Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #15 June 2015 | Seite 42

whispering pines fill the silence.
During the coach ride home, Tonmerion had pondered
every avenue of escape. Once his mind had drawn
out all the possibilities, like wool spilling off a reel,
neither running nor hiding had seemed too fortuitous.
He had no money save what he had found in his
father’s desk: a handful of gold florins, several silver
pennies and a smattering of bronzes and coppers. That
would not last more than a few weeks. He had given
complaining a little thought too, but had come to the
decision he’d done enough of that in the constable’s
office. In truth – in horrid, clanging truth – Tonmerion
was stuck.
He was bound for America, the New Kingdom.
That was the source of the hard, brutal lump wedged
in his throat. He lifted a hand to massage it and tried
to swallow. Neither helped. He took a gulp of air and
felt immediately sick. The blood beckoned to him, but
Tonmerion steered away from it. He was not keen to
repeat the liquor episode.
Remembering the water fountain at the bottom of the
steps, he let his shaky legs lead the way. His wobbling
reflection in the hissing fountain’s pool confirmed that
he was indeed paler than a sheet of bleached parchment. Tonmerion put both hands on the marble and
dipped his head into the water to let the cold water
sting his face. It was refreshing and calming. He took
in three deep gulps and felt the coldness slide down
into his belly. Wiping his mouth, he stared up at the
pinnacles of the pines.
‘By the Roots, you’re white.’
Upon hearing a voice speak out from the bushes, on
an estate that was supposed to be emptier than a beggar’s purse, any other person would have jumped, or
even squealed with surprise, but not Tonmerion.
He did not flinch, for this was nothing out of the ordinary for him.
‘He’s dead, Rhin,’ he muttered, still staring up at the
trees.

‘Speak up.’ The voice was small yet still had all the
depth and resonance of a man’s voice.
‘It’s all going to change.’ Tonmerion looked over at
the blood, stark against the marble, and nodded.
There was a polite and nervous cough, and then: ‘I’m
sorry, Merion, for your father. I truly am.’
Merion’s gaze turned to the marvellous little figure
standing in the dirt, half of his body still hidden by
the shadow of the ornamental bush – no, not hidden,
fused with the bush in some way. Merion did not bat
an eyelid.
‘It’s all changed, just like that,’ he clicked his fingers,
and the figure stepped out of the shadows.
To say the small gentleman was a fairy would be
doing him a great injustice. Contrary to popular belief,
there is a great deal of difference between a fairy and
a faerie. The former are small, silly creatures, more
insect than human, and prone to mischief. The latter,
however, are a proud and ancient race, the Fae. They
are larger, smarter, and infinitely more dangerous than
fairies, and bolder. For millennia they have lived unseen in the undergrowth and forgotten forests, just out
of the reach of human eyes and fingers. They are now
nought but folklore, wives’ tales, rubbish for the ears
of children. No man, in his right mind, would believe
in such a thing as a faerie. But here one stood, as bold
and as bright as a summer’s day.
Rhin stood just shy of twelve inches tall, big fo r Fae
standards. He was long of limb, but not scrawny. Between the gaps in his pitch-black armour, it was easy
to see that the muscles wrapped around his bony frame
were like cords, tightly bunched.
Rhin’s skin was a mottled bluish grey, though it was
not uncommon to see him glowing faintly at night. His
eyes were the only bright colour on his person, glowing purple even in the cloudy daylight. The thin metal
plates of his Fae armour were jet-black, held in place
by brown rat-leather. His boots, rising to just below
the knee, were also black.

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