Dylap Read online

  Long fine spines spread from the creature’s back. Like the fish bones that were in his mechanical wing.

  “See, Sir. An abomination,” Limble offered.

  “No,” Dilbus disagreed. “Just different, now hold him up while I take a closer look.”

  Maybe it was the fact that the boy would have been of an age with his own child, if he and Bellimba had ever married, or that he seemed to have dysfunctional wings, like his own – but Dilbus felt empathy for the life that had once ruled this broken body.

  With the burden of the weight taken by his second, Dilbus began to inspect the spines more closely. Tenderly taking one of the spines between his thumb and finger, he raised it out of silt.

  He was shocked to find that it was extremely light and flexible. More like the individual strands from a squirrel’s tail. When he pulled it out straight it stretched to the full span of a fairy wing and when he let it go, it floated back to the ground. There were perhaps twenty or more spines on each side of the body. Varying in length so that if one was to lay them all flat, they would resemble the shape of a fae wing, albeit without the skin stretched between.

  “Incredible,” Dilbus whispered.

  “Do you think the Twine did that to him, Sir?” One of the junior ranks asked, cautiously stepping closer.

  “No,” Dilbus replied, sure of himself as he reached for another spine. “The wings are perfectly symmetrical. This fairy is a new breed of fae, or an old one that we have yet to discover. It’s a shame he’s dead.”

  “A new breed of fairy?” Limble asked. “So, do we get to name it?”

  Dilbus shrugged. “I suppose. Although, it’s going back into the Twine. You know the rules.”

  “What about, Twine rat? Or Sludge skipper…or…” Limble suggested, rubbing at a boil on his face.

  “Dylap,” piped in a junior watchman. “On account of the sound it made when we dragged him from the river. His feet were stuck in the silt and when we yanked him free, it made an odd ‘dylap’ sound.”

  “Yeah,” Limble agreed as the others nodded encouragingly. “It’s a Dylap.”

  “That’s grand,” Dilbus remarked sarcastically. “Now if you’re all happy with the name you’ve come up with. You can throw the Dylap, back into the Twine and leave me alone to fill in the report.”

  A dark shadow descended through the mist, growing to twice his height before rushing out from the ghostly vapour.

  “What did I miss?” asked the joker who flew out of the mist and landed beside the group. Dilbus’s bird chirped in complaint as the youth clambered from the saddle. It pecked him roughly with the tip of its beak and sent him reeling into Limble.

  “Nothing, but the naming of a dead creature,” Dilbus smirked, winking at his bird. “But you’ve arrived in time to pitch the Dylap into the river.”

  Suddenly, a white-hot pain erupted in Dilbus’s hand. A stabbing shock that travelled up his arm from the fingers which were still holding the dead spines.

  Yelping, he snapped his hand away. Angry red welts had risen upon the fleshy pads of the tips.

  Instinctively he placed them in his mouth, but the pain had already begun to ebb away to a dull ache.

  Had the Dylap stung him somehow? It was the only plausible explanation. Or had the corrosive properties of the Twine lingered on the surface of his spines long enough to soak into his fingers?

  “Sir?” Limble blurted, his voice coming out panicked.

  “Not now,” Dilbus replied, still coming to terms with the throbbing in his hand. “Throw the damn thing in the river,” he ordered, wanting to be rid of the strange dead being.

  “But, Sir, the Dylap…It’s breathing.”

  “What?” Dilbus growled, ready to rebuke his second for being a fool. But when he gazed at the mud-spattered body, he witnessed the skeletal ribcage rising and falling.

  Dilbus inhaled sharply as he cautiously stepped back. The sight was most unnerving. As were the creature’s eyes that snapped open. The palest of blue; almost silver as they regarded him with curiosity.

  “What do we do, Sir?” Limble shuddered. His hand pulling his sword from his belt. “Do we still throw it back into the Twine?”

  Dilbus pinched the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a headache creeping into his tired mind. Throwing the thing back would be the best course of action. The right choice and the option the general would expect, always safety first. Put Farro and the kingdom above all else. So, he was as surprised as the rest of the watch, when he answered. “Put him in the cart and take him along the berry trail to the healers.”

