Away with the Faerie, Naomi M-B [latest books to read .txt] 📗

Away with the Færie

He was dying.

There was no doubt about it. With every passing second, he could feel his life slipping away, slipping further and further into oblivion.

How had he gotten here? It was hard to remember everything with his sluggish brain.

Maybe he should start with something simple. Yes, something simple.

What was his name? Ah yes, that’s right. Tarentell. His name was Tarentell. And he was a Warlock.

Why was he dying?

Well now… that was a convoluted story. Maybe he should start at the beginning. Yes…

The beginning.

*

On a warm midsummer’s night, seventeen years ago, a screaming baby was pulled into the world. Its mother looked down upon it with faded eyes.

“Tarentell,” she whispered, placing a faint kiss upon the child’s brow. Then her weary heart gave way, the battle was both lost and won. The father stroked his wife’s face, eyes brimming with tears.

“Tarentell,” he repeated, mind wrenched between the grief of loss and joy of new life.

The child was delicate. Not beefy and strong like their neighbours’ child born just a week prior. But its wide blue eyes seemed to glow with some inner strength.

As the years passed, the baby grew into a curious little boy. While Tarentell’s father’s hair was fair, his was the dark and silky locks his late-mother had been so proud of. Due to this, his father couldn’t bear to cut it, letting the boy’s hair grow long.

By the time he was six it was as long as the girl’s that had been born to their neighbours just a year later. Not that it really mattered to him. Tarentell rarely stayed in the same place long enough for some well-meaning adult to catch him with scissors. Instead he was out exploring with the neighbours’ son Rowan. They made an odd pair. One slight and dark haired the other larger with messy copper curls.

Later Rowan’s little sister Myah would join them and the three would run wild in the woods that surrounded the village wall.

On his seventh year, everything changed. From the mountain outside the village wall came the Warlocks. They were looking for any child showing signs of magic. They gathered the children together and watched them. Before their eyes, they saw Tarentell snatch a flame from a candle and play with it. Twisting its shape at Rowan and Myah’s requests.

Satisfied that he was the only one, they took the boy away, ignoring the cries of both the child and his friends. Tarentell’s father looked on, eyes once again streaming as the last of his family was taken from him.

Summers and winters came and went, each in their turn, each bringing either snow or shining sun. Just as the tenth summer began to brown, there came news. Terrible news.

War.

Not just any war, war against the Færie. Anyone between ages of eighteen and seventy was called to take up arms. The welfare of the village was left in the hands of elderly and the young. On the Warlock’s mountain, life was disrupted. All of them were called to join the army as well. Their magic would be invaluable against the powers of the Færie.

Only one was left. Tarentell. As far as the masters were concerned, he was far too young to be of any great assistance. No, they said, it would be better if he put his skills into helping the humans in the village. They would need all the help they could get.

So, with his mind heavy with misgivings, Tarentell left the place he had inhabited for the last ten years to return to the home of his childhood. Personally, he hated the idea. It was ridiculous! He was a Warlock; his place was with the other Warlocks. Surely his skills would only benefit from hands on experience on the battlefield. Instead he was being cooped up with the children and the elderly. Just brilliant, he thought sarcastically as he trudged along the path. Ahead of him he could see the massive stone wall that encircled the village. Just above it he could see the treetops, golden leaves bristling in the wind. It brought back a distant memory of charging through the woods with a red headed girl and boy.

With a frown, he banished the thought. It would do little good to get emotionally attached to this place. Hopefully the war would end quickly and he could get back to becoming a fully-fledged Warlock. It was all he wanted now. All he needed.

Power flowed through his veins, power he knew how to wield. The gates opened at his command, barely any effort had to go into manipulating their stone. On the other side two people were waiting for him. A red headed girl about sixteen and a red headed boy his age.

Myah, he recalled and… what was the boy’s name… Rowan. That was it. Myah and Rowan. They had grown. All three of them had. Grown and changed. Even so, they retained certain aspects of their childhood selves: Rowan was still broader, arms now thick with muscle from working on fields most of his life; beside him Myah had the same bright cinnamon eyes and Tarentell was still delicate and slight, black silky hair falling as a fringe over those shining blue eyes. A Warlock’s eyes.

“Good afternoon.” Tarentell bowed slightly, his tone crisp and formal. “I’ve been ordered to assist the village in any way I can until this war is over. Might I ask who is in charge at this moment in time?” As he spoke, he watched Rowan’s expression darken considerably. Anger flickered across his face, barely able to be suppressed. How stupid. Contempt blossomed in Tarentell’s chest. Keeping control of your emotions was a vital part of magic. This young man, this boy, was the very opposite of a good Warlock.

“No one’s in charge really,” Myah told him, her voice was as gentle as ever. “See, we’re still sorting out everything at the moment. So far we’re in charge of looking after the little children, Rowan’s keeping track of spending, trading and supplies. Ba-”

“Him?” Tarentell raised an eyebrow. “He’s in charge of book keeping? Are you sure there hasn’t been some mistake?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Rowan growled.

