Page 29 of Connal

Shaw jumped out onto the dock to tie off. “Shall I hide, then? He comes.”

The ferryman’s heavy, rotund body made the wood planks creak as he strode toward them. His halfling blood showed plainly in his pointed ears, clawed fingers and large black eyes, which Shaw saw burned with anger. At odds with his appearance, he smelled of a sea wind, crisp and clean. Beneath the dock the sea water began to churn.

“Forgive us for intruding, Ferryman,” Connal said, and bowed to him as if he were a prince instead of an oversize troll. “We’ve grave need of your wisdom.”

The halfling’s obsidian eyes narrowed, and he made a curt beckoning gesture before turning around and walking back to his cottage, into which he disappeared.

“We shouldnae plague the old fellow,” Shaw muttered.

The laird chuckled as he walked from the dock onto the tiny islet. “You yet believe those tales of the ferryman hanging wee lads from his rafters to smoke them like hams? He eats fish and kelp.”

“How do you ken such?” Shaw demanded.

“’Tis how I pay him for ferrying,” Connal said, pausing to knock once on the cottage door before he opened it and stepped inside.

Shaw followed, but stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw the interior of the small dwelling. Shells of every size, shape and color paved the walls and floors, and large boxes of crystal held sea water and tiny reefs with live fish swimming about them. Clamshells as large as cart wheels had been perched atop driftwood legs and fitted with cushions of inky fabric. Other pieces, obviously salvaged from wrecked mortal vessels, had been remade and reused, like portholes set in the walls as windows and a large, dented iron caldron fashioned into a wash basin.

On a throne of still-discernable silver and gold coin, gems and weapons hammered into new shapes, the ferryman perched and regarded them as he might two diseased voles that had scuttled inside.

“Forgive us for disturbing you,” the laird said. “I ken how highly you value your solitude here. Yet we’ve a dilemma that, if no’ resolved, may lead to breaking the truce between the clan and the Finfolk.”

The ferryman looked up at the ceiling, which he had paved with oyster shells.

“Can you speak, Ferryman?” Shaw demanded.

The ferryman closed his big eyes, rubbed them, and then said in a voice so deep and resonant it made the window coverings rattle, “Of course I can, lad. ’Tis the damage such causes I wish avoid. I can even kill with my voice, should someone annoy me enough.” He regarded the laird. “My name, ’tis MacLeir.”

Connal took a step back. “Your sire–”

“Returned to Elphyne long ago.” Some shells on the walls cracked, and the halfling’s lips curved. “My mortal weakness, ’tis my voice. Tell me your desire, quickly.”

“A lady came to the island from the far future,” Connal said without preamble. “She wishes return to her time, but we cannae aid her.”

“She the pretty one with the fair curls and odd garments?” MacLeir asked, and caught two oyster shells that fell from the now-shaking ceiling.

“Aye. Her name, ’tis Valerie Baker.” The laird related what had happened to her in the future and when she appeared in the bay before he added, “She’s refused to join the Finfolk, wed me, or live on the mainland. Ken you some spell or method to send her back through time?”

“I’ve no magic, curse my sire.” The ferryman sighed as plaster dust rained down on the three of them. “Follow me before the place collapses.”

Outside the cottage MacLeir led them to the edge of the dock before he asked Connal, “The woman, she yet wears the ring you forged?”

The weathered wood of the pier splintered in places.

“She cannae pry it from her finger,” the laird said, nodding.

“’Tis the spell,” the halfling told him, and caught a shard of wood that came flying off the dock. “The ring’s magic delivered her to you.”

“’Twasnae enchanted,” Shaw told him. “The MacMar cannae wield our sire’s spells.”

“The prince’s magic yet lingers in the waters here, lad, and words spoken even by half-Fae possess much power.” The sand rumbled under their feet with every word from MacLeir. “When you threw the ring into the sea, your sire granted your wish to love again.” A tree toppled over, and the ferryman grinned. “You neednae send away the pretty one, son of Mar. She’s meant to be yours.”

Fiacail entered the dockside tavern on Insii Orc to see if any of her sisters had yet awoken. The stench of death and burning flesh made her slightly wistful as she regarded the sprawled bodies of roughly-garbed sailors. Most made low thrumming sounds as they slumbered on, oblivious to the setting sun. Beyond them a pile of dead, naked bodies lay discarded in the back room. They, too, resembled the sleeping sailors as if their twins, but had been mauled, beheaded and chopped to pieces. Only Dearg remained in her small, feminine form, her gown so drenched with blood it still dripped. She sat perched by the big hearth as she idly plucked bits of gore from her bodice and flung them in the flames.

“Didnae you drink?” Fiacail asked her.

“Blood, aye. This wretched ale?” She kicked a bottle near her foot, sending it smashing into the far wall. “’Tis worse than horse piss.”

“Our sovereign shall soon awaken.” When that failed to coax a reaction from Dearg she went over and peered down into her eyes, noting the clean tracks in the scarlet spattering her face. “You’re weeping? What did you slay? A druid? A shaman?”