Chapter 18
At the rain-soaked ruins of Moylaira castle, some six miles north of Ballaghadaere, a Lore portal formed and opened. Fergal, the squat and burly morpher, stepped out from a dank and muddy fae-bridge. Although not of his making, the bridge appealed to him; it resembled an underground burrow, complete with bugs and exposed plant roots.
Fergal thought that the fae who created the portal - some little redcap named Lorcan - didn't offer to assist for the good of the war party. When Fergal first visited Saraid's war camp, he immediately took notice of the pungent little fae with the wild orange hair, ugly hat, and dirty clothes, mostly because he was trying not to be noticed.
With a toothy smile, Fergal remembered that Saraid was irritated to have to spend more glamour to make a portal for him. He found it humorous that the annoyed slut elder would have to do more than lay down or bend over to accomplish her goals. Besides, the stupid wench was familiar with the village, not him.
Just as the vexed but sexy Saraid was about to create a portal so that the morpher could get to work, the little redcap stepped out and offered to make one in her stead. Fergal remembered that Saraid, Cadell, and Lorcan had a quick, private chat before the little redcap finally got around to it. Whatever Lorcan's deal with Saraid was, it was none of Fergal's affair; he had business to attend to and couldn't care less about the machinations of some smelly redcap.
As he straightened his set of urban camouflage clothes, Fergal reminded himself that he was now an elder. And justly so; elder Fergal of the Foul Trench would become known to all fae. It mattered little to him that many of his 'brother and sister' morphers mistrusted and disliked him; he was simply misunderstood.
Dragging his thick, clawed fingers through his black-and-white striped hair, Fergal glanced around him and noticed that his gremlin lackeys had yet to show up via their own remedial portals. It wouldn't be long, though; they only needed to get a fix on their master's location and then follow. Fergal had long ago decided that gremlins were vile and stupid, but they made excellent servants to a fae of his interests and gifts.
While Fergal waited for his lackeys to arrive, he looked around the area Lorcan had sent him to. He stood in the grassy center of a long-ruined fortification. It sat on top of a low, barren hill, with moss and creeper vines throughout the crumbled battlements. Most of the stone walls of the square structure were still evident, but just barely in some places. The moody clouds above moved swiftly, and the smell of a recent rain was in the air.
A trio of middle-aged women - tourists by their cameras, German by their talk - had just begun to descend the soggy hill, apparently finished visiting the site. Other than the retreating gabby women, the area was quiet and no strange scents filled the air. Fergal was alone, and no unwanted fae knew of his arrival. Perfect.
As the first of his lackey's portals began to form, Fergal walked forward to watch the tourists stroll downhill toward their car. Grinning, he thought there was no time like the present.
The morpher pointed a clawed finger and squinted with mental effort; the nearest woman slipped on the wet grass and her elbow landed on a loose rock. When she bellowed, her friends turned quickly in surprise. One of those two middle-aged frauen held car keys in her hand; when she spun, the keys flew out of her hand and landed somewhere in the tall grass. And then the skies began to pour rain on them in gusty sheets.
Fergal watched with a wicked grin while the humans were squawking and shuffling about like panicked hens. His thirteen misshapen lackeys gathered around him to chuckle at the women's misfortune; the one with a bloody arm was helped up by one friend, while the other was on her hands and knees frantically searching for her keys. All the while, a cold deluge soaked them to the bone. If Fergal had decided to press their bad luck, one would have a broken arm, the other wouldn't find her keys, and they'd all get illnesses from the weather after they had to walk a long way in it way for help.
Fergal instead turned to address his revolting gremlin crew. "My bastards and bitches," he said almost affectionately to them in his raspy voice, "to the south is the village of Ballaghadaere. Soon it will be visited with a lingering tide of woe. We will not bring it to ruin; that would cause too much attention. Instead, we will keep moving around the area, infecting it with accursed luck. Do not focus long on any one thing; spread the wealth randomly, and with various strengths, so as not to cause suspicion. Should you be met by any local fae, leave with haste. I hold you to the law of Mortality; let no action cause the direct demise of a human. However," Fergal said with a devious leer, "you certainly can't be faulted for any indirect deaths. Remember, be creative and have fun. Let's go to work."
As Fergal stepped back from his lackeys, he changed his shape into that of a huge jackdaw. The Verden rain had no effect as he took flight. The gremlins spread out, unfolded their bat-like wings, and quickly followed after their master. They all began to spread their aerial formation and separate, eager to afflict subtle havoc throughout the rural region ahead of them.