“After you, my noble King and Queen.”
“No, loyal Puck,” said Oberon. “We would not take the honour from you. You are Weaponmaster, and shall go first.”
The withered elf laughed softly, and stepped forward into the darkness. A wide step of shining steel appeared out of nowhere to meet and support his hoof, and another step appeared below it. Puck strode unflinchingly down the gleaming steps as they appeared before him, and Oberon and Titania followed close behind. The bobbing will-o’-the-wisps circled uncertainly round the opening, but would not follow any further. The trapdoor swung forward and settled smoothly into place, cutting off the land beneath the hill from the other place, the place the Faerie had made to hold and protect the Armoury. A light glowed in the darkness far below, a steady crimson glare like an unblinking watching eye. The Faerie descended carefully towards it, though afterwards they could never agree for how long. There was only the steel steps and the dark, and a growing sense of distance. But finally Puck stepped down from a steel step on to bare concrete, and the Armoury appeared about him as though it had always been there.
It was vast beyond reckoning, an endless vault that stretched away into infinity in all directions. Crimson lights set at regular intervals glared down from a ceiling some fifty feet above. And all around, in that hellish light, stood row upon row of gleaming steel shelves, stacked in endless profusion with weapons and machinery of all kinds. All the many forms of destruction the Faerie had created, in the days when they depended on science rather than magic. There were projectile weapons and energy guns, plasma generators and high energy lasers. Bombs beyond counting, guns beyond number. Vast mechanisms that could tear apart an army or a world with equal ease. Huge viewscreens stood waiting to reveal an enemy’s plans and positions, and computer banks stood ready to undo them.
The three elves stared slowly about them. It had been a long time, and they had forgotten much, by their own choice. They had enjoyed the Armoury’s power too much. In the aftermath of the war against the Fallen, it had not taken them long to realize that the next inevitable step would be for one faction of the Faerie to employ these weapons against another, to the destruction of both. And so they turned their backs on the Armoury and all that it held, and buried it deep in their minds, so that it would only surface again in the direst emergency, when the land beneath the hill itself might be endangered. Now they were back, and memories returned like water unleashed from a dam. Memories of slaughter and destruction, and the wild thrilling of the blood. Puck smiled and stretched slowly, like a cat in the summer sun. It was good to be back.
“Puck, Weaponmaster,” he said crisply. “Acknowledge.”
A shimmering purple light stabbed down from above, holding him in place like a butterfly skewered on a pin. He could not move, or blink, or even breathe, but Puck knew better than to try and fight it. Until the Sleeper acknowledged his identity and rank, it was still in command, and it would kill him without hesitation if it considered him a threat. That was, after all, how he’d programmed it, all those centuries ago. The light sank into him like a slow chill, mapping his physical structure and genetic makeup and comparing it with those in its records.
“Acknowledged,” said a calm, inhuman voice in his head. “Welcome back, Weaponmaster.”
“Activate all systems,” said Puck. “I want all weapons back on line and ready for inspection.”
“Of course, Weaponmaster. My sensors detect two other life forms in your immediate vicinity. They must be scanned and cleared before inspection can take place.”
Puck nodded to Oberon and Titania, and they announced their names and suffered the examination of the shimmering light. Puck watched, not bothering to hide his amusement. It had been a very long time indeed since the King and Queen of Faerie had had to bow to any will save their own. They took it surprisingly well. Probably because they were starting to remember all the mighty weapons the Armoury held, and were as impatient as he to get their hands on those wonderful toys again. The Sleeper acknowledged Oberon and Titania and made obeisance to them. Viewscreens blazed with light on all sides, displaying endless information on which weapons were ready for immediate use, and which would require time to be made ready. Puck grinned until his cheeks hurt. How could he ever have wanted to forget all this? There was enough firepower here to level Shadows Fall in a matter of hours. Enough engines of destruction to pound the world into rubble. Many he had used himself in the war against the Fallen, and something warm and darkly pleasant stirred within him as he remembered wielding this weapon or that, and how he had wrought death and devastation at his will.
