When Mattox had approached the archer on the wall, he never had expected what he saw when the man turned to face him. Nor had he or anyone in his company expected the man to shoot him. Four other faces along the southern wall turned and faced Mattox and the company. Four who all shared the same face. That of a person they had sent out from Azragoth before the siege had begun. The face of one who had openly and publicly accused The Eagle of being a traitor to Azragoth and had raised his sword threatening him before the eyes of the soldiers and citizens who placed implicit trust in The Eagle to lead their warriors and armies against Xarmnian oppression. A man whom those in his company called Mr. O’Brian.
***
Though the shock of seeing what appeared to be an ally suddenly turn in aggression and fire upon their commander caused the retinue to hesitate for a moment, that moment between shock and response did not last long. Two of the four other Mr. O’Brian’s shot arrows into their group causing their horses to rear, as other men-at-arms were felled from their mounts under an arrow assault. The remaining two O’Brians were stretching their bows, making attempts on the remaining company, when the horses veered away from the group, spurred by their Azragothian riders, to stretch out the battle unit and divide the center mass grouping so that the archers would not pick them off easily. Two men, rode to and across the path, right into the rain of arrows, towards their fallen general, using short buckler shields to fend off the sharp points, from hitting vitals but charging towards Mattox to see if the arrow that had hit him had been as deadly as it appeared.
Mattox had slumped from his saddle, shifted and fallen from it to the cobblestone street, blood stained his emblematic crest, and the piercing arrow had appeared to strike him through the heart. The soldiers witnessing the shocking turn of events, though they did not wish to believe it, had assumed the worst, but the two trusted bodyguards could not leave their general in such an ignominious position. They rushed and rallied to his aid, arrows glancing off their bucklers, but whishing through their legs, bouncing and breaking upon the hard cobbled stone street, glancing off their leather brigandine, pinging their rerebrace epaulet plates, yet not halting their determined and single-minded purpose—get to the general.
Mattox blinked and stared up at the smoky sky, the breath knocked out of his lungs when he’d hit the pavements, his chest awash in fire. The tip of the arrow that had pierced his body has been awash in flame, no doubt dipped in the fiery oil running across the top of the burning wall. He’d bled from the wound, but the heated tip, prevented more blood loss because it had cauterized the wound created going in. He blinked hard again, unable to catch enough air to fill his lungs and allow him to move, turn, roll or get to his feet. He’d been struck hard, point blank, and the shock of seeing O’Brian in the city, upon the wall, when he’d personally escorted him and his company out of it, gave the archer the two seconds needed to get a deadly shot off. The arrow strike had winded him, the fall compounded that, but the strike, though severe and penetrating, had not pierced his heart at least, though he could not be too sure about his lung. It had definitely notched and scored a bone and its diamond-shaped point would not be pulled out of him without some further excruciating pain, but he would deal with that at it came. At the moment, his prone position could not be tolerated. It would demoralize and discourage his company, and the non-militia citizenry. Though he’d tried to discourage it, the people saw him as a symbol of hope. The Eagle, indeed. When they’d proudly presented him with the emblazoned crest and battle wear, he had wanted to reject it as impractical for what he needed to accomplish, but they’d all celebrated the presentation day, and his men and women fighters needed the encouragement in the face of the odds arrayed against them. The Eagle crest marked him, made his rank clear, and focused the training soldiers’ attention waiting on his command without first having to identify himself. It also marked him as a target for the enemies lying in wait to strike him down.
At last, he was able to take in a series of short breaths, as one of his men-at-arms appeared over him.
“General?”
Mattox took in a short breath and used it to speak to his man.
“We’ve got to close the gate to the Keep.”
***
Though the sun shone somewhere overhead, the branches shading the forest road were dense and allowed only muted light to filter down to our path. The Protectorate soldiers would have to take the wagon through the forest roads, for the footpaths and horse trails were too narrow to accommodate a wooden buckboard.
