore all around them, and netting spun from luminescence as thick as hawsers ripped apart amid cascades of bright blue and silver sparks.
“What am I, who hath no eyes yet sees all knowledge?” thundered out of the background of blackness. “Speak the true answer and pass, die if your wits are not equal to my riddle.”
Clank-clang, hiss, chuff was La Hachette’s reply, and although a taloned hand the size of a cottage struck the ship, the fingers burst apart like oak timbers infested with the death-watch beetle. A roar of dismay echoed and died somewhere out of sight. Chill air washed over Ward, air so cold that every breath was like needles of ice in his lungs and nose. He counted the twenty-fifth beat of La Hachette’s heart, holding onto hope by clinging to the sounds of the steam impeller. Out on the water, Ward thought he saw Tordral’s tiny sufflator boat, marooned in the boundary waters, its steam spent.
Total darkness replaced the glowing filaments for a time, then luminous water splashed over La Hachette’s sides as huge tentacles wrapped themselves around her, only to crumble. Her heart kept beating and the hiss of steam declared that the furnace still burned. Water sprites placed kisses on Ward’s lips and caressed his cheeks with their breasts. Trying to enchant me with their beauty, he thought, but enchantment requires time, and they have little time. Ward could see right through their hastily wrought bodies, and those fluttering around the spiral briar above him had the form of fanged bats. He counted the forty-seventh heartbeat of the impeller—and suddenly they were through the portal. Even the half-light before dawn now seemed unnaturally bright to Ward.
“Company, take stations!” ordered Tordral, unchaining the tiller.
“Stokers, attend the furnace,” said Grace.
“Bridge full ahead, bridge with archers!” warned Renard.
“Destroy it, Renard, smash it!” ordered Tordral.
“Bombard elevation, down, down, down,” said Renard.
“How did they get here so fast?” cried Ward.
“The bridge has a garrison, I saw it when I was returned,” replied Renard.
“And you tell us only now?”
“You might have jumped.”
Ward hurriedly assessed their plight. The bridge was a long, elegant arch of interlocking stones. Standing ready upon it were tall, svelte archers, and beside them huge, chunky creatures holding rocks the size of trebuchet balls. Oddly shaped things no bigger than children milled about, all ready with pails of burning oil. Goblins? wondered Ward. Elves, trolls, and goblins?
“We can’t pass under the bridge if it stands, Renard,” cried Tordral. “Bring it down!”
“We cannot decrease the bombard’s elevation enough,” replied Renard. “Only at fifteen yards can we fire.”
“At fifteen yards they could piss on us, French sot!” shouted Ward.
“You do better, English brother of livestock.”
“Form up, gonners, archers, full ahead!” shouted Ward, pointing with his sword. “Gonne row, fire!”
Six gonnes belched dozens of shards of iron at those on the bridge. At two hundred yards they caused no fatalities, but sharp iron in faerie skin burned like acid and caused instant chaos.
“Gonne row, take reloads!” ordered Ward, and the spent gonnes were swapped for charged. “Gonne row, fire!”
This time one of the trolls dropped his rock and several of the goblins ran screeching.
“Archers, fire!” shouted Ward to his four bowmen, as arrows from the elves on the bridge began to strike in and around La Hachette. “Gonne row, down between volleys.”
Ward had been told of the magical accuracy of elfin bowmen, yet only two arrows were in the deck, and a third had landed in the spiral briar’s pot.
“Archers, fire! Again.... Archers, fire! Next time aim! They’re barely a hundred yards off. Archers, fire!”
“Charged gonnes to hand,” cried Meg.
“Gonne row, stand. Gonne row, fire!”
This volley broke the morale of the goblins, although a few thought to fling their burning oil into the path of La Hachette as they fled. Five of the trolls remained ready with their rocks. Discipline was no longer quite what it had been among the elves, but most were still crouched and shooting.
“Archers, fire!” shouted Ward. “Gonne row, down! Meg, hurry the reloads.”
“Stokers, help with reloads,” cried Grace.
“Clear behind bombard!” shouted Renard without turning. “If you would live, clear behind bombard! Jon, have you the slow match?”
“Aye sergeant.”
“Bombard, fire!”
The five-inch iron ball, fired at fifteen yards, hit the keystone of the bridge. The stone shattered, because it had been chosen for its coloring rather than hardness. Deprived of support, both sides of the long, low, elegant arch collapsed into the river, sending spray and a surge of broken water cascading over La Hachette. She rocked and pitched, but remained afloat.
“Fire at will!” shouted Ward as they passed between the stumps of the bridge, but those of their enemy who were not by now swimming were fleeing.
“Yeoman, stand lookout!” ordered Renard, as he and his crew reloaded the bombard.
Ward went to the bow. Ahead was not the familiar hills, flood plain, and fields that lay between Derwentwater and Bassenwater in the humans’ world. This broad river flowed into a placid sea that reached to the horizon. To the east, a gleaming bead of the sun’s disk announced the end of half light. Farther down the coast were three ships at anchor, and on a forested hillside a quarter mile inland was a palace of delicate, graceful towers, partly enshrouded by morning mists. Every color, every gleam of light seemed curiously intense.
The Castellerine
The elfin castellerine looked from the ruined tower of her palace to the sea. Part of one of her ships was visible above the surface, but the other two had reached deeper water before they had been sunk. The intruder ship had come to a stop, still pouring black smoke into the air. A gig boat was being rowed ashore.
“How could something so small do so much damage?” she asked one of her knights.
“We showered it with arrows, but few struck home, highness,” he replied. “Arrows guided by enchantment lose direction near that thing.”
“And it destroyed the Wylver Bridge?”
“With one shot.”
“And Darvendior?”
“I spoke with the bridge keeper, Darvendior had not returned from Earthlye when it fell.”
“In Earthlye he is safe for now, the danger is here! Five thunderbolts to sink three ships. Three more to bring down the Glamoriad Tower at half a mile. Who are these people?”
The boat reached the shore. Five figures got out and waited.
“I believe we are expected to go to them,” prompted the knight.
“Me, a castellerine, pay heed to mortals?”
“They are victorious mortals, highness.”
They set off, and as they neared the intruders the castellerine saw that the leader wore chainmail and a domed helmet. The visor had triangular eyeslits.
“The iron warlock,” said the castellerine. “I expected Sir Gerald, not his minion.”
“Lady Mayliene of Ashdayle, as it happens,” Tordral replied, raising her visor to reveal a lean, almost elfin face. “Don’t bother bowing.”
“Gerald’s sister!”
“Do pardon the visor,” said Tordral, lowering her visor and folding her arms. “My spectacle lenses are built into it.”
The castellerine fought to keep her composure.
“Answer me three questions, and I shall—”
“Uh-uh,” said Tordral as she raised her arm. “Ask but a single riddle, and I shall wave. Should I wave, my bombard sergeant will fire upon your palace again. His name is Renard, I believe you know him.”
“Renard! That filthy swine—”
“He angered you? How gratifying.”
“I’ll not talk of him,” muttered the castellerine. “Speak your petition.”
“Demands, not petition. Fourteen years ago, a stranger of disturbing fairness appeared to me in my very own garden. I called to my brother, but he lay englamored and helpless. The comely stranger paid me court. I replied that I preferred books to lovers. His amusing little revenge blighted my vision, so that I could see little else but books.”
The castellerine swallowed, then rallied. “Elfin men are proud. Some are cruel besides.”
“Restore my sight!”
Being unaccustomed to demands, the castellerine considered laughter, scorn, a haughty sneer, or a snort of anger. None seemed appropriate, or safe.
“I cannot,” she admitted.
“If cannot really means will not—”
“No no, I cannot, I swear, I cannot. Think on the spiral briar, your company’s symbol. A young stem is soft and pliant, it can be bound into a spiral around a pole. Take the pole away months later, and the stem will be turned to wood in the shape of a spiral.”
“Which cannot be straightened?”
“Ah ... no.”
“Behind me is a man named Ivain, who was englamored to love some elfin tease—”
“He can be restored, only three weeks have past,” babbled the castellerine breathlessly, desperate to tell Tordral any good news. “Take him to my palace. My wizards—”
“So, it was you.”
The castellerine stared at the ground and bit her lip.
“Your people built curious machines. Why should I not spy?”
“Bring your wizards here.”
“But why?”
“You would hold Ivain hostage in your palace.”
“You intend to destroy my palace!”
“No. I already have what I want.”
“But your sight—”
“Revenge will suffice in its place. The elfin knight who twisted me is trapped in Earthlye, so—”
“Darvendior is my brother!” screamed the castellerine suddenly.
“Ah, truth, squeezed from reluctant elfin grapes by the winepress. The longer Darvendior lives in Earthlye, the older he becomes. My eyesight for his immortality, a fair exchange. In seven decades we shall leave, when he is wrinkled, bald, impotent, toothless, and drooling—if he lives so long. My brother is stalking him.”
“I’ll rebuild Wylver Bridge.”
“I also destroyed the Earthlye bridge.”
“Damn you. Then I’ll cross to Earthlye through another portal and—”
“Try.”
“I—what do you mean?”
“Study the rules governing both of our worlds. La Hachette is a creature of air, water, fire, and earth. When she chopped through the portal on Derwentwater’s edge, she changed the rules of all portals. They no longer work. They will not ever work until she returns to Earthlye.”
“Impossible.”
“But true. Your brother made a spiral briar out of me,” said Tordral, tapping her chest. “Now it is his turn to grow twisted.”
“But you don’t understand! Elves cannot have children without—without human lovers. If we perish, none will replace us.”
“Earthlye will be the better for it. Meantime, La Hachette carries a score of Faerie’s victims. Be nice to them, they may help you have babies.”
The castellerine fought down the urge to be sick.
“Magic will vanish from Earthlye,” she said, her voice now ragged.
“So will elves,” replied Tordral. “Good riddance to both.”
“You cannot beat our entire world.”
“I already have.”
The castellerine closed her eyes, took a deep breath—and accepted defeat. In that moment she swayed so alarmingly that her knight reached out to steady her.
“Very well, you have won. What do you want? Make your demands.”
“I want all of you enchanted godlings to have a nightmare like your brother gave me,” said Tordral, smiling broadly. “You thought yourselves gods, and used us as toys. Think upon that whenever you feel yourself wronged.”
The castellerine shivered as a sliver of icy guilt stabbed through her. She had to look away from Tordral.
So, the nightmare begins, she thought, staring across the water at the impossible, invincible La Hachette. She looked back to Tordral. Strange, now that it is too late I do feel compassion for you ... but then compassion always arrives too late.