Vigil's Balance: Four - The Call

I raced down the steps of the keep and out onto the front lawn where things were about thirty seconds away from escalating into a knock-down-drag-out ass kicking. There were two newcomers, both very clearly not human, and blocking their way forward was a wall of Fae flesh. Butterfly-winged pixies fluttered in the air with Quill sabers clutched in tiny fists, while gangly, spider-limbed trolls wielded ash-handled spears, topped by deadly cold iron.

The Fae couldn’t abide by the touch of cold iron—it was their version of arsenic and slowly leeched away their powers. But so long as the Trolls clutched the wooden hefts of the weapons, they were impervious to the effects of the metal.

Gnomish archers, each wearing a spiked conical red hat, had enchanted crossbows drawn and trained on the new arrivals. Like the Trolls, each bolt was tipped with an iron arrowhead that I’d mass produced in my spare time. The Gnomes were small, but they were hell on wheels at distance, and if they managed to land even one clean hit, it would be devastating to any creature of the Fae Wylds. I glanced back over my shoulder and noted the handful of gray skinned Tommyknockers manning a pair of heavy-duty ballista bolt throwers positioned on the roof.

The siege weapons were slow and rather cumbersome to load, but they offered unmatched get-fucked power.

Standing at the forefront of the battle line was Cal, his hands on his hips. Arturo was just behind him, his war staff planted in the dirt like Gandalf facing down the Balrog. There was no sign of Renholm which was surprising, since he’d been anxiously waiting for this moment for weeks. Then again, the fairy was notoriously unreliable so it was entirely plausible that he was stalling for dramatic effect. Either that or he’d passed out in a food-induced coma after gorging himself on Ratking remains. It was a genuine coin toss.

“I already told you, dickweed ,” Cal growled, “They’ll be here when they’re damn well good and ready to be here. We’ve been waiting on your tardy asses for three goddamned weeks and now you roll in, making demands like you’re the Queen of freakin’ England.”

“Such is the way of the Hunt.” The speaker was what I could only describe as a purple-skinned elf with brilliant blue tribal tattoos swirling across his exposed arms and neck. He had long white hair, pulled into a tight braid, glowing eyes, and wore light blue leather armor, augmented with silver scale mail that cover his chest and shoulders. He was mounted on the back of a creature that had the proportions of a horse but clearly wasn’t.

Its body was pale shade of green and covered in scales like a fish, while its mane and tail were composed entirely of lanky strands of dark green kelp. The mount stared at Cal with dead black eyes, devoid of any sign of life or reason.

“You serve at the Queen’s pleasure,” the elf hissed, “and you’ll abide by the laws of the Call or see yourself hunted instead.”

“I’m an American bud,” Cal shot back, eyes narrowing, “the last time my people gave a shit about what a monarch thought, it was right before we dumped a bunch of tea in the ocean and overthrew the British. And just so we’re one-hundred percent clear, if you want to tangle, I’m more than happy to drop kick your smarmy ass right back into whatever shitty knock-off Tolkien novel you crawled out of.”

“I would watch your tongue, specter,” the elf said, his voice dripping with venom and hate, “assuming you want to keep it. Already you tempt me to call the hunt to order and ride you down where you stand.”

“You and what army,” Cal said, glancing left and right. “Because as far as I can see, it’s just the two of you against all of us.” He swept an army out in an arc, gesturing at our assembled forces.

“Indeed,” Arturo said, pipping up for the first time. “The spirit may be prone to hyperbole, but I am not.” He channeled a thread of Arcana into the staff, clutched in a white knuckled grip. A halo of pale, golden light seeped outward from the blunt head of the weapon. “And unlike these others, I am not part of your politics or your hunt. I am an emissary of Raguel and I have no great love for your kind, so I would tread carefully…”

“Let us not be overly hasty, my brother,” came the deep rumbling voice of a second creature, lurking a few paces behind the first. I was guessing “brother” was a term of endearment because Thing Two didn’t look even remotely like Thing One. It was a mother fucking sasquatch. Seven and a half feet of pure muscles, wild fur, and oversized hobbit feet each the size of a truck tire. He wore a fluttering cloak, the outside covered in colorful patches, the inside filled with countless pockets.