There was the Spear of Light, which could not be stopped or evaded once thrown, and could seek out one enemy among thousands. There was the Cauldron of Night, wherein the dead could be raised and sent out to kill again in the name of the Faerie, no matter what side they might originally have fought on. There was the Bone Ripper, the Howling Tide, the Shatterer of Dreams and the Spirit Thief. Nightmares of destruction given shape and form, as potent and as deadly now as when the Faerie first created them, millennia ago.
Oberon and Titania walked unhurriedly in the Hall of Weapons, pausing occasionally before this viewscreen or that, savouring some particular memory of suffering or slaughter. Glorious mechanisms of destruction revealed themselves to their masters, who considered the prospect of a world in flames, and found it pleasing. The time had come again when the Faerie would test their courage and skill and honour on the only grounds that really mattered: the field of battle. The elves knew that they were not what they had once been. Immortality has many drawbacks, the chief of which is boredom. They had grown soft through lack of challenge and dreamed away their long lives, but that would end now. They would heat their blood in the kiln of battle, and rediscover their greatness in the blood of their enemies.
Puck stood alone before a giant viewscreen, his thoughts elsewhere. His time as Weaponmaster had made him what he was now; the only imperfect elf. He had exposed himself to forces and energies that had yielded immeasurable power, and had paid the price. He had twisted and shrivelled in the heat of strange tides, his flesh running as wax runs down a candle to escape the flame. He had been Weaponmaster of the Faerie, and he was only now beginning to remember what that had entailed. War had been his life, his cause, his reason for existence. He gloried in death and destruction, and the trampling of worlds. He plucked a weapon from a shelf, primed and aimed it without hesitating, and blasted a wide hole in the shelving. The roar of the explosion echoed loudly in the Hall of Weapons, and jagged pieces of metal shrapnel fell out of the air like hail. Puck breathed deeply, still grinning. It was good to be back.
He turned his thoughts inward, and reached out beyond the material world. His inner gaze fell upon a path of roaring power, channelled energies burning with unquenchable vigour. More paths blazed around him, crackling and howling in the hollow places between the worlds, ready to be tapped and exploited by those with the power and audacity. It was the work of a moment to reach out and tap into the nearest path, and power beyond mortal control or hope of reckoning beat within him. And it was only then that Puck remembered the source of those paths of energy, and his laughter rang loud and savage in the Hall of Weapons.
It was the Fallen, in all their millions; dead but not destroyed, vanquished but not released, suffering endlessly as their destruction was stretched across the warp and weft of time. The Fallen were dying, and always would be.
“Tremble, all the worlds that be,” whispered Puck. “The elves go to war once more.”
—
Sheriff Richard Erikson pushed open the tall wrought-iron gate and stepped through into a nightmare of overgrown greenery. Trees and bushes crowded together at the edges of the single paved path, and thick creepers hung down from lowering branches. A breath of movement stirred the surrounding trees, rustling through the thickly-knit branches, but no wind blew and the air in the garden was deathly still. It was early in the evening, but already dark, and
deep impenetrable shadows filled what gaps there were in the greenery. The quiet seemed to grow more brittle the further into the garden he walked, and every sudden rustle or whisper of movement sounded clearly in the hush. The air was full of perfume, thick and sickly sweet, like flowers left too long in a hothouse, and gone to rot.
Erikson stopped, and looked casually about him, taking his time. Nothing definite met his gaze, but he had a strong feeling this would be a bad time to show any sign of weakness. He could feel the weight of his gun and his baton on his hips, but he kept his hands away from both. He didn’t want to start anything. There was a vague sense of settling, of relaxing, and all around him the garden and the darkness grew still and quiet. Some of the tension went out of Erikson too, and he began to breathe more easily. He strode unhurriedly along the narrow path, heading for the great hulking house before him. It was a squat, ugly place with ivy crawling everywhere. There was a light at one window on the ground floor; the others were dark and empty, staring back like watching eyes. Erikson sniffed, unimpressed. He’d seen uglier places, in his time. Shadows Fall was not a town for the faint-hearted, especially if you were the law. He scowled at the gloomy, glowering house and sighed quietly. Whatever the good Doctor Mirren wanted to see him about, it had better be important.
