Fidr

TYKE

Mebehn Swamps, the last rampart…

It might have been ten years ago but I wince every time I think about it. I don't recall it in pieces; no, each wrinkle on Fidr's face, every cackle falling off her grin, and every strain in her voice is vividly etched in my memory. She appears clear in my mind, often enticing my fingers to curve around her neck. It's only when they fold into the palm of my hands that reality becomes an illusion and heaviness kicks back.

Snow was blanketing the land in a layer of thick frost. It was a sea of white, except for the reeds nestled beneath the blazing moors tampered in orc blood.

I stared at it in the distance, fighting back my tears, playing the scene over and over in my head.

Ever since my sister was born, my father had told my brother, Jaroh'k, and me to watch over her like a hawk. Despite having had twenty-four wives, the three of us were his only offspring, which always made him nervous. And this angst had to naturally worsen when Jaroh'k died at the start of the conflict.

A handful of what was left of my village had managed to survive until now. We had fought well. We slept in rounds, watching the skies for flying ships that scoured the land at night. Never stayed in the same place for more than a day, always keeping an eye on my sister—the last female of Jor'kahal. Our hope.

It had never been a ground for a fourteen-year-old girl, but then, there was nowhere to hide and no other option for Jayara but to fight that day.

Scattered throughout the hill, fae soldiers frosted, burned, or disintegrated the warriors with magic-charged weapons we couldn't handle, far surpassing today's M-guns. I had to act when a fae was about to strike us.

I let go of her hand—just that one time.

My axe smashed the invader's skull, and when he was no longer a threat, I turned around, my empty clasp shaking at the truth dawning on me.

I remember everything. Jayara's peaceful poise, her hand raised above her war-painted face, her long, beaded braids crowning her head as they spread in the icy waters. How fierce and beautiful she was still, how her eyes glinted at the sun, and how they would never close again.

I nuzzle my head into Vine's hair, fingers weaving across her thin threads and folding into a fistful. A drop as cold and heavy as metal runs down my cheek. It fractures my drabness before splatting on my neoprene glove flushed against her back. My eyes aren't doing well today, are they... Tyke, hold it. I chase my breaths, trying to count them...

At the end, only three orcs were still standing, including me. We'd been rounded up like animals in a meadow. Nearby was a flying mass made of iron I later learned was called an aerioship, a flying mode of transportation fueled by fae magic. It had just landed and was unlatching its ramp. The scene was dominated by an armada of soldiers surrounding a woman as she strolled down the metallic grid, their feet tapping, death in every thump of the heel.

My first glimpse of Fidr was at that moment.

The attire she wore was war-like, an armor I had never seen in my waking life. Elbows and knees clad in gold shone from the sun's foggy rays, slicing a gleam as if light itself had been a blade. Wearing a white outfit as snug as a glove, she looked as though she were dead, her face paler than the smoke sweeping across the plain. I watched as she carried her black wings folded at the back, their tips trailing behind her, making a sound like metal sliding against metal. My sixteen-year-old eyes nearly sprang out of their sockets when I saw lance-like daggers piercing out from the side of them.

Lorehg, my father's best fighter, tensed his grip on my shoulder as Fidr approached, sending courage through my bones and a warning not to listen to my fear.

Many things were racing through my mind that day. What creature could possibly have jagged knives at the rim of its wings?

Blood trailed behind them, the very tips soaked in sludge. Fidr had already drawn the life out of someone before she even got to us.

I couldn't believe it. I had heard many stories, never thinking one word to be true. A bony hag cutting through the throats of those who had uttered one word too much or eating the brains out of orcs' skulls before using them as wine cups... As a fae, she was supposed to have soft features, like wind and water... But she looked like she came from the jaws of a wrathful serpent.

She flitted over the ice with her minions, one holding an umbrella shielding her from whatever sun she thought was shining that day. Her washed-out skin was visibly more important than the green beasts she was flying toward, the growing spark in her wide eyes unperturbed by our wounded state. And carrying a smile as frigid as the winter's air, she flashed her teeth—conic chiseled spikes she could have only filed herself. And upon seeing her gnashers flaunting at me, I became aware she was more than a simple threat.

She was a flesh eater.

In her clasp was a necklace, and we all groaned. This bitch had imitated our customs, but not with the teeth of our enemies, but the tusks of our chief—those of my father's, their golden rings still slung over the ivory. How she managed to get hold of those, I'll never know...

She stopped, eye-defying us, and smirked out a tut when Lorheg shifted uneasily at my back.

"I have a little deal to propose, orcs." Laughter bled from her voice.

I die thinking sneering was all I could do.

The whitest eyes, if not quite as milky as fish eyes when dead, peered into mine as she leaned forward. "Serve the Faerish nation, and you'll be spared. You refuse, you die."

We had a few notions of Faerish, enough to understand the magic hag.

Our village's seer, old Mag'Haroth, came forth. "Our blood would rather soak into the earth and be born back as one with it than be enslaved by you."

Fidr snapped her fingers, and two fae guards slunk forth with a plastic tarpaulin.

"Step on it, grandpa. Come on. I don't have all day." Fidr exhaled loudly, as if her visit was just another gabfest, already boring her out of her mind. When I think about it...

The fucking witch.

Mag'Haroth knew what awaited him. Before his worn feet breached the line, he briefly paused at my level, and while tucking his necklace into my palm, said something that still resounds in me every time I stare at it in the mirror. "Twill protect you, Tykerish. As last as we are, we may fall, but you'll rise out of this."

The moment he stepped on it, blood spattered across my face, the taste of it brave and unjust.

This queen of nothing had flashed a wing forth, slicing Mag'Haroth's neck in a clean swipe. Lorheg charged at Fidr, only to be struck the same way. While Mag'Haroth silently bathed in a pool of his own blood, Lorheg stood still. His back may have swayed for long seconds, but his feet did not stagger.

Not a ripple of fear touched his skin, not a shudder waved over his body as he took one determined step forward. Lorheg might have been choking, might have been bleeding to death, but he wasn't going to depart to Nikresh without a fight, as small as the battle might have been. His grip on his throat was not a delusive attempt to save his life, but merely a bid for time.

A bid for one more fight.

Lorheg wouldn't have missed the opportunity. No, the warrior wouldn't have allowed himself, even when Yurtus—the god of death—had come to claim him.

And as he breathed his last, his eyes remained at war—not a guess on my part, but a certainty.

Fidr turned her gaze away as she scoffed.

Knowing he was victorious brings me a smile even now.

When Lorheg's body hit the murky drape, I could've sworn Yurtus sentinels' horns were blaring in the distance.

The thud was like thunder to me... lightning forking down my bones, the ghost of my ancestors war-crying in my heart for the last of mine had fallen.

It was over.

For Orcana, for my tribe.

For me.

And yet, I didn't allow a flicker of dread to cross my face. Fidr was the bane of our country, and she had killed it. All that was left was my honor and pride.

I grunted.

"You want to be next, boy?" Fidr smirked, tensing her wings as she shook the blood from her murdering spikes.

But then, that sly piece of shit swished her other wing in my direction. I banked hard to my left, avoiding a spray of silver tips, but not enough to prevent some from grazing my face.

Fidr had graciously sliced into me, marking my cheek as if branding me.

"Serve?" she asked. Mag'Haroth's last words still resounded in my head. I'd always listened to my elders, and being seventeen meant I'd never been through any rite of passage to adulthood. I still had three more years to prove my worth as a warrior, but then, I realized how pointless it had become. I was lost.

Clenching the necklace, I lowered my eyes. "Serve."

We can hardly see the scar, but it's there. Fay frowned at it but never really asked, though it might have been something to do with how I turned my face away. This girl, she reads me like an open book...

One of my mothers once told me that each fae carried a piece of nature's heart within, making them soulless and numb to danger. How can nature be so misled? There was no end to the nights I spent trying to answer this question.

And yet, I know by default that the fae hold the kindest hearts, through that of Fay's... This is why I'm having difficulty picturing Fidr as even having one. She's an anomaly; no other explanation fits this wretch!

A voice finally emerges against my shoulder. "This dagger belongs..." my arms loosen as Vine pushes away, "to my people."

She picks herself up, searching the dark for her helmet. Whatever she wants, I'll leave her to it. My mental strength is gone; she's sucked me dry.

A few seconds tick by before I stand, my legs dragging me across the grit, blunted.

I still tilt to what she's breathing out, though. We never know with this minx. "And it's got nothing to do with the guts of a fae."

Vine puts her helmet back on, hands working on the buckle, hardship visible as her chin jitters to her whispery lips. "This dagger is called Tootharn and should be in an Elvexican museum. It's been altered, and I want to know why. Your Ever stones shouldn't even be on it..."

Agreed.

I retrieve my helmet, bring it over my head, and adjust my eyewear. As I get the hang of this thing, I give my eyes time to acclimate—scanning blurs before improving enough to unravel the fine lines of this woman tormenting the poor corpse.

"Vine, if you've got something to say, say it. We've got to move." I'm trying to lead the way, but not many people are following.

"It's mine..."

I turn a grave eye. "Bell, you've been watching The Lord of the Crowns a little too much."

She doesn't even sway her attention from the throne. She's fucking hooked on it like a mantis. "And I'll take it."

What?

With a thrust of her hand, she tries to grab the hilt.

''Stop!"

But she doesn't.

Flashes strike my lenses, and I gasp, removing the fucking goggles about to obliterate my eyes for good. My eyes crinkle, gnarling inward from being fucked over and over through this military junk.

It looks like my ears are the only working sense when they pick up some shuffle and moans, followed by sizzling.

My growl is peeling out, my fist about to crush Vine into confetti. I hustle from December to December, working on this case for twenty-four hours. I might be getting pennies from it, but it's still cash—enough to get Fayra and me out of this psychotic country. And this wing nut here is ruining everything. What makes me burst up a blood vessel is having someone screw it with such mastery that I feel this whole mission is a prank about to take over!

My growl fades in apathy when I distinguish a blurry figure splayed on a shattered bench a considerable stretch from me, electric currents entwining Vine's limbs in neon blues and yellows. Looks like the Vine got shook.

I sigh. It's chronic. Stupid gremlin...

Queen dead behind me, it's probably time we stop playing around and move on, starting with this lightbulb down here. "How's it going, Vine?" I ask, extending a hand.

She coughs and sputters, "Smoking hot..."