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  Renegade of Two Realms

  The right of Phil Parker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright ©2018 by Phil Parker. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any other means; electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express permission of the author.

  I dedicate this novel to my daughter, Lauren, whose timely intervention with books on writing informed my creative processes.

  To Sarah Linley, a wonderful writer whose honest feedback, encouragement and faith is crucial.

  Finally, to award-winning author, Lisa O’Donnell, whose role as mentor in the early stages of my writing gave me the confidence to pursue it further.

  You can find out more about Phil Parker and The Knights’ Trilogy at:

  https://philparkerwriter.wixsite.com/fantasy

  My Twitter account is: @PhilSpeculates

  “‘Can you wonder that the People of the Hills don't care to be confused with that painty-winged, wand-waving, sugar-and-shake-your-head set of impostors? Butterfly wings, indeed!"

  Puck of Pook’s Hill by Rudyard Kipling

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 1

  People were trying to kill me.

  Technically, they weren’t people but that didn’t matter, it was their determination that bothered me more. I stared at the kitchen ceiling and waited but the creaky floorboard refused to make another sound. I slammed my mug of tea on the table so that its steaming contents spilled over my hand and cursed.

  ‘Comes to something when you can’t enjoy a mug of tea without some bastard trying to kill you.’

  The mug didn’t reply, none of the inanimate objects did, but it didn’t stop me talking to them.

  I picked up my sword from its place by the back door, snatched a bag of salt off the kitchen table, stuffed it in a trouser pocket and hefted my sawn-off shotgun over my shoulder. Having weapons to hand was proving to be essential these days. I listened intently, still nothing.

  I snuffed the flame in the lantern, plunging the kitchen into near darkness. Shafts of purple June twilight seeped through holes in the boards at my window, they offered all the illumination I’d need. I climbed the stairs on tiptoe, keeping my attention focused on the darkness in front of me.

  Doors to the bathroom and spare room on the right remained closed, as I’d left them. Not so the door to my bedroom on the left, over the kitchen, I stepped towards it and listened carefully. Nothing.

  Someone dropped on to my shoulders, wrenched the shotgun out of my hand and hurled it to the floor. An arm wrapped around my neck; thick, rigid hairs dug into my skin. My head got yanked back to expose my throat. I threw myself back against the wall before the attacker could finish what he started. It forced air out of his mouth, fetid and hot, I followed through by jerking my head back, smashed it hard into my new friend’s face. It was enough for the arm around my neck to release its hold slightly, I dropped my sword so I could perform a tight forward roll along the landing. I reached out, felt the pommel of the sword and stood up.

  I wasn’t fast enough.

  A hairy and very solid head hit my chest, forcing my arms to windmill as I tried to keep my balance at the top of the staircase. I grabbed at the vague shape in front of me, felt his greasy clothing as I lost my footing but held on to him as we tumbled downstairs.

  We rolled, head over heels, and not always my own, until we landed in a tangled heap at the foot of the staircase. Somehow, no doubt rigorous training in my youth, helped me land without injury. My sword clattered after us but in the dark and cramped hallway, amongst the snarl of arms and legs, I was trapped with the hairy bugger on top of me. A narrow beam of light from a boarded window fell on a small but deadly looking knife in a hairy hand. I watched it draw back, knew I had a second, no more.

  I brought my knee up sharply in the hope of connecting with the bastard’s balls, my luck was in, I struck soft tissue and heard a loud gasp of pain. The knife vanished but the gasp told me Mister Hairy’s head was directly in front of me. I lashed out with my fist, punched as hard as I could and heard him groan. Rather than give up, hairy hands clawed my face, clutched at my throat. We rolled around on the floor, like passionate lovers, as we both searched for the knife in the darkness while trying to inflict as much damage on the other person.

  After failing to find the knife he rolled me onto my back, which gave him the advantage. He pinned me to the floor with his weight and tried to punch my dodging head in the darkness, I hoped it offered enough of a distraction. By raising my knees, I managed to lift him slightly, letting me free one hand just enough so I could reach into my pocket. I grabbed a handful of salt and ground the granules into the bastard’s face.

  It generated a high-pitched wail, with his attention focused on the pain in his face for an instant I tipped my new wrestling partner sideways. A couple of frantic seconds later I found my sword and thrust it into the darkness, hoping luck was on my side.

  The blade point penetrated something fleshy but without any real resistance, so nothing fatal, probably a limb. Mister Hairy grunted something I didn’t understand, probably cursing my ancestry or my good luck. Fighting in darkness didn’t bother this guy, I needed a change of location. I ran into the kitchen. Heavy breathing followed just behind me, the stumbling sound suggested I’d wounded the bastard’s leg, I hoped it would slow him down.

  Just as I flung open the back door, my foe pounced. We staggered outside and rolled around in my recently dug vegetable patch.

  In the fading light I saw my would-be assassin for the first time; the small beady eyes set deep within a face covered in bristles and above a snout with protruding long whiskers, smeared in blood. The rest of the body was human in appearance and dressed in filthy clothes but now I knew what I was fighting.