The call had come through on his car radio half an hour ago. Doctor Nathaniel Mirren needed to speak urgently with Sheriff Erikson. He wouldn’t say what about, only that it was vitally important that the Sheriff contact him immediately. He’d stressed the word vital. The dispatcher tried to put him through to one of the Deputies, but Mirren was having none of that. It had to be Erikson. Anyone else, Erikson would have sent a polite, reassuring reply, and got around to it when he had the time, but Mirren was different. The good Doctor was an important member of the community, well-connected, and, it must be admitted, often able to see things in the present and in the future that other people missed. Just what the town needed; another politician with ambition who dabbled in sorcery.
Necromancy, to be exact; trafficking with the dead. Though of course no one ever said that out loud. It wasn’t actually illegal, but it wasn’t exactly popular either. In the Sheriff’s experience, people tended to get rather squeamish at the thought of their dearly departed having their final rest disturbed, just so that Doctor Mirren could pursue the answers to questions he shouldn’t have been asking in the first place. Still, Mirren was connected to all the right people, in social as well as political circles, and he was the best doctor in Shadows Fall; a positive genius at diagnosis. So everyone made allowances. Lots of them.
Erikson finally reached the front door, and looked for a bell to ring. There wasn’t one, but there was a large black iron knocker on the door, cast in the shape of a snarling lion’s head. It was a large knocker, easily twice the size of Erikson’s fist, and he felt strangely reluctant to use it, as though afraid it might suddenly come to life and snap at his fingers. He pushed the thought firmly to one side, took a good hold on the knocker and banged it twice. Even through the door, he could hear the sound echoing through the house. Everything else was quiet, save for the occasional stirring or rustling in the garden behind him. He didn’t look back. He didn’t think he wanted to know. A thought struck him, and he rummaged in his jacket pockets. He came up with a packet of mints, popped one into his mouth, and sucked it noisily. It wouldn’t do for Doctor Mirren to be able to smell alcohol on his breath.
Erikson didn’t think of himself as a heavy drinker, but he liked a glass of something, now and again. These days, now and again were a lot closer together than they used to be. His search for the murderer was getting nowhere fast, and more and more pressure was coming down on him from all sides. He was doing everything he could, driving himself and his seven Deputies unmercifully, but so far he had little enough to show for it. Just ten dead victims, and no trace of their killer anywhere. No clues, no suspects; they hadn’t even been able to positively identify the murder weapon yet. A blunt instrument was the best they could do, wielded with almost inhuman force. But no fingerprints or footprints. No witnesses, no traces of the murderer’s passing, nothing to show the bastard had ever been there, apart from his victim. No leads, no theories, nothing. So Erikson took a little drink, now and again. He had to. He needed something to keep him going.
He glared at the wide, towering door before him. All that rush to get him here, and now Mirren couldn’t even be bothered to open his damned door. It was a pretty impressive door, though. Eight feet tall if it was an inch. The kind of door expressly designed to keep people out. Almost, one might say, the door of someone under siege. The door of someone with enemies. A gleam of light at the top of the door caught his eye, and he looked more carefully. His eyes had grown used to the gloom, but even so he only just made out the outlines of the security camera set just above the door. No wonder Mirren was taking so long. He was having a good look at his visitor first.
What have you been up to, Doctor? What’s got you so scared?
The door swung open, and Doctor Mirren looked out at the Sheriff. His face was pale and strained, and he had a shotgun in his hands. Erikson stood very still. Mirren looked at him closely. The Doctor’s mouth was trembling but his hands were steady, and the gun never wavered. Mirren’s clothes were a mess, and going by the dark circles under his eyes, he hadn’t been getting much sleep lately. He looked past the Sheriff and out into the darkness, his eyes darting back and forth as though trying to catch something by surprise. Erikson cleared his throat cautiously.