The Azragothian wagon was newer than Begglar’s wagon we had lost on the highland route, and its wheels were thicker and its seat wider with better springs and an under-seat box for additional storage. The superior replacement salved Begglar sadness at having to give up the older one with sentimental value, but the loss of this new one, in addition to having their party of travelers kidnapped and taken while trying to save Maeven’s life seemed to add an individual insult to that injury as well. Begglar, who would have been more fearful of the Xarmnian Protectorate thugs from his years of past experience and abuse from them, was now full-on angry and was feeling a degree of courage and hope for a chance at personal vindication in the pursuit of these Xarmnian thugs. He knew vengeance belonged to the One, but he could not deny his feeling. He’d allowed these Xarmnians to strip him of the dignity and honor and respect he’d once had when he’d openly fought alongside O’Brian, and been able to hold his own on a battlefield. Being a bigger man in his day, he’d fought with a cutlass, a war hammer, and half-shield and could stand toe to toe with any man in a sparing ring when they’d trained for resisting the Xarmnian incursions beyond the boundaries of the Lake Country. As they had plied the waters of Lake Cascale, they had thwarted weapons runs across the waters, and he’d been labeled a pirate back in the day, by the Xarmnians and had had a bounty put on his head. Back then, he’d been known under a slightly different name, back before fatherhood, back before his son had trouble mimicking his father’s Irish accent, and had only succeeded in calling him by the moniker Begglar, a loose phonetic equivalent to the name under which he had been known and wanted for piracy, treason and high crimes against the self-declared regional governors of Xarmnian occupied territories. A name that had struck him as both poignant and funny at the same time. Once a prince and scourge of the high seas now reduced to a Beggar of sorts, cashing in both his fame and his fortune for a much quieter domestic life in the idyllic countryside. O’Brian knew both names and life iterations equally well. How the Innkeeper and erstwhile baker had left the dangerous life of being McGregor the Pirate.
The meek, unassuming persona adopted, and the drastic change in both girth and carriage had reduced him over the years to a man whom no one would recognize as his former self, and Begglar had been ashamed of that fact, especially since he had to maintain that demeanor when in the presence of Xarmnian’s oblivious to whom he once was, and the younger impudent set growing up without the knowledge of his infamous exploits against the Xarmnians when they had first tried to claim and occupy the highlands and failed.
Now, feeling more of his ire return, and with no further need to maintain the pretense of being only a displaced and dispossessed Innkeeper and baker, he was beginning to sense the wanderlust of his former days once more. Of course, when they finally reached Skorlith, O’Brian would need not bargain for more than the ship as he already had, among his travelers and companions, a very capable sea captain to pilot it when the time came. As Maeven and O’Brian moved furtively ahead scouting for signs of passage along the way, attempting to gain some indication that the others were still alive and captive, Begglar, reflecting back on his glory days, could almost feel the spray of the sea on his beard and face, and almost smell the salty sea. Almost. There was a slight pungency in the air that was not only the smell of turning leaves. A scent he’d become too familiar with over the last few years. A smell of death.
This uneasiness he felt was made all the more poignant when Miray suddenly asked, “Aren’t we gonna go find Will first?”
***
Wheels within wheels. Flaring and pulsing flashes of light, streaking through the tall woods, dodging trunks, bursting through bushes with a crackling rustle of leaves, making a pitty-pat, pitty-pat fluttering noise as these zipped, dipped, wove and whooshed through forest, glen, and glade, reflecting a golden dance of light quiet upon the wet surface of babbling brooks that passed under the wood. The radiance of four small translucent wings made these bright flying creatures appear to be small globes of light, vibrating and oscillating with tireless pulses of energy. Their small golden faces, like burnished brass awash in warm yellow light, were difficult to discern, for they seemed to vibrate in and out of focus, phasing between Sapien, bovine, leonine and aquiline aspects. There were dozens of these, flashing in and out from between the trees ahead of the crackling and roaring firelight that filled the woodlands with a dense haze of smoke. One might have thought, only for a brief moment that these points of light were floating embers wafted and twisting and spinning upward upon the heat wind of the raging fires behind, but for no longer, for these moved with their own determination and speed far greater than that produced by the driving wind.