  The watch looked on in stunned silence, none wanting to be the first to move until Limble shook himself out of his stupor and began barking orders at his subordinates.

  Dilbus left the men to the task while he mounted his bird. His painful mind already picking fault with his foolish decision. He had chosen wrongly, on all levels and could expect a devilish rebuke from the general when he received his report in the morning. Yet he felt, somewhere in the recess of his wits, that the strange fairy deserved a chance.

  The cry of the black monster pierced the night, sending a shiver through both himself and his bird. Dilbus raised his head to the heavens, even though his gaze couldn’t penetrate the mist.

  That dark circling bird was a bad omen.

  2

  The Dylap

  The steel manacles were cold and heavy. The thick chain links that joined them jingled as he rubbed the chafed skin beneath, rupturing a blister that began to weep a clear fluid. It hurt. Feeling similar to the experience of the healer’s needles as they pricked his legs and arms. Or the rough way they handled him as they scrubbed his body with lotions and creams, prodded or poked him; regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

  These were his first memories. His only memories, other than the endless questions that he had been attacked with, over and over again since he awoke in the cot, some three weeks before. Prior to that, there was nothing.

  Sunlight poured through the small round window above him, casting golden rays onto the polished ground at the feet of his guards. Other amber light descended from gems that were hanging from the ceiling. They were spaced a fae’s width apart and ran down the corridor in both directions until they curved out of sight. Beyond the guards were two more soldiers standing to attention to either side of a heavy door. Its surface was richly carved with a crown that was etched over crossed swords. It was the Royal Seal. The same sigil hung around the city on flags and bunting, and was emblazoned upon the uniforms of the men whose eyes kept wandering to him. Regarding him with unsympathetic stares.

  The two large guards accompanying him said nothing, although their hostile glances spoke what their voices did not; revulsion. They had roughly manhandled him from the Healing Wing of the Ash Tree. Yanking him along with the chain that bound his wrists. Shoved him precariously close to the vast drop that ran either side of the branches and connecting bridges. Prodded him with spears when he refused to step onto a swaying platform suspended high up the trunk, and screamed into his face when one of them accidentally touched his wings. That particular guard fell into the void, falling from view before his wings caught the wind and he flew back, ready to skewer him with his sharp blade. Luckily his partner intervened and all he received was a punch to the gut. It had doubled him over before he was dragged onto the swinging contraption that ascended into the large oak he was in now.

  In that single journey from the ash, he had learned that he feared heights - or more accurately, the ground that seemed so extremely far away. And that the city of Farro feared him. A creature that has no memory. He didn’t know why, he was much the same as everyone else.

  Forcing his fingers away from the blistering skin, he watched an old fairy amble along the corridor. He was pushing an acorn cart and paused beneath each glowing gem that ran along the ceiling. Then using a pole with a curved device on the end, hooked the shining stone and retrieved it from the hangings before replacing it with
a brighter one from his trolley. The old fae did this while whistling a merry tune, which died on his lips the moment his gaze fell on him.

  “Is that The Dylap?” he asked the guards in a shaky voice, halting only long enough to unhook the gem above. When its replacement shone down brightly on his wrinkled face, he quickly scurried away, the guards glaring after him.

  The Dylap, that’s what they named him. Like an object or a substance of ridicule. A thing which was despised, yet remained an article of great fascination.

  The guarded door suddenly swung open and a bearded fae stepped into the corridor, a deep frown creasing his pallid brow.

  “They’re ready,” he announced, regarding him with worry. “The judge is awaiting your presence.”

  As he paced closer, The Dylap noticed that one of his wings was missing. In its place was a thick stump that was wrapped in a grey bandage and strapped close to his back. The fairy himself sparked an earlier unremembered image. A fae, kneeling in the mud, clutching an injured hand.

  “Bring him in,” he ordered the guards.

  As he was hastily pulled through the door, the fae without a wing offered him a sad smile. “Be truthful and try not to annoy them,” he offered, his gaze lingering on the spines on his back.

  The room was vast and circular. The tall domed ceiling reaching incredