Authors: Candace Sams
"First, I suggest you stay away fromAftonfor a while Second, find a very cold stream I'll get Lore "
Shayla grinned then walked away.
***
"The only way to get this out of your system is to work up a good sweat I've wanted to talk to you about choosing a weapon Perhaps this would be the best time You can control this, uh, problem of yours on the training green " Lore mischievously grinned as he led Blain through the woods, toward a large clearing
Blain was sorry he'd explained his intense need for Afton to Lore The man would probably think he was some kind of pervert, or worse, he might tell everyone else He'd just have to trust the fairy leader to know what was best It wasn't as if this new life came with an owner's manual But the subject of weapons had him intrigued It reminded him of the vision Afton had shown him People had been practicing with all kinds of medieval paraphernalia "What do you mean when you say I need to choose a weapon' What do weapons have to do with me almost attacking Afton'?"
"I told you, the only way to rid yourself of the bloodlust is hard, physical action You have to really sweat it out Only then will your blood cool As for the weapons, we choose the means by which we defend our families and homes Most fairies do this when they come of age Since you were denied that privilege, you'll have your choice now You're warrior class That means choice of the best blades, bows, knives and everything else in our armory is yours "
Blain didn't know exactly what all that meant, but it sounded important When they entered the clearing his eyes widened in shock If he'd been under the influence of some drug, he couldn't have been more surprised Fairies of all shapes and sizes walked about Their wings were unfurled and shimmered in the afternoon light The sun made the skins of some look as if they'd been dusted in silver or gold glitter Though his heart beat wildly in anticipation, he felt no fear Some of them looked up as he passed by, and he noted their whispered comments. Some openly stared. He couldn't see that any of two creatures were exactly alike, yet they all appeared to sense a difference in him. At least that's what their reactions indicated. Maybe that was because he was new. Whatever was happening, he was definitely not in Kansas anymore. Here were real fairies, just like himself and Lore.
When he turned back to his companion, Lore had changed into his true form. The man's hair was pure white and hung down his back to his waist. His eyes glittered a forest green and matched the lighter shade of his skin. As with the others, his ears were now pointed and matched the defined slant of his eyes. The man's wings were large and a kind of blue-green. But they seemed to change shades just a bit as the light hit them differently.
"Welcome home, brother." Lore grinned and clasped Blain's upper arm in greeting. "You're welcome here among us."
"Thank you, Lore. I was afraid I wouldn't be," Blain responded earnestly. "What do I do now?"
"You meet some of the others. There are fairies here from all over the world. Over there are members of the Italian fairy faction," he said as he motioned toward some decidedly Renaissance-looking creatures. "Then there are the Nordic fairies, the Baltic factions and some of your own Highland race.
The smaller members of the fairy clan are pixies, sprites and others you'll learn about. Our one common link is that we all have, or had, wings at one time. Many of us can shape shift, others can't. You may have been told that we can fly. This is true, but only for a very short distance, and it's more like gliding really.
Ask any questions you want of anyone. Don't be afraid. No one here harbors ill will toward you for any reason. Your separation from us was old Freyja's fault, not yours, and may she be damned for it wherever she burns."
Blain watched Lore walk away to speak to the others and knew he had a true friend in the fairy leader.
What a world of wonders this was. If anyone had told him he'd be in the middle of it, he'd have laughed his ass off at the very idea. Yet here he was. And it was all as real as the sunlight on his green skin, the air in his lungs and the dark blue wings on his back.
He stopped his cursory inspection of the beings when he saw a table at the far end of the clearing. On it, objects of metal and wood lay in carefully arranged groups. He was about to walk toward them when a soft hand grasped his bicep. He turned and was confronted by one of the most enchanting sites he could ever hope to see.
The woman before him was young, light blue-green in color, and had long hair that matched her skin.
Her eyes shone like two sapphires from a heart shaped face. She smiled at him as he openly stared.