These were what had begun to be known as Faeries, yet their existence pre-dated any legend existing of them in both the Mid-Worlds and the Surface World. A human had encountered them once in the Surface World, and once in the Mid-World expanse as well. Two men whose experiences were separated by around six and a half centuries of Surface World time. Many had viewed these fantastic beings to be representative or symbolic, but the Ancient Text treatment of them gives them no such illusion. They are described in detail with the language and frame of reference by both the first-century man and the man encountering them in his six hundredth century context. This is his account of them:
4 And I looked, and, behold, a whirlwind came out of the north, a great cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness [was] about it, and out of the midst thereof as the colour of amber, out of the midst of the fire. 5 Also out of the midst thereof [came] the likeness of four living creatures. And this [was] their appearance; they had the likeness of a man. 6 And every one had four faces, and every one had four wings. 7 And their feet [were] straight feet; and the sole of their feet [was] like the sole of a calf’s foot: and they sparkled like the colour of burnished brass. 8 And [they had] the hands of a man under their wings on their four sides; and they four had their faces and their wings. 9 Their wings [were] joined one to another; they turned not when they went; they went every one straight forward. 10 As for the likeness of their faces, they four had the face of a man, and the face of a lion, on the right side: and they four had the face of an ox on the left side; they four also had the face of an eagle. 11 Thus [were] their faces: and their wings [were] stretched upward; two [wings] of every one [were] joined one to another, and two covered their bodies. 12 And they went every one straight forward: whither the spirit was to go, they went; [and] they turned not when they went. 13 As for the likeness of the living creatures, their appearance [was] like burning coals of fire, [and] like the appearance of lamps: it went up and down among the living creatures; and the fire was bright, and out of the fire went forth lightning. 14 And the living creatures ran and returned as the appearance of a flash of lightning. 15 Now as I beheld the living creatures, behold one wheel upon the earth by the living creatures, with his four faces. 16 The appearance of the wheels and their work [was] like unto the colour of a beryl: and they four had one likeness: and their appearance and their work [was] as it were a wheel in the middle of a wheel. 17 When they went, they went upon their four sides: [and] they turned not when they went. [Ezekiel 1:4-17 KJV]
The first-century man, transported into a region described as the third heaven, gives the same physical account of these beings:
5 From the throne came flashes of lightning and the rumble of thunder. And in front of the throne were seven torches with burning flames. This is the sevenfold Spirit of God. 6 In front of the throne was a shiny sea of glass, sparkling like crystal. In the center and around the throne were four living beings, each covered with eyes, front and back. 7 The first of these living beings was like a lion; the second was like an ox; the third had a human face; and the fourth was like an eagle in flight. 8 Each of these living beings had six wings, and their wings were covered all over with eyes, inside and out. Day after day and night after night they keep on saying, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God, the Almighty–the one who always was, who is, and who is still to come.” 9 Whenever the living beings give glory and honor and thanks to the one sitting on the throne (the one who lives forever and ever), [Revelation 4:5-9 NLT]
So, when I am asked the question, Do I believe in faeries? My qualified response, establishing that what we are talking about as witnessed by these two men is the same, I say, wholeheartedly, yes, I do. Do I call them faeries? Not particularly, no. I’m sure they have another name, that I cannot comprehend or am not even qualified to speak, for the Ancient Text only calls them ‘Living creatures’, in absence of their real names. What I believe is that they are multi-temporal creatures, which is why they seem to phase and vibrate between some interdimensional existence, hinting to me that they may occupy some aspect of life that is not bound by the limits of space or time. What I do know is that the effortless motion in which they move or fly about never seems to tire them, and that one may never touch them without the loss of the place in which they made contact physical contact. The finger, hand or net which tries will disintegrate and fall to dust and ash instantly. This is one of the many reasons why satyrs hate and fear the Faeries. They are not half-men, nor are they any sort of animal, fish or insect, or hybrid creature, but something else entirely. Something birthed beyond our finite understanding, serving the pre-existent One. Their descriptions come only by our frame of reference, but do not fully explain what they are with any definitive clarity. Suffice it to say, they are living mysteries that mortals may never fully understand until we find a greater clarity beyond this life.