  A Fir Darrig.

  The Light Court called them rat boys, not a name intended as a compliment.

  Their ability to move without making a sound, their cruelty and lack of any morality made them perfect assassins. This bastard had deliberately made the floorboard creak to bring me upstairs into the darkness.

  With him back on top of me again, I managed to hurl him sideways, to give me time to dig into my pocket and haul another handful of salt. He was so busy trying to stop me getting up he missed my hand as I rubbed the salt into the bloody wound into his leg. He howled, tried to brush away the granules clinging to his wound, which gave me enough time to get up and level my blade at the rat boy’s bloody face. Small black eyes followed the blade upwards until they met mine.

  ‘Tell me who sent you, you rat bastard or I’ll fucking skewer you!’

  The creature said something unintelligible but judging by its snarling mouth and spitting delivery, he wasn’t offering to surrender. I doubted it coul
d even speak English, languages were probably low down on the curriculum at rat boy school. Plus, there was an advantage in sending an assassin to do a job when it couldn’t give away any secrets, no matter how much torture you applied.

  It prompted indecision, taking the rat boy prisoner was pointless but I couldn’t bring myself to murder the thing in cold blood, I was trying not to be too psychotic these days. My hesitation was all Mister Hairy needed, it hurled lumps of soil at me, rolled to one side and was on its feet in a blur.

  It crouched and sprang, like a real rat, avoiding my blade in the process. It clung on to me, arms wrapped around my neck, legs around my waist so we staggered like drunken dancers, until the rat-boy headbutted me. For a brief second I smelled its putrid stench until my nose stopped working and blood trickled into my mouth.

  Rat Boy tried using his body mass to force me up against the cottage wall, thereby restricting my mobility. I had other plans, I dug my heels into the soft ground and roared into his spiky face and pushed towards my garden shed. We grunted and pushed and pummelled each other like rutting stags, I got head-butted a second time but it didn’t have the same power. His leg wound made the difference in the end, it left him without the essential leverage so, with every bit of strength I could muster, I pushed him until I slammed him against the side of the wooden shed, forcing air out of its lungs in a loud gasp. The shed, which had withstood storms for years, lurched under the pressure, wood creaked and splintered and we crashed through one wall and landed on the floor, followed by dozens of objects that had sat on shelves. Rat boy glared up at me angrily as he sucked in air, blood trickled out of his mouth and a small pool of blood formed near one armpit. He made no effort to move and the pained expression told me he’d skewered himself on something. I struggled to my knees, leg muscles burning, still not sure what to do with my prisoner.

  Somewhere nearby I heard a hissing sound.

  I glanced around, wary of another attack until I spotted my hairy friend doing the same thing. We spotted it at the same time. A damaged gas cylinder.

  ‘Shit!’

  I jumped up, evading the weak clutches of the rat boy and stood over him as his pool of blood grew bigger. He gave me a look of burning animosity, said something unintelligible again but didn’t try to move.

  The roof emitted a loud creaking sound, informing us it was about to surrender to the inevitable, something snapped loudly and the remaining walls and the roof shook. Instinct made me sprint through the hole we’d just created as the shed, like a pack of cards, collapsed inwards, loudly and with a great deal of dust.

  I heard the sound, an enormous whoomph, felt the heat and found myself flying through the air, to land heavily on my back in the freshly dug vegetable patch. Billowing flames and intense heat filled the air until darkness swallowed me.

  ‘Keep your head down Puck! Something that size makes an easy target!’

  Smoke billowed and worked its way into my lungs, made me cough until my throat burned, it reached into my eyes, filled them with tears so I couldn’t see. I stayed like that until I thought I’d die, the need for fresh air became an obsession, one I was deliberately being denied. Suddenly an outline loomed in front of me, greyer than the grey smoke. Its overlong arm reached backwards as it prepared to drive the object in its hand into my chest, leaving its side open for a split second. I held a similar knife in my own hand, drove it between the ribs of the figure above me. The effort dragged in more smoke into my burning lungs. The grey shape coalesced into the hulking weight of a seven-foot spriggan and collapsed on top of me, leaving me unable to breathe. I was going to die and if it brought an end to this torture, I didn’t care.

  Just as my lungs searched for air that wasn’t there and dark blotches appeared at the edges of my vision, a strong breeze cleared away the smoke. With what little strength I had left in my muscles I moved the corpse just enough so I could pull in fresh air. I hacked and heaved as my lungs tried to push out smoke while inhaling clean air, slowly calming myself in the process.

  With the smoke gone a shadow loomed over me, I couldn’t see beyond the corpse but the painful kick up my arse and the snarling voice told me all I needed to know.

  ‘Useless Puck. Useless. You kill your opponent and let him kill you in return.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my Lord.’

  An arm in a leather sleeve with gold embroidery grabbed hold of the corpse and yanked it off me. I staggered to my feet, tears streaming down my cheeks, blurring the towering figure of condemnation so that I didn’t see the punch, I felt it strike jaw though. Before I knew what had happened I was laid out on the ground again.

