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  Dylap

  By A. C. Salter

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

  Copyright © 2017 by A. C. Salter

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced, in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  Other books

  The Daughter of Chaos trilogy

  Eversong

  Shadojak

  Ethea

  Dylap

  Darkest Wish (short story)

  Authors note:

  Dylap is set in Thea, a decade before the merging of the worlds. A time of rising tensions and ascending darkness. Deep in the Farrossion forest, hidden from the giant races of man, elf and other beasts. A place of magic, a realm of beauty, a land unique in charm; a fairy-tale as haunting and obscure, as rich as any enchanted song parted from the lips of the greatest bards.

  This is where the journey begins…

  Dylap

  1

  Bad Omen

  Mist gathered around the base of the mighty oak, climbing up the cold trunk and beginning to seep over the balcony where Dilbus Fenwick stood. He was leaning against the wall, finding it hard to see the forest floor some eighty spans down, the ghostly white vapour having thickened to form a sea that flowed half way up the trees that made part of the city. It crept over his boots and clung to his ankles with icy fingers.

  It was going to be a cruel night, Dilbus realised. Made ruthless by the large bird which now glided above the city’s canopy. Its black body, several times the size of himself, was invisible in the starry sky. Its cries echoed throughout the Farrosian forest, forcing the fae of the city to stay behind doors, in the safety of the trees in which they dwelled. There had been enough strange goings-on of late.

  Dilbus glanced about the Royal City of Farro, the warm glow of sun gems lighting up the thousands of windows that spiralled around the trees. The ones below the mist appearing like spirit homes, drowned beneath the flowing tide - while those above flickered along the labyrinth of branches and stems, bridges and platforms which formed the city itself. Even the Palace, the pure white Alabaster Tree at the centre of Farro, was partially hidden from view. The many royal guards which were standing vigil along the branches and balconies were casting fearful glances up at the huge bird, their javelins gripped tightly, venturing no further from the trunks than necessary. He wondered where, in the far reaches of Thea it had come from? Hadn’t the world plagued the fairies with enough tormenting beasts, without adding another?

  Dilbus shook his head, it was a bad omen.

  He left the balcony, shut the doors and bolted the night outside as he ventured further into the tree, his knee feeling the damp and complaining with each hobbling footfall, stabbing him with each lumbering step. If that was his only problem, then his life would be simple. Yet, he shouldn’t grumble. He had a warm chamber, carved into the great oak high up the trunk. Not so high as the upper-classes, he wasn’t pure enough for that, but high enough for a soldier whose only bravery was surviving the wars. And he was even given the position of the commander of the night watch. A task which found him sat alone most nights, writing rotas and tasks for the watchmen to carry out. A menial job, meant for retiring servicemen, or the crippled – a role in which he fitted, perfectly.

  Limping to the gem stove, he held his hands above the stone and rubbed warmth into his fingers, his swollen knuckles creaking with the movement. But the pain was a mild irritation compared to the stump that protruded from his back, where his wing should have been. The useless protuberance sticking out from his shoulder, rubbing against the bandages that strapped it down and becoming a thing of ridicule for others to laugh at.

  Dilbus brushed fingers through his greying hair, cursing the day he had lost his wing. It would have been better to lose a leg, an arm or even one of each. A fairy could still fly missing a limb, but lose a wing and you were a creature of the ground. A creeper, a crawler, a climber – a thing that scurries and never feels the air beneath them as they soar above the canopy of the forest.

  Unclenching his fist, Dilbus took up his berry mug and settled himself into his acorn rocker. No good would come of thinking along that remorseful path. That day had happened, it couldn’t be changed and he wasn’t getting his wing back. At least he returned from the war, thousands of others couldn’t say the same. And his bravery was recognised, hence the chamber in the mighty oak. Although, he would give it all up, even becoming a base-dweller, to have his wing back.

  He drank deeply from the mug, the bitter taste of stale berry juice forcing him to swallow the liquid in a single gulp. Or was that the willow bark that he had ground into the drink. A medicinal powder for the numerous pains his body was repeatedly asked to endure.

  Settling the berry mug on the side table, he leaned into his rocker, catching his damned stump on the back spindles and sending a fresh jolt of pain through his body.

  Dilbus’s fist slammed into the rocker arm as a loud knock struck the balcony door. He thought it may have been an echo from his throbbing outburst, until the knocking came again. This time louder, and repeated with an irritating persistence.

  “I’m coming,” Dilbus growled. “Cease your banging before you wake the wood knolls.”

  His twisted leg replaced the banging as it thumped lazily along the carved floor. Scraping over the thick rings which told of the oak’s many years.

  When he reached the doors, he put his face to the crack and peered out.

  There were two night watchmen, junior members. One was whispering to the other while holding out an arm at a right angle.

  “It’s true,” he giggled. “If he tries to fly he can only spin in circles, until he gets so dizzy that he falls out…”

  Dilbus slid the bolt and shoved open the door. Catching the watchman mid-sentence with his finger still rotating in the air. He glowered at the pair and was glad to see that they had at least the decency to look ashamed.

