A Change In The Weather

Blakeby was hell frozen over.

Not long after completing the Rite of Separation, the temperature outside had continued dropping until it had reached a bitter minus thirty degrees. At night, under the clear starry sky, it felt worse, much worse; the dreaded cold attacked everything, splintering wood, cracking glass and killing plants and animals with its penetrating, searing touch.

It seemed that nothing could stop it, and no-one was beyond its reach.

Hundreds of vehicles - abandoned in the gridlock caused by the sudden onset of the cold - lay covered in drifts of thick, hard snow. Now the cars had become tombs for the owners within who hadn’t been so determined in their escape.

The change in the weather had left everywhere in a precarious state. With no power, no water and no way of getting food, it would only be a matter of days before most of the remaining survivors would be finished.

The story was the same all over the country; people huddled into their homes, nervously watching their fuel dwindle away, not knowing if it would be their last day, or whether some God-like miracle would deliver them from their terrible predicament.

Ironically, the four members of the Fiery Brand, with their newly found mortality, were among the lucky few who had survived the initial cold snap, although even they had failed to foresee the consequence of their actions.

Gone were the powers in their changeling rings - they were now little more than useless gold artifacts, their magic spent. Gone too were the imposters’ features, almost as if - with the spell broken and the curse lifted - the mayor, the bookseller, the vicar, and the undertaker had been born again.

Their leader, Remus Scythbane, who had taken the guise of Godfrey the mayor, tossed another log into the crackling fire, and stoked its angry flames with a poker. Remarkably, his face had changed little, but he looked younger and his expressions were sterner and fiercer.

‘Eventually the world will end,’ he said, warming his hands against the fire, ‘and us along with it, it seems.’

He turned to face them.

‘Does anyone find that just a touch ironic?’ he added.

Cyrus Thiefblade, had also changed. The lank, greasy hair and gaunt features of his previous incarnation as Gideon the undertaker had been replaced by a shock of white hair and piercing green eyes. But for all the changes, his face still bore the scars that Eliza had given him, six months previously.

‘There are always alternatives,’ replied Cyrus, standing up and weighing a glass of brandy in his hand.

Titus Uthferth, the man who had taken the appearance of the portly book-seller, snorted.

‘Explain to us,’ he said, ‘what you could possibly mean by alternatives.’

Cyrus finished off the brandy.

‘You know perfectly well what I’m referring to.’ he said. ‘Am I the only one here who realises that the only alternative to a freezing death is finding a way into Faerie once more?’

Titus sneered. ‘And you still think that’s possible after all we’ve done?’

‘And why not?’ said Cyrus, through narrowing eyes. ‘We’re not cursed anymore.’

‘Have you forgotten?’ hissed Titus. ‘When we smashed the last egg, when we performed the last rite, there was no turning back. Very soon, no doorway will remain that would allow us to cross over. The two lands will be separated forever.’

Cyrus threw his glass into the fire in temper.

‘But I still believe a passage remains.’ he said, calming down.

‘What, here? Don’t be ridiculous. The chances of a passageway here would be so small as to be non-existent. It is believed that there are so few left in the world that they rank only in single figures. Low single figures.’

‘Very possibly, but the fact remains, Bracken Wood is an ancient, magical place.’

‘Of that there is no doubt.’ said Titus. ‘But what is your point?’

‘Think about it: don’t you expect there will be others who will be thinking the very same thoughts as me?’

Titus shook his head.

‘If there was a doorway, the chances are it will be closed already.’ he said, dismissively.

Cyrus clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, feeling his temper boil away inside him.

‘Pathetic! Are you willing to take that risk? To sacrifice everything that we’ve done with a shrug? What sort of attitude is that?’ he snarled, through gritted teeth. ‘You’re a weak fool. You always were.’

Titus stood up with a grunt.

‘Choose your words carefully my friend.’

Cyrus raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. ‘Or else?’

‘Just remember that you’re a mortal now.’

Cyrus smirked.

‘Is that a threat?’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You do surprise me Titus. What’s brought all this on?’

Titus ignored the comment and looked to Remus.

‘And what do you think?’ he asked.

Remus stoked the fire idly, as if in thought.

‘What do I think?’ he said. ‘I think Cyrus should tell us more…’

Ursus Haeralt, the one who had taken the guise of the Vicar, had listened intently and said nothing.

‘Yes, indeed.’ he said, breaking his silence. ‘I think we all deserve to know more about this, my friend.’

Cyrus took another glass and filled it with brandy from the decanter.

‘Well… Before our friend Toadflax died prematurely, he divulged knowledge about the wood to me.’

‘Oh really?’ Titus rolled his eyes, and sat down heavily with a sigh.

Cyrus carried on.

‘Apparently, the wood is home to a demon called Pouk. At first I didn’t realise just how significant this information was. According to our friend, this demon - a dreadful terror to behold by all accounts - is a source of nightmares: A dream demon no less.’

Titus waved a hand vaguely. ‘So?’

‘As Faerie is the wellspring of mankind’s dreams, I find the connection almost too powerful to discount.’

‘And you assume that there is a gateway there that still remains open?’ sighed Titus, clearly annoyed.

Cyrus ignored the question, and continued.

‘Our little friend followed the demon back to its lair near to the edge of Bracken Wood where he watched it disappear into the mire of Ketton marsh. Apparently this happened many times. It would appear and disappear ‘

Cyrus allowed himself to sit back down.

‘Your guess is as good as mine as to what’s down there. It could - as you say - be closed. If that is the case, then we should enter the wood, even if it is just to see what our faerie friends are planning in this situation. You can rest assured that they won’t be staying here. Anything is better than waiting for the cold to slowly kill us.’

He took another sip from the glass and looked to Titus.

‘Of-course, feel free to stay here if you wish. I give it a week at the most before this world is totally devoid of life.’

Remus smirked, and clapped his hands slowly.

‘Well, well, my friend, congratulations. What other information are you hiding?’ he said.

‘Who knows?’ said Cyrus, grinning.

Remus went over to the cabinet and pulled out his automatic pistol, loaded it with a clip of ammunition and tucked it into his belt. On the table he spread out a set of four swords - wickedly sharp faerie blades forged from raw malevolence, spite and hate.

Cyrus looked at the swords. The patterns in the metal took on an almost unearthly glimmer from the pattern welding that had been used to create them. Along the centre of each blade had been carved a set of Aelfic runes; for every sword that had ever been created by Aelfs had been given their own special name, but the meanings had been sadly forgotten in time.

‘Are those what I think they are?’ he said, holding one up closely and staring along its wickedly sharp edges.

‘Indeed, they are.’ said Remus.

‘I would ask where you got them from, but I know you better…’

‘Let’s just say I got them from a little friend.’

‘I haven’t seen one of these is a long, long time. I’d forgotten how beautiful they were.’

Cyrus took the sword and wielded it with a flourish. It was light as a feather and made a ringing sound as it cut through the air.

Remus watched with a grin.

‘Well, Cyrus, let us just hope that there are no more surprises waiting for us shall we?’

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