Shadow Girl (17 page)

Silence has dropped like a shroud — as on a battlefield when the guns have gone quiet.

Behind his bush, Karadeg feels prompted to comment.

‘Wow, that was . . . that was very educational. Did you see the big guy on the far right? He came twenty-seven times. I counted. I did not think it was possible. And such technique too. Do you think I could learn to . . .'

Yaouen shushes him with a withering stare. The flying fairy is speaking again.

‘Turn your hands to the stone, wolf-sisters!
Vos mains vers la pierre!
To receive the final light! Seal the fate of your new slaves!'

The girls comply like obedient pack members. As they hold out their palms, the top of the menhir starts burning a deep red, like a hearth log. Then, with a zap, light scatters in powerful beams, hitting the hands. For a while, the women also glow, their tattoos crimson in the semi-darkness. Standing or crouching over the men, eyes closed, they seem to be feeding from the rock.

On a signal from the head fairy, they press their palms on their victims' chests. A hiss, followed by strangled cries. Roused from their daze, the vanquished have arched up their torsos in pain, then subsided to the ground. The hands come off, revealing fresh brands: the stylised figures of a stag mounted by a wolf-headed girl.

The mark of thraldom, carved over each male heart.

The fairy launches into a new tirade.

‘A new age is dawning, sisters.
Un nouvel âge!
One in which you will no longer be subject to the whims of your men. Tomorrow, on the blue moon, our queen will initiate the link. Then you will strike out and subdue more males, and convert more sisters. Soon, very soon, we will rule the world.
Nous règnerons sur le monde entier!
And by the Great Goddess, we will do a damn good job of it!'

She looks around, her smile visible in the low light.

‘
Maintenant, retournez chez vous.
Go back to your homes and wait for our sign. Take your slaves with you.'

In silence, the women gather their clothes where they may have fallen and slip them back on. A few are missing shoes or bras or panties, but seem unconcerned by such sartorial lapses. Then they bend over their men and issue commands or grab them by the hair.

The tamed crowd rises in a stupor to their feet. Looks around uncertainly. Then, heads hanging low, chests and backs still scarred in blood, they follow their suzerains down the path leading through the forest.

‘Perhaps I should follow,' whispers Karadeg. ‘To keep an eye on those girls.'

‘If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, don't even think about it,' mutters Yaouen.

‘But that's my big chance to score! They'll all be dying to get a piece of me! I can just picture it, a squadron of shapely bosoms vying for my affections! I'm totally ready to be subdued.'

‘And you'll be totally disappointed. You heard the lady, it's only men they're after.'

‘She said, I quote, “subdue more males!” I bet they'll be subduing
everyone
. What do you think happened to the Korrigans around here?'

‘Petrified, most likely. I noticed a number of small new stones scattered among the alignments. Now please stay here and be quiet. I've got some vital data to retrieve.'

Yaouen steps out of his cover and saunters towards the megalith, as if on his way to a Sunday picnic.

‘Hold it there!
Attendez!
' calls a female voice.

The red-headed fairy has spotted him from her vantage point above the rock and swoops down to his level.

‘Nice time of night, isn't it?' he says with a friendly wave.

The fairy squints at him.

‘May I enquire what you're doing here, sir?'

‘I came to see the magic show.' Then he adds, playing impressed, ‘Gee! How do you do the flying thing? That is so cool!'

‘You came too late,' she replies, ignoring his question. ‘The show's over. And where's your partner anyway? It was couples only, and by invitation. And young.'

Her winged companions have flown over too and posted themselves around Yaouen, a few feet above ground.

‘For the life of me, I have no idea where you hide the strings,' continues Yaouen. ‘Stupendous!' He looks above their heads in the light of the dying campfires and pretends to search for a conjuror's contraption. ‘Couples only, you say? You needn't worry. I did come with someone.'

‘Where is she then?' asks the redhead, very suspicious.

‘Behind that bush over there,' he replies, snapping his fingers in the direction he came from. ‘She'll be here in a minute. Call of nature you understand.'

‘And how come you speak such good English?' throws in the blonde hovering to his side. ‘You're not from here, are you? You sound a bit Welsh.'

