The Eighth Court (The Courts of the Feyr - By Mike Shevdon Page 0,139

smell of smoke drifted on the breeze.

The flickering fingers of light faded around one of the figures who returned to a more normal aspect, illuminated by the cold moonlight. He spoke, “Finally it comes to this.”

“Deefnir,” said Tate. “I might have known you’d be hanging around here somewhere.”

“Like fish in a trap,” he said, “we simply wait and they come to us. Why engage in all that tiresome running around?”

“You’ve caught more than you bargained for this time,” said Tate.

“What’s this?” said Deefnir. “A threat? An opening bid? Will you bargain for your skin, their lives for yours?” From the gap in the hedge, the other wraithkin joined them. The circle extended to accommodate the newcomers, so that interspersed with the dark figures outlined in pale fire were the Shades, grey women, their hair falling around their faces, their hands outstretched as if they would leech the warmth from their victims.

“I’m not leaving without all of them,” said Tate.

“You’re not leaving at all,” said Deefnir. “Oh, I’m sure you’d love to roar, and sweat, and swing that great axe of yours, but I don’t think there’ll be a need for that kind of histrionics.” The moonlight dimmed and dappled shade filtered across the grass, even though there was nothing shading the moonlight.

“What’s going on?” said Debbie.

“What’s happened to the moon?” said Charles.

“Gallowfyre,” said Alex. “They’re not going to stab us to death.”

“That’s good?” said Debbie.

“They’re going to drain our life from our bodies where we stand,” said Alex.

“Not so good, then,” said Charles.

Around the circle, each of them dimmed, spilling out shade onto the grass. Where the gallowfyre met between them, shimmering walls came into being where one wraith’s power pressed against another, flaring into a purple so deep it was barely visible. From around the woman a dark pool of blackness crept across the moonlit grass.

“Your time is at an end,” said Deefnir. “A new age dawns, and it is the age of the wraithkin.”

“Ready?” said Tate.

“What are you going to do?” asked Alex. “You can’t fight them.”

“I’ll die trying,” said Tate.

There was a sound. It was like a mosquito, or a night moth, flying swift through the darkness. It stopped with a sudden, thup. Alex turned around and one of the wraithkin who had joined the circle behind her stood with the pale shaft of an arrow emerging from his chest. He looked down in surprise, and then slowly toppled backwards onto the grass.

“Down!” said Tate. He caught Alex by the neck and pulled her down to the ground, lying across her.

“Ow!” she cried, “Get off! You’re hurting.”

Charles looked around. “What the…?” Tate kicked the legs out from under him and he went down on his back, the air whooshed out of him.

Then the air was filled with buzzing, fluttering death. The arrows came from everywhere, whizzing over them, disappearing into the hedge or sailing into the night where they missed. The wraithkin were peppered with them, whirling around, trying to see where they were coming from, but where wraithkin stood, the arrows found them. Alex watched as one found an eye and the figure staggered blindly away into the dark before falling on the grass.

The Shades fell back from the circle, dissolving into thin mist, vague outlines in the moonlight. The arrows whizzed and buzzed, but could not touch them. Across the grass, Deefnir crawled on his belly, an arrow protruding from the back of his shoulder. He reached for Tate across the grass. “Too late for you,” he said, the dappled shade extending across the grass between them.

Tate’s arm swung the across his body. The blade of the axe was an arc of light in the dappled shade. It flew across the gap between them and sank with a satisfying thock into Deefnir’s head. Figures ran up the slope towards them, carrying burning brands and long spears with glinting points. At the sight of the flames, the Shades drifted back, merging with the shadows, drifting insubstantially in the night breeze, leaving the still bodies of their brethren scattered across the grass, slowly turning to ash.

“Slimgrin, here!” shouted Tate, holding up an arm. In seconds they were surrounded by tall, long-limbed figures covered in golden fur, the glint of many white teeth showing in the moonlight. Each carried a long spear. They fell on the figures scattered on the grass, using the long spears to make death a certainty.

Tate rolled off Alex and pushed to his feet, helping her up. For once she didn’t complain. The circle