  “Well, what is it?” Dilbus demanded. “You’re supposed to be patrolling the perimeter.”

  “That’s right, Commander Fenwick, Sir,” replied the ashen-faced fairy who had been mocking him. “But we’ve found a body in the river.”

  “The Twine? You know the rules, boys. Anything that has been washed up from the river, needs to be put back. You can’t go meddling with matters from that cursed stretch of water.”

  “But the body,” the other persisted, “it’s fae, or at least it used to be.”

  Dilbus pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling that things were about to get drastically worse the further the night progressed.

  “One of ours?” he asked.

  “No, definitely not one of ours.”

  “Split-wing? Hawker? Frogmesh?”

  The pair of watchmen shook their heads.

  “Then why do you think it’s fae? Unless you’ve discovered a totally new breed of fairy.”

  “It’s…It’s much like us, although its wings are…they’re…” the watchman trailed off as he glanced at Dilbus’s stump, where his wing should have been. “Disgusting.”

  “Disgusting how?”

  “You’d best see for yourself, Sir. I’ve already arranged for a beetle trap to come and collect you.”

  Dilbus stared into the white gloom as it swirled around his balcony, thickening so he struggled to see the neighbouring oak.

  “Very well,” he
said, resigned to the fact that he would be dragged out into the cold merciless night. “But I’ll fly down to the Twine, we don’t have time for a trap. Those beetles move no faster than mud slugs.” He watched the reaction from the pair and felt elation at their shocked expressions. “Now you,” he prodded a crooked finger into the joker’s chest, “will get my bird saddled up and meet us at this body you’ve found.”

  “But, Sir,” the watchman argued, his gaze casting up into the forest canopy. “That huge black monster is circling above. It’s scared all the owls away and has put the jitters up the rest of the birds.”

  The huge black monster chose that moment to scream into the sky, its cry piercing the city and causing the pair before him to shiver.

  “I don’t give a squirrel’s nuts!” Dilbus spat at the frightened youth, fighting the grin that attempted to curl his lips. “You will saddle my bird and meet us at the desired location. Understand?”

  The joker nodded, his head downcast and seeming less inclined to mock. “And fly her low, hug the trunks and stay clear of the canopy.”

  “Yes, Sir,” he replied, then flew from the balcony, making his way towards the Aviary.

  “You,” Dilbus directed at the remaining watchmen, “wait here.” Then shutting the youth outside, he hobbled to the cupboard and retrieved his prosthetic wing.

  The device was made from springs, cogs and bat leather; the latter stretched over three fish bone rods which formed the wing. Something he commissioned the crackpot inventor to create. It strapped over his ugly stump and buckled along his chest and waist.

  Dilbus had yet to try it. The lack of time and courage had meant that the contraption had gathered dust in his chamber for the past month. Well, now was as good a time as any and after taking the earlier mocking, his pride pricked, he would see whether he could fly or not.

  When he ventured back out onto the balcony, he witnessed the look of shock on the watchman’s face for the second time that evening. The youth’s mouth dropping open as he glanced at the contraption.

  “Well, don’t stand there gawping, boy,” he barked. “Lead me to this mysterious body you’ve dragged from the Twine.”

  Dilbus waited until the watchman opened his perfect wings and jumped from the balcony, before venturing to the edge. He shuffled to the sudden drop, the plummet, if he fell, would see him hurtle to the forest floor, a long way down. He was thankful for the shroud of mist which hid the ground from him, although he was greatly aware it was there.

  Adjusting the straps and belts a final time, he lifted his arm and released the locking mechanism - instantly springing the rods up and pulling the bat leather taut.

  It was a wing. Albeit, several shades darker than his own, stiff as glass and a damn sight heavier. But a wing it was. He shifted the sword on his belt onto the opposite hip, to counterbalance the extra weight, sucked the damp air into his lungs, held his breath, said a silent prayer to the Blessed Mother and then toppled out into nothing.

  His stomach lurched, blood rushing to his head as he plummeted down the oak. His face a whisker’s span from the rough bark that whooshed by, melding the cracks and fissures into a blur. If a subtle breeze was to lift him closer, his body would be ripped to shreds before hurling him into the solid roots at base level. That fact would have sent a shiver down his spine, if the thrill of the flight wasn’t pumping adrenalin through him.

  Was he flying or merely falling?

  Dilbus eased his arms out, aiding his prosthetic wing as it vibrated with the turbulence. He angled the fish bone rods to allow the wind to flow in a different direction, matching his real wing, and drifted away from the oak.

  The exhilaration of steering his own path brought a wave of giddiness – fixing the wide smile on his face. It worked.

  With the mist still hiding the lower portion of Farro from view, Dilbus weaved through the hidden branches and bridges using memory alone. He’d grown up in the city. Knew every root, nook and knot, every stump, bridge and platform and even the names of every wood knoll and the tree they were pledged to. Farro was in his blood. Generations of Fenwicks dating back to the burning of the old city, some thousand years ago. For all he knew, it was his forbearers that had planted the seeds that grew into the very oak he lived in. It was a warming thought; however, the Fenwick line would end with him. Nobody would marry a cripple.

  Dilbus swept out over the widening trunk, gliding above the acorn stump which was used for market day and caught the watchman up. The youth had been hovering beside the quiet stalls which were empty of stocks until the morning.

  Unable to halt, Dilbus carried on gliding beyond the stunned fae, hoping he was heading in the right direction. Finding the Twine was as easy as locating your feet, but as the vast river flowed along one side of the city, disappearing in both directions as far as an eagle could see, it was hard to determine which part of the Twine the body was found. Luckily, he had guessed right, and the watchman flew beside him, guiding him lower until they approached an amber glow in the mist.

  Realising that they were fast approaching the night watch, Dilbus gripped the edge of his mechanical wing, hoping he wasn’t going to make a tardy landing in front of the group.

  Snapping the material back, the wing opened to gather more air, slowing his descent and allowing his feet to touch the ground delicately. It was a perfect landing, although his clean mouse leather boots sunk into the damp soil.

  “Commander Fenwick, Sir,” began Limble, his second-in-command, the portly watchman holding the gem lamp higher and almost blinding him with the light.

  Dilbus approached the group, striding purposefully and ignoring the pain jolting through his damaged leg. He had flown, or glided at least, and he wasn’t going to let his other injuries cheat him of this grand entrance. That was, until he realised that his prosthetic wing hadn’t folded neatly away like his other. And instead of it being tucked in tight to his back, it was stuck out at a right angle.

  Cursing himself for not drawing the spring back in, he yanked on the cord. Yet the moment he applied the pressure, a fish bone snapped and tore the wing.

  He tried desperately to hide the spectacle behind his arm, but it was too late. The night watch had seen it. Had witnessed him make a fool of himself - further proof that the cripple couldn’t fly.

  Sighing deeply, Dilbus undid the buckles and let the broken wing fall into the mud. He was used to the mockery, the careless whispers, the giggling behind his back. He’d had it for years, ever since returning from the wars. But what he hated above all else, was pity. And that was what he was being treated to now.

  “Sir,” Limble continued, clearing his voice. “We’ve found a body…”

  “So, you have,” Dilbus hissed, striding through the men to the shapeless bundle wrapped in a maple leaf; bare feet sticking out beneath and streaked with silt.

  The sooner the conclusion to this dilemma was reached, the sooner he could return to his peaceful chamber and his stale berry juice.

  Water lapped at the mossy verge, somewhere out of sight through the mist. As if the mysterious Twine goaded him on, willing him to see what it had spewed from its dark depths, like it had so many times before. A lot of creatures fell into the cursed river and more often than not, they didn’t survive long enough to crawl back out. Birds, frogs, rodents and other small mammals had succumbed to the two-tone waters, floating in different states of decay. Dilbus had even seen a half-devoured goblin arm float by. Its bloated hand large enough to accommodate several fae, if they desired to have a pleasure cruise on the grisly raft.

  He grasped the side of the damp maple leaf, ready to tear it away when a hand settled on his forearm.

  “Beware, Sir,” Limble warned. “It’s not a pleasant sight.”

  “Thank you, Limble,” Dilbus said, snatching his arm away. He’d had plenty of experience with the dead and the gruesome unpleasantness that came with it. But he strengthened his will all the same.

  The damp leaf slipped silently off the lump, r
evealing a pale fae. Its body smeared with mud where it had been dragged from the Twine.

  Dilbus clicked his fingers for the gem lamp and Limble obediently handed it to him, treading carefully so as not to touch the dead fairy.

  Holding the lamp closer, the amber light picked out more details. The emaciated body, ribs pressing against the sallow skin, chest unmoving, never to take a breath again. The face that seemed so young and at peace, full lips and high cheek bones. The fairy was male and had been at the age that was breaking from childhood, the first showings of strong hands and a dappling of hair on his chin, yet too young to be called a man.

  “I was led to believe that this poor creature was hideous. He’s much like us, is he not?” Dilbus questioned. “He is or was, fae.”

  “Oh no, Sir,” Limble protested, pointing a fat index finger at the body’s back. “His wings, what are left of them, are…is…an abomination.”

  Shaking his head, Dilbus handed his second the lamp while he hunkered down for a closer inspection. Yet the wings seemed fine, drenched with mud and river water, but in a damn sight better condition than his own.

  He lowered his knee into the cold earth, feeling the icy slop seep through his trousers and dowse his shins. Why hadn’t they simply thrown the body back into the Twine? The fools would have saved him the pain, the humiliation and the cleaning bill for his clothes which would be stinking of the brackish water for weeks to come.

  Clenching his teeth, he placed his hands beneath the body’s neck and lifted the head. His own body sinking further into the mire as he lifted the other into a sitting position.

  Gasps escaped the men of the night watch and more than one mumbled a prayer.

  Dilbus was about to snap at them for being superstitious cowards when his gaze fell on the fae’s wings – or the lack of them.