‘Very perceptive of you. I grew up in Carmarthen.'

‘I don't trust him,' she says to the redhead. ‘I say we discombobulate him.'

‘I second that,' says the brunette behind Yaouen.

‘I think we should go for a simple nincompooping charm,' chips in the black-haired fairy.

‘Or perhaps supercalifragilise him,' says the brunette. ‘The effects are more permanent.'

‘Do you remember the spell for that one?' asks the redhead.

‘Don't look at me,' says the blonde. ‘You're the spell expert. I tend to muddle anything to do with brainwashing.'

‘You're always relying on me for everything,' grumbles the redhead. ‘I wish you would pull your weight sometimes.'

‘My weight?' echoes the blonde, appalled. ‘I've been trying to lose some for the past two weeks, so how can I be in a pulling mood? Look,' she adds, pinching her thigh through her filmy dress to prove her point. ‘Orange peel!'

‘I can't see anything.'

‘Neither can I,' says the brunette. ‘But I know how you feel. I'm having problems myself with the local food. Morish all right but packed with more calories than you can find hairs on a goblin's groin.'

‘Goddess Gracious I agree. Ooooozing with butter. Absolutely ghastly. With my delicate metabolism, one look at those Traou Mad cookies and whoosh, I balloon!'

‘Can we refocus here?' growls the redhead. ‘Forget the fancy spells. I'll just fry his brains.'

Turning back to Yaouen, she raises her hand. He flashes a bright smile, palms held out placatingly.

‘Ladies, ladies, let us not be so hasty.' ‘Is this the way to welcome a humble traveller passing through the enchanting Karnag region?'

‘We're not from here, so the rules of hospitality don't apply to us.'

‘I thought the rules applied to all fairies.'

The redhead hovers to just inches from his face, her eyes threatening.

‘How do you know we're fairies?'

‘I would have said it was obvious. You're young, pretty as a picture with exceptional complexions and gorgeous figures, you dress beautifully and have clearly mastered the art of colour coordination, and you've got this adorable way of wriggling your nose when you're angry.' He pauses then adds, ‘Ah yes, and you fly.'

‘You think we colour-coordinate well?' asks the brunette. ‘I thought we never quite got that part right.'

‘Perhaps we could spare him,' says the blonde fairy. ‘He is nice. And quite good-looking for his age.'

‘Nice? Are you kidding me? We're at war, remember. There is no such thing as a nice enemy. He is just a flatterer, and of the most sexist ilk. You noticed he said nothing about our intellect. Typical.'

‘Still does not hurt to get a little positive feedback from the opposite sex,' says the blonde. ‘I'm going to miss that when we rule. It's not the same when it comes from slaves. They don't know any better.'

‘For Blodeuwedd's sake, can you hold your tongue?'

‘What's the harm? I'm sure he doesn't have a clue what we're talking about.'

‘I don't trust him. He seems to be far too wise for his boots. And he knows about fairies.'

‘So what? Even if he knew about priming the link at the Manec cromlech tomorrow night, who's he going to tell after we've wiped his mind?'

‘Rosanah! You blabbermouth! You're incorrigible!' She turns to Yaouen. ‘You there, mister smooth-talker, look me in the eye, will you?' She raises her hand again.

‘Just a sec,' says Yaouen, ‘I would like you to meet my —'

There is a sudden snort.

‘To meet my snort?' repeats the brunette, puzzled.

Yaouen bends over to pick up a boarlet.

‘No, my trusted travelling companion. I told you I came here with someone.'

‘That's not a woman.'

‘Again, very observant of you. His name is Karadeg. He has a few hidden talents.'

‘Whatever. We've wasted enough time on you.' She brings up her hand for the third time.

‘Now would be a good time, Karadeg,' says Yaouen, pinching his nose.

Karadeg appears to be in a very obliging mood, for a fraction of a second later the foulest of stenches — laced with a whiff of garlic — propagates around him at the speed of gas.

Though fairies have incredible resilience, they have one weakness: their nose sense. It sits poised on their brain circuitry as delicately as a rose petal on a breezy windowsill, and can be sent tumbling just as easily. And the prettier the fairy, the more delicately poised the nose sense.