“You asked to see me, Doctor, so here I am. You did say it was important.”
“It is. Very.” Mirren lowered the shotgun, but didn’t take his finger away from the trigger. “Sorry; I don’t trust the camera any more. There are lots of things that don’t show up on the monitor.”
Erikson chose his words carefully. “What kind of… things are you expecting, Doctor?”
Mirren looked at him coldly. “Talk to me, Sheriff. Tell me something only you and I could know. I need to be sure you’re really who you seem to be.”
“Doctor; we’ve known each other the best part of ten years now. We’ve sat on opposite sides of the table at town Council meetings more often than I can count. Now you told my dispatcher you needed to see me about something vital. Right now I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry, in case you’ve forgotten, and my definition of vital is getting pretty damn thin. So either invite me in and tell me what the hell this is all about, or I’m leaving. I have work to do.”
Mirren smiled slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes; you’re Erikson. I’m sorry, but I have my reasons. Come in, and I’ll explain.” He stepped back, and gestured for the Sheriff to enter. He seemed a little calmer, but even so Erikson kept a watchful eye on the shotgun as he walked past the Doctor and into his hall. Mirren shrugged apologetically, and lowered the gun so that it was pointing at the floor. He glared suspiciously out at his garden one last time, then slammed the door shut, and locked and bolted it. The sight of the closed door seemed to steady him, and he nodded for Erikson to follow him with some of his old arrogance. “This way, Sheriff. We can talk in my study.”
He set off down the hall at a fair pace, and Erikson had to hurry to keep up. He felt a little more secure now that the shotgun wasn’t pointing in his direction, and took the opportunity to take a good look about him. He’d never been in Mirren’s place before, though he’d heard rumours. The hall was certainly impressive. It was vast, that was the only word for it, and only dimly lit, with shadows on every side. Wood-panelled walls gleamed dully behind heavy antique furniture, and a scattering of paintings. Erikson didn’t recognize any of them, but they had the dull, dark look of age and value. There was even a suit of armour in an alcove, looking like it could do with a good polish. If the rest of the house was on the same scale as the hall, Mirren must rattle around in it like a single pea in a pod. A place this size needed a large family and a flock of servants to fill it. But Mirren lived alone, and al
ways had.
Erikson scowled briefly. He wouldn’t have liked to spend a single hour here on his own, day or night. The place was spooky, even for Shadows Fall. There was a strong atmosphere of foreboding, of imminence, of something about to happen. The Sheriff kept wanting to stop and look back over his shoulder. He was beginning to think he should have taken the hint out in the garden, and got the hell out while he still could. The thought disturbed him, and he sniffed angrily. He was the Sheriff of Shadows Fall, and it would take a lot more than a spooky old house to put him off his duty. A hell of a lot more.
The study turned out to be surprisingly cosy. It was a large room, but not imposing, and well-lit. Tightly-packed bookshelves covered three walls, and two overstuffed and very comfortable chairs lay on either side of a crackling open fire. Mirren sank into the nearest chair and gestured for Erikson to take the other. He laid the shotgun across his knees, holding on to it so tightly that his knuckles showed white. He watched impatiently as the Sheriff settled himself. He seemed to want to say something, but wasn’t sure where to start, or even if he should.
“Doctor; you asked me to come here,” said Erikson finally. “Now what is so important I had to leave an ongoing murder investigation just to talk to you? Under normal circumstances, being a member of the town Council gives you certain privileges, but circumstances these days are far from normal. Now, why am I here? Is it connected to the murder inquiry?”
“I’m not sure,” said Mirren, almost apologetically. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps isn’t good enough.”
“Please, Sheriff, be patient with me. My situation is… complicated. Tell me about the murder investigation. How is it going?”