  ‘Sorry? You pathetic little shit. Five minutes and we do this again until you learn to fight in the midst of fire and smoke.’

  The figure strode away, turned to where my fellow trainees watched with undisguised resentment. I’d pay for my weaknesses, and not with money either.

  Another kick. I gritted my teeth, this one wasn’t delivered with the same force. It had to be from one of my so-called peers so I warned him of the consequences in graphic terms. I opened my eyes. There was no smoke, no training ground, I was in my garden and surrounded by soldiers, busy stifling grins.

  Except one.

  ‘Get up man! What happened this time?’

  The officer stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back to peer down through white eyebrows knitted together like a white caterpillar, cold blue eyes without a trace of humour, compassion or humanity.

  My body ached in every muscle, I couldn’t breathe properly but realised the congealed blood in my nostrils was to blame. My dream, like the smoke from the garden shed, drifted into the cool twilight air.

  ‘Well! Come on man! Haven’t got all day!’ the old man snapped.

  ‘Fuck off! I’m not one of your soldiers, you old goat!’

  His unit struggled to restrain their laughter until the old man glared them into subservient inscrutability. He gestured to the nearest soldier who reached down, grabbed my arm and yanked me upright, I squealed with pain.

  The aptly named Colonel Crabbe looked me up and down with a wrinkled nose and dismissive shake of the head, a gesture like the one I’d received from someone very similar, long, long ago.

  ‘You degenerates are all the same, no discipline, no respect!’

  It was said with resignation that brooked no argument.

  I gingerly touched my nose to assess the damage. The pain made my eyes water.

  ‘Yeah I know Colonel. I should be punished.’ I sniffed and it hurt. ‘Why not bend me over a cannon and whip my bare buttocks?’

  One of the soldiers snorted but swiftly converted it into a sneeze. The old man glared at him before turning his attention back to me.

  ‘I assume, Mister Goodfellow, there’s been another visit from your fairy friends? This is the third time I’ve had to mobilise my men.’

  ‘They’re not my fucking friends.’

  My words got waved away.

  ‘These bastards are trying to kill me and the fucking Fir Darrig, in what’s left of my shed, came the closest of all of them. I thought you were supposed to be keeping the citizens of Glastonbury safe? Because you’re failing in your mission.’

  The old man blew disgruntled air out of his mouth, causing his enormous white moustache to ripple like a curtain.

  ‘We protect human citizens. You don’t qualify.’

  Normally this cantankerous bastard and his bigotry didn’t bother me but the pain made me irritable.

  ‘That’s where you’re fucking wrong, you old bastard. The government need me, they said as much repeatedly when the Fae returned to their own realm. If I’m dead who’s going to advise them?’

  Blue eyes, without a hint of emotion, levelled with mine.

  ‘The Knight twins now provide that service. After all, they are human.’

  I fought down the anger. This was the thanks I got for killing Llyr, stopping the war, leaving the Dark Court temporarily leaderless. Not only had
I been branded a traitor by my own race, someone wanted me dead and no one cared.

  ‘Do your friends in London think those kids know everything about what’s happening in Tir na nÓg? Because news alert, they don’t! They’ve not even been there! How can they advise you?’

  A smile peeked out from under the white bush beneath the old man’s nose.

  ‘Your advice is no longer needed Mister Goodfellow.’

  He spoke with such authority I began to wonder if he knew something I didn’t. His smug smile grew.

  ‘Surely, Mister Goodfellow, one fact above all others, must be apparent to you?’

  The pendulum in this conversation had swung towards the starchy old man in front of me and I didn’t like where it was leading. I kept silent, difficult as that was. That fucking smile widened even more to show yellow teeth.

  ‘I thought not. Let me explain Mister Goodfellow. Do stop me if you get confused.’

  The other soldiers shared in the joke with self-satisfied grins.

  ‘When your Fae friends,’ and he deliberately emphasized the last word, ‘retreated from our world they dismantled the event horizons, it prevented any further travel between their world and ours. Agreed?’

  I nodded. I could guess where this was going now and I wished I’d raised the subject earlier to avoid this patronising lecture.

  ‘Yet your three assailants have returned here, unseen, by my men. They have not used the portal in the Abbey or the Tor. Do you know what that means Mister Goodfellow?’

  ‘Yes!’ I snarled. ‘There’s another portal.’

  The old bastard nodded his head slowly like an ancient school teacher might praise a dim-witted student for correctly providing the sum of two plus two.

  ‘True. But the military has valuable intelligence, Mister Goodfellow.’

  I chose not to make the obvious observation, despite the temptation this arrogant bastard provoked. He continued with his lecture, unaware of his own ambiguity.

  ‘Because the bastards continue to invade our world, we have reason to believe they will attack again. You are a security risk, Mister Goodfellow. Some of my colleagues think you are providing your friends with intelligence and this is just a cover.’