Now, unfortunately for the four fairies hovering around Yaouen, they are without a doubt head-turning material. Ergo they do not stand a chance when Karadeg lets it rip. Before they know what is hitting them, their eyes have rolled up to their dainty eyebrows and they go into instant wing freeze. They collapse to the ground with pained faces.

Yaouen stares at the unconscious forms. Four down, but how many more to go?

Then he turns his thoughts to the puzzle that has kept him busy for the last few hours. The picture is getting clearer. A big priming, the blonde fairy said. At the Manec cromlech. He has a hunch that whatever activates the connection to the Paris nude will be there, in the middle of that stone circle. That large, half-buried ring of moss-eaten rocks at the head of the eastern alignments. Overgrown with bushes and half-hidden by trees. If memory serves, some of the smaller menhirs are missing, and there is an old tavern sitting there.

He knows what he has to do then. Though the question remains: who is behind all this? Who is the queen brain behind this new dawn? He should have quizzed the fairies better but his mischievous side got the better of him. Pox on his mischievous side. Couldn't resist the old fart joke could he, the one he used to play on pesky wingfolk back in the days when he was wet behind the ears. And now these damsels will be out for hours. With no chance of squeezing anything more out of them. Damn.

He starts flipping in his mind for possible candidates to the new dawn queenship.

Morgana, his old nemesis? That
would
be her style and in her day she was a regular visitor to Little Britain — la Petite Bretagne. But she retired to the Isle of Apples after Arthur's death, vowing never to return. Or perhaps Morrigan the lover of crows? Or one of her sisters, Badb, or Macha? All feisty, belligerent Irish ladies, so he has heard. True, none have yet been spotted on Breton shores. But that does not mean anything. Given the capricious weather of their native land, as well as the ups and downs of the Irish economy in recent times, they might have been tempted to cross the waters as so many of their pious compatriots had done in the distant past. Aiming, this time, to spread a different message from the Gospel.

A tug at his trousers. And a snort. He looks down at the boar.

‘All right, Karadeg.'

He moves to each fairy in turn to lay his palm on her head and, with a few judicious words, wipes her memory of the last ten minutes. Another short incantation, followed by a
pop
and a
whack
, and Karadeg is restored to gnomish form.

The Korrigan does not look too happy.

‘I'd like to be warned next time you turn me back into a pig.'

‘Beg your pardon. Next time I'll send word by express courier.'

‘And you were lucky I couldn't hold it.'

‘Much obliged. Though luck was irrelevant to the outcome. You know perfectly well I could have dealt with our winged friends with the flick of my thumb.'

‘Yeah, that's why my pride is hurt,' retorts Karadeg. ‘You used me for your fun.'

Yaouen's eyes are fixed upon the stars.

‘Don't you think we should all have some fun on occasion?'

‘That's as may be. But take care, Merlin the Great, not to dismiss others' feelings. You might
really
need the little guy one day.'

‘As in the lion-and-mouse parable?'

‘Something like that.'

‘You have a point,' concedes Yaouen. ‘Which is why I'm promoting you to HOWLISH status.'

Karadeg throws him a dumb look.

‘Highly Official Wizard Lieutenant and Indispensable Sidekick and Help,' Yaouen clarifies.

‘Great.' Karadeg looks anything but thrilled.

‘And this is your badge.'

Yaouen takes a blank coin from his pocket and pins it on Karadeg's chest. Then he blows on it and a smiling boar's head appears on the silver metal.

‘Now that we've got that settled, I think we deserve a rest. Daybreak is not too far off, and we should grab some sleep. We have to be fresh for tomorrow night.'

He inserts his thumb and index finger in his mouth and gives a loud whistle. A shadow appears overhead, from the east. A few air turbulences later, Morvarc'h has alighted next to them. The horse greets Yaouen with a nicker and a head bob, obviously pleased to see him.

‘I know a cosy stone shrine close to here,' says Yaouen, leaping onto Morvarc'h. ‘Better than any hotel. Hop on.'

‘Hop on?' Karadeg is staring at Yaouen with his nose pointing straight up, his eyes level with the stallion's hock. ‘Sure, no problem. Where are the climbing axe and crampons?'