"I see thou hast not seen the like of me, Blain McTavish. My sisters, cousins and I will help thee become accustomed to thy new life in any way we can. We are of an old English faction of the fey race.
My name is Morynn."
"Thank you, Morynn. I'll probably need a great deal of help." Blain admitted.
"Come, Blain. You've a weapon to choose and training to begin," Lore said as he approached and led Blain toward the far end of the green.
When they were halfway across the clearing, Lore glanced back toward Morynn. "Be careful of her kind. They're lovely to look at, but they thrive on stealing a man's senses away and leaving him a babbling idiot when they're through. It took me three days to get over lying with one once."
"Don't worry. I have no intention of letting anything, or anyone, with that much seducing magic near me.
I could almost feel it closing around me like cement. Besides, there's someone else I want to be with."
"Aye, that would be fair Afton, would it not?"
"It would," Blain heartily responded.
"She's a fine lass. And it's good you can sense different kinds of enchantment about you. The seducing enchantment you're speaking of has led many a good man to his ruin. Morynn and her kin should find themselves some randy Satyrs. Those are the only beings who can satisfy her breed."
Blain started to ask more about Morynn and the Satyrs, but the sun's glare off metal distracted him.
They stood in front of a long table. He eyed what looked like museum quality medieval weapons.
There were broad swords, axes, staffs, bows of different lengths, maces and assorted other deadly items he couldn't name.
"These things are archaic. Why not just use guns like the rest of the world?" Blain blurted and immediately felt guilty for his tactlessness "I'm sorry, Lore, I didn't mean to say it like that. It's just that it must be hard to defend yourself against some thug with gun."
"It's all right, my friend. What you say is quite true. But unlike the weapons of the outside world, ours are made to be totally untraceable. Some can even be carried without authorities questioning their presence." Lore pointed toward the staffs. "These, for instance, don't look like anything but sticks to help people walk over rugged moors. Many other weapons, like wooden cross-bows, can be packed in luggage. They don't set off metal detectors at airports. Best of all, virtually every weapon you see here is silent." Lore lifted a bow and arrow. His deft fingers notched the arrow to the string and sent it flying, soundlessly down the green. It landed in the direct center of a knothole some seventy yards away.
"Holy Mike!" Blain muttered.
"When I have to travel with some of the metal weaponry, the authorities are fooled by false documentation telling them I'm a collector of rare antiquities. In this age of fully automatic weapons, none of the outsiders appreciates just how deadly these things are."
"And you really find a need to defend yourself with these weapons?" Blain asked, vividly recalling the incident with Hannah Biddies.
"The rare occasion arises now and again. Of course, all evidence of our having been involved is completely destroyed, and we only defend when we're cornered. Fairies can't call the elements and use them the way the Druids can. We have limited use of our dust or glamour. This is only used in the rarest of occasions to give us time to flee. It can temporarily blind a foe. So we rely on these," he explained as he waved his hand toward the collected weapons. "Of course, when the Sorceress chooses someone to check out your Druid powers, you may have some or all of the elements at your command."
Blain sighed, glanced at the tree Lore had targeted and turned back to the table. He considered the weapons. "I'm supposed to learn to use all of these?"
"Aye, but you must choose your main weapon. Mine is the bow."
"Would've never guessed," Blain quipped. "How do I go about choosing?"
"Look them over. See what appeals to you." Lore backed away from the table and let Blain look over the weapons at his own pace.
Others gathered to watch. Blain was aware of their presence. He sensed this was some kind of momentous affair. This business of choosing weapons was probably some kind of traditional ceremony he had to endure. He took a deep breath and began to inspect each object.
He handled all kinds of dirks, swords and other cutlery. None of them did anything for him, so he kept looking. He was almost at the end of the table when a massive, double-bladed battle axe caught his attention. His fingers swept over the long wooden handle, or haft, and he felt a surge of energy. Used to handling axes on the farm, he appreciated the fine workmanship.
Without hesitating, he grabbed the haft with both hands and slowly lifted the opposite end. As he did so, the double blades rang out. The sound wasn't unlike two pieces of metal striking one another. Blain was aware of the crowds' awed response, but the axe claimed the better part of his attention. The two blades were engraved with Celtic design. The scrollwork etched across the metal like twining serpents.
Despite the fact that it was a particularly gruesome item that could dismember a very large man or animal, it was still a riveting work of craftsmanship. Magnificently carved Celtic animals and knotwork circled the haft. All five feet of it were superb. Carefully running his index finger along one of the blades, he knew just how deadly the axe really was. Swung in a circular motion, it could maim or kill many men in close combat.
"You've chosen," Lore stated. "I should say the weapon chose you. It sang out. I've never seen such a thing happen. If anyone else had come forward and picked up that particular weapon, I would have said they were a bit too ambitious. It's an awesome thing to carry and must be wielded with precision. But the choice has been made. The axe is yours. Take care with it, Blain. It may guard your life or the lives of those you love one day."
Applause started from the back of the crowd and worked its way forward. Blain lifted the axe up and felt primitive power flow through his arms and chest. It was as though the weapon really had chosen him.
Lore's remark about guarding the lives of others hung in Blain's mind like a threat. There was something he should be remembering. Something of great importance. But he couldn't force the thought to come from the back of his brain where he could make sense of it. He had a feeling whatever he was forgetting would haunt him. He kept the axe very close.
Ten
Until late in the evening, Blain practiced wielding the heavy weapon. He guessed the thing weighed nearly twenty pounds. Swinging it several times was no chore. As the afternoon wore on, however, the weight became grueling. Perhaps he'd chosen the axe because it was the only weapon available that was familiar. No matter how tortuous the swinging became, he did as Lore and the others instructed and practiced the motions over and over. He thought his chest would explode from the exertion, but he wasn't about to let anyone see how tired he was. And all the while, that nagging dark forecast of doom kept persisting. The hard work hadn't driven it off as he'd hoped. Something was very wrong, and he should be able to put his finger on it but couldn't. But apparently no one but him felt the coming blackness. What could he say to them that wouldn't make him sound insane? For the thousandth time, he stuffed the fear down and refused to give in to it.
"Enough, Blain," Lore called out from the other side of the clearing. "You won't be able to lift a fork tonight if you don't stop."
Blain lowered the axe and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of one forearm. "I was hoping you'd think I could go on forever, even if I couldn't."
Lore laughed and slapped him on the back. "You've no one to prove anything to. It's doubtful anyone will challenge you forAftonthe way you were swinging that blade."
"What do you mean? Who would challenge me forAfton?" Blain lowered the blades of the axe to the ground and leaned against the thick handle.
"Our customs are ancient. We claim our chosen mates during special times of the year in a ceremony referred to as handfasting. It's the same as marriage among humans, only we tend to stay with our chosen ones for life. Before the ceremony, if someone vigorously objects to the handfasting of a particular couple, that person may make a challenge to stop it."
172
"What happens then?" Blain asked, suddenly feeling a bit threatened. He didn't want to fight someone forAfton. She wasn't a piece of meat to be argued over, and he'd seen the size of the other men. He'd surely have to hurt someone if they fought.
"If it's a man challenging, he fights the handfasting male. If it's a woman, she fights the handfasting woman. It seldom happens, but when it does, sparks fly and tempers flare. In the distant past, men and women fought to the death over the right to handfast a particular man or woman. That's how the strongest survived."
"Are you trying to tell me that if a handfasting man is defeated by the challenging man, that challenger can claim the woman as his?"
"That's the way of it. That's why some couples won't announce they're handfasting. They simply come forward during some celebration like Beltane or Samhain. They have Shayla handfast them as soon as possible, then they go into the woods and stay a few nights to consummate their vows."
"Well, no one is takingAftonfrom me, no matter what kind of weapon they use or what challenge they make!" Blain growled. If it was a fight someone wanted and the outcome was who would get Afton, then some man was going to limp off crying, even if the custom was sordid and ridiculous.