The one thing I am sure of, however, is that they are emissaries of goodwill towards those committed to the call of the One. They only intervene in those instances where they are given leave and direction to do so. A person does not seek out the Faeries. If a person is to receive any assistance or intelligence from them, they will seek him or her out because they were sent to them. And on this one particular day and in this one particular time, they were being sent to find me.
***
‘Where’s Will?’ had become nearly a mantra phrase. I admit it. It annoyed me that every time we planned to leave or needed to get somewhere in a hurry, we were first having to go find out where Will had wandered off to. I was tempted to make him put on a red and white striped long-sleeved shirt and wear thick black circular framed glasses, and a red and white stocking cap so that we could make a game of finding him. Instead of “Where’s Waldo?” it would be…well, you know. I knew he was going through some issues, but I couldn’t let him endanger the rest of the company unnecessarily with his stubborn and self-centered agenda. If he wanted to constantly leave the company, I was of half a mind to let him have his own way, and discover what would happen to one traveling unprotected, unaware and alone in this country might bring him. Will had become a liability. And I was irritated enough to let him find out what that would get him. But like Begglar, I had begun to pick up a scent on the chilled breeze, that disturbed me enough to think Will might already have found out the harsh lesson of going his own way.
Nell had smelled it too. I saw her eyes wince, nose crinkle and her face grimace. Death was near. Its presence was wafting through the woods behind the rumble of the fires to the east of us and Azragoth’s hidden road winding upward into the smoking woods. Azragoth’s terrible history had left it the legend of being haunted. But it was not the only haunted place in these lands. The forests grew thicker ahead of us, the branches of the trees older and gnarled by time and drought and decay. The waters in the woods grew more still and stagnant as the flow of the stream lingered, trickled and pooled, saturating the ground with moss-laden goop from a slough and quagmire of alkalized run-off. The mud had grown black with decay, and the residue of the old city wastes and landfill dumping had taken a toll on the environment. Clouds of midges and flies swarmed the area, and something blending in with the swarms called in the Mid-World by the name hooliches.
“Which way did Will go?” I asked Miray, and she pointed up the winding road in the direction down which we had come from the top of the Trathorn Falls.
Maeven looked past me, and then back towards the direction in which the Protectorate had taken the others.
Miray came over to me and took my hand in her smaller one and looked up at me with sad eyes.
They were leaving the decision to me.
I so wanted to call a vote, but somehow, I felt that would be yet another way I was shifting my responsibility to lead this company, and in my heart, I knew that was wrong. There was no easy decision to make. If we went back for Will, the others would get further ahead, and they were already on horseback and more than likely being led to Dornsdale or another one of the Xarmnian occupied towns on the way. At least I had an idea where we might be able to find the others, but as to Will…I just did not know. The fires of Azragoth had slowed in their burning through the forest, and if Will had eluded us on the road down, he would not be making much progress that direction, which meant he would have to double-back and turn to follow us, whether he wanted to or not. We could wait for that to happen or just go up the road a piece and might catch him coming back down toward us. Irritated as I was by him, I really did not wish him ill. I was uncertain what to do when I decided to just close my eyes and seek guidance from the One. The smell of death was growing stronger moment by moment and I did not know exactly from which direction it was coming for it seemed to swirl around us as if pushed by the heat of the fires behind us. My eyes suddenly popped open as a verse from the Ancient Text came to my mind and startled me with its implications.
“4 “What man among you, if he has a hundred sheep and has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open pasture and go after the one which is lost until he finds it?” [Luke 15:4 NASB]
My way was clear. Though it annoyed me in some respects, I knew the right thing to do was to begin by finding Will.
Excavatia 