“Well, you look better suited to manual labour,” Tarentell explained. “Not something that requires any actual thinking.”

Fury seeped across Rowan’s face and he stepped forward. “Shut your mouth, Warlock bastard!”

“Rowan!” Myah caught his arm. “That’s enough. Sorry.” She smiled apologetically. “Tempers are running a little high at the moment, everyone’s very worried. Rowan’s actually really good with numbers, I mean, I know he doesn’t look or act it. But he is, I promise.”

With a sigh, Tarentell shrugged. “I shall take your word for it. Where shall I be staying?”

“Everyone’s living together at village hall for the moment,” she replied, patting her brother’s arm soothingly. “To conserve heating and water and such like. Don’t worry, you’ll have a room to yourself. Just follow us.” Still smiling, she turned and led the way towards the large stone building in the centre of the village. As they neared it, more people could be seen running to and fro to complete tasks. Younger children were scattered about either playing or helping as best they could.

“You’ve changed.”

Bemused, Tarentell blinked and turned to look at Rowan. “I beg your pardon?”

“Like that!” Rowan scowled. “I remember when we were kids you used to get excited about anything. Now you just seem… I dunno… empty.”

“Firstly,” Tarentell replied, a look of superiority brushing the edges of his features. “That was ten years ago, of course I would change. Secondly, you’ve been speaking to me for all of five minutes so I would suggest you postpone judgement of me until you’ve had time to think it over. That is what I am doing. Thirdly…” He paused. Should he bother explaining how emotions and any form of passion were highly discouraged among Warlocks? One look at those narrowed brown eyes told him it would be better not to go into detail. “Never mind.” He turned away, picking up his pace to follow Myah.

As evening fell, everyone gathered into the huge dining room in the village hall. The elderly were seated on chairs near the great fire while the young children sat upon cushions, playing and giggling as small children do. The handful of teenagers were scattered throughout the company.

Removed to one side, Tarentell watched with narrowed eyes. He could sense some other magic here. Some delicate wisp of a young Warlock, their powers just beginning to shine. Intently, he watched. If he was observant enough, he should be able to spot some form of magic.

There.

Two girls about seven or eight, their light brown plaits swaying in the air as they poked hovering droplets of water.

“It seems we have some new Warlocks,” he announced, smoothly rising to his feet. Rowan’s head snapped up. Panicked, he followed Tarentell’s gaze.

“No.” He marched over to the girls and slapped the water out of the air. “You’re not allowed to do that,” he ordered.

“Don’t listen to him.” Tarentell pushed Rowan aside. The little girls stared up at him, eyes wide with wonder. They were twins, he could see that now. “What are your names?” he asked.

“Alora,” said one.

“Etielle,” said the other.

“It’s nice to meet you.” He smiled. “I’m going to be your teacher from now on. I’ll teach you to do things like that with the water. Would you like that?” They looked delighted.

A hand gripped the back of his robe, pulling him away. It was Rowan, of course it was. “What do you think you’re doing?!” Rowan spat.

“My job,” Tarentell replied. “Young Warlocks need to be trained. If left unattended their powers may go out of control. They could hurt themselves and others.”

“Is that the bullshit they spout?” Rowan growled, “To justify stealing little kids? I won’t let you turn them into heartless freaks like you!” Something fluttered in Tarentell’s chest. He didn’t know what it was but he felt oddly… hurt. Was that the word? He didn’t know. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

Eyes flashing, Tarentell clamped his hand around Rowan’s wrist. “It’s really none of your business,” he said, voice smoother and even colder than before. “Now let go of me.” He heated his hand till it was burning. With a gasp and a hiss, Rowan jumped away.

“I won’t let this go,” Rowan promised. “Magic is the thing that stared this war. It’s evil.”

It seemed Tarentell had already made an enemy. A pity but he didn’t really care all that much. Returning to the twins, he took their hands and led them away. The sooner the training began, the sooner Tarentell could distract himself from this odd sensation inside of him. Hopefully, if he ignored it, it would go away.

Hopefully.

*

There were people around his bed now. He could hear them, voices low and hushed. Well, most of them. There was one voice that was neither low nor hushed.

It was loud and furious.

“I am going to murder them!” Whose voice was that? It was familiar. As familiar as his own. “Those stinking, filthy winged bastards will pay for this!” Beneath the volume of the voice, he could hear footsteps as the person paced up and down. “I don’t care if this makes the war last longer. I will… I’ll… kill all of them. I won’t rest until I have that god forsaken Færie’s head on a stick!”

“Rowan,” a girl’s voice murmured. “Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Rowan shouted. “Look at him, Myah! He’s going to- And I- It’s my fault!” Emotion had rubbed his voice raw. “I have to do something!”

“It’s not your fault,” Myah assured him. “It’s the Færie’s fault. They did this but there’s nothing we can do. Please, just… calm down. I doubt the last thing he wants to hear is you planning on getting yourself killed.”

He didn’t hear Rowan’s