Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #12 March 2015 | Page 30

that he ought to let the Storyteller ply his trade, after all it is his payment. But, he is curious. “To the castle of course. But why I travel there is a story in itself. Would you like to hear it?” The Ferryman nods but sees the boy’s expression. “Perhaps after you’ve told the boy about his fairies?” “Indeed, indeed,” the Storyteller turns to the boy, “you’d like another tale from the Four and One?” “Yes, please,” the boy says. “The Seventh Magpie one, please.” He squirms a little on the bench, getting comfortable. The Ferryman switches to the long oar, putting the long pole away into the special set of catches on the side of the boat, made for just this purpose. The creak of the oar and the soft splashing as it thrusts the boat forward serves as a counterpoint to the Storyteller’s voice. The Storyteller closes his eyes and becomes still. His rat teeth flash in a smile as he starts. “The lands of the Four and One are a special place, nowhere else in all the countries of the world does man live in such harmony with the Fey realm. This harmony comes at a price though. The Compact. The tale of the Compact is a long and twisted one that perhaps I can tell another time? But the Compact is important to this tale only that the Fey had signed it, the Humans had signed it, and other Powers too. One of these Powers was The Dan. The Dan is lord of all the dead and he resides in a house the dead call the Feast of Lanterns, what the Fey call Ceathru Balla and what the Humans call the Inn at the End of the World…” *** The Seventh Magpie is late, he scampers over the dales heading towards his appointment. The Ambassador has sent him especially, showing great trust, trust he doesn’t wish to misplace. His thin legs hop him forwards and, not for the first time, he wishes his wings were wings and not wing shaped arms. If only PAGE 30 he were a magpie instead of being a Fey in the shape of a magpie. He pats the small leather satchel for the hundredth time. It is, as it had been the last ninety-nine times, still there, still full of the important correspondence. His beak creaks into what he thinks of as his secret smile. Imagine. The Ambassador. Trusting him. The pleasure of this is tinged with a little fear as he realises again that, by the angle of the sun, he is going to be late. He tries to hurry even more. *** Padraig had led them this far. Padraig had led them this far. Phelan’s Select they now called themselves. On a mission to repair the Four and One they were. Although they barely comprehended what was wrong with it. Padraig was Phelan’s son, and therefore, leader. The others were from the Four and One. Padraig wasn’t the only bard amongst them, but he had won the Bard’s contest, which is another story. He squared his shoulders, flipped his white cloak over his homespun tunic and sighed a mighty sigh. “This is the bridge to the land of the dead.” His arm swept out and indicated the bridge, arching away into the mists, its sword-metal grey stone looking like it had been there since the start of the world. “We have to cross it.” He said with finality. The others shuffled, the Ovate Connor coughed. Aiman muttered a prophecy that they had heard many times before. The one about the dragons. “We must cross it,” he said and then turned to them. “The bridge is guarded by the souls of those who need to cross over, but are reluctant to because of their ties to this land. They have refused the Wheel of Life, Death and Rebirth. They must sustain themselves and eat unwary travellers. We must pass in darkness and silence. If you see one of their torches, stop as still as you can and hold your breath.” He looked into each of their faces. “If one of us is taken, we must not try to help. Better one taken than all taken.” Having