“Yeah,” Cal said, “best listen to your buddy before I pull your tongue out through your asshole for talking too much shit.”

“No need for things to get ugly,” I spoke up, making my way across the lawn. The line of Fae friendlies parted for me, leaving an open path. “I’m here. Just needed to tie up a few loose ends, since I don’t know how long this horseshit hunt of yours is liable to last.” I shouldered my way past Cal, so I was standing right in front of the snooty elf. Mounted, he loomed over me like a giant, but without the horse he would’ve been several inches shorter than me. He was also built like a stick. A strong breeze probably would’ve blown him away.

The elf looked down on me, a sneer curling the corner of his lips.

“Behold, the human champion we’ve been hearing so much about.”

“Correction, generic-brand night elf,” I shot back, “I’m an Inkarnate. I might look like a human, but don’t let that fool you.”

In general, I tried not to make it a habit of provoking random strangers—especially emissaries of powerful royalty—but Renholm had warned me that whoever the Queen sent would be die hard loyalists. Loyalists who would be looking for any opportunity to stir up trouble. Moreover, the creatures of the Fae Wylds were predators by nature, and any sign of weakness would be perceived as an invitation for tomfuckery. These things respected power and they needed to know we wouldn’t hesitate to use devastating and immediate violence if we needed to.

“You don’t want to play games with us, pal,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I can see right through all your head games and I promise you, if you fuck around you will find out.”

The sneer turned into an outright snarl and the elf reached for a thin single-edge blade, slung low across his hips. I reacted in the same instant, summoning my war axe to my right hand, while a ball of electricity crackled around my left. Cocked, locked, and ready to rock this sumbitch right into the afterlife.

The Sasquatch moved quickly, laying a giant, hairy hand on the elf’s forearm. Preventing him from drawing the blade.

“Peace, Elduin,” he grunted softly. “There is no cause for such hostilities. The Queen will be displeased if we fail to deliver them to the court. Control yourself. I am called Gobhoill,” he said, turning large muddy eyes on me, Cal, and Arturo, “and my compatriot can be a little rash at times, but he means you no harm. Isn’t that so, Elduin?”

Before the elf could make his rebuttal, the shriek of trumpets filled the air with a brassy racket. Renholm emerged from around the far side of the keep, riding on Sir Jacob Francis. The cat had been outfitted with intricate silver armor, covered in elaborate golden filigree. Renholm was likewise sporting some new armor, which accented his fur-lined cloak. Flanking him on both sides were Flame Salamanders, each playing a curved horn as they marched. A spray of sparks rocketed up from their tails like fireworks, popping in a dazzling display of pettiness.

“Make way for his majesty, King Renholm,” croaked a squat, frog-faced creature called a Bocra. This guy was one of our newer recruits. At under three feet tall, Bocras weren’t exactly terrifying battlefield commandos, but surprisingly the little guys made amazing administrative assistants. Of all the Fae I’d meet so far, they seemed like the least likely to try and rob or eat you. “Behold the glory of his eminence,” the Borca continued his proclamation in earnest, “the Dread Pookah of Chaos, the Lord of Havoc, ruler over the high passes of Ironmoor, scourge of Jeffrey, and the one true Monarch of the Oblivion Court with no equal.”

I had to suppress a laugh.

Renholm’s list of made-up titles seemed to grow longer and longer with each passing day. And if the elf had been pissed before, now he was absolutely incensed. It seemed like the ‘one true Monarch with no equal’ bit had pushed him right over the edge. His eyes were bulging, there was a vein throbbing in his forehead, and I was honestly concerned he was on the verge of an aneurysm. Leave it to Renholm to take a terrible situation and make it a hundred times worse.

Plodding ten paces or so behind the garish parade of pure vanity was Miko, leading my colossal horse Darksilver by the reins. Miko was a hunched old man with thinning gray hair, a wispy beard, and a paunchy gut. He wasn’t a Vigil—wasn’t even Steelborn, Mage, or Sorcerer—but he was still the best stable master I’d ever seen. The man new horses better than the next ten stable masters combine and could work with even the meanest sons of bitches out there, which included my own mount. Like Rebecca and Lena, he’d been fired for helping me get into the Citadel.

Needless to say, I’d been more than happy to offer him alternative employment.

Darksilver was the size of a large draft horse—eighteen hands at the withers—but simultaneously had the long legs and graceful neckline of a racing horse. He wore heavy Mortka-forged platemail, which stood in sharp contrast to his velvety black coat. Unnatural crimson eyes that mirrored my own instinctively locked onto the elf’s shaggy green mount. Darksilver bared his teeth in open hate then pawed at the ground as though he were trying to kill the whole earth.

That probably wasn’t far from the mark.

Darksilver was an exceptionally rare Mortka-breed stallion, one of only a handful in the possession of the Citadel. No one ever told me what type of Mortka he’d descended from, but I was guessing Grim Reaper because he was a murder-machine that hated pretty much every living thing on the planet that wasn’t me or the old stable hand. Kerra had gifted me the horse with the sole purpose of being a dick, but Darksilver and I had hit it off in a matter of minutes—mostly because Miko had been kind enough to fill me in on the horses… eccentricities.

I slipped up beside the monstrous mount and ran one hand over his muzzle in loving affection, while slipping a handful of Jetru berries into his mouth. He loved those berries even more than he loathed everything else.

“Who’s a good boy,” I cooed at him, “who’s gonna help me kill all this malicious fae fuck heads? That’s right, you are. Yes, you are. Such a good boy.” Aside from the berries, he also loved to be babied. I placed a foot in the stirrup and effortless pulled myself into the saddle. Darksilver danced a little beneath me then settled as I affectionately rubbed the spot between his ears.

“Thanks, Miko,” I said softly, nodding at the man. “Appreciate it.”

“The pleasure’s always mine, Vigilant One” he replied. “Everything alright out here?” he asked, scanning the yard in evident confusion. He reached up and rubbed his arms as though suppressing a chill. “There’s a queer feeling in the air.”

It was no wonder he was confused.

Creatures of the Fae Wylds like Renholm were largely invisible to humans without supernatural senses. They could choose to be seen when they wanted to, but unless someone had access to the powers of the Arcana their eyes just weren’t attuned beings of an Etheric nature. I saw a small army of fae creatures squaring off, ready to throw down in a pitched battle to the death. All Miko could see was Arturo standing in the middle of the yard, his staff burning with pale fire, while threatening the air.

“Just pixie problems,” I grumbled, waving away his concern. “Nothing you should have to worry about. Thanks again.” I flicked the reigns and spurred the great horse forward. “Well are we doing this or what?” I asked, turning my attention on the elf and his bigfoot buddy.

“Shall I get my horse?” Arturo asked, gaze still locked firmly on the hostile fae.

“He is not welcome,” Elduin, the elf replied in snippy tones. “Only nobles of participating courts may attend. There are few laws, but that one is ironclad. By his own admission, the priest is not a member of the court nor party to the hunt. If he tries to follow, I shall take pleasure in gutting him like a trout.”

“Better men than you have tried, lad,” the priest replied with an indifferent sniff. “Just as well anyway, I don’t fancy a ride through the Wylds.” He pulled back his sleeve, revealing a long scar across his forearm. “Earned that the last time I found myself in the Etheric Realm. One of your kin gave me that wound.” He looked darkly at the elf then lowered his sleeve. “I turned his hide into a pair of dress boots. I’ll stay here and make sure the estate remains nice and safe until you return, Vigilant One.”

The words weren’t really for me—they were for the two emissaries, and the threat was clear. Return uninvited and prepare for an ass-whooping of divine proportions.

The elf sneered and wheeled his stallion in a tight circled. “Come,” he barked at me, clearly unhappy with how this was going so far. “The Queen awaits, and we have already tarried here too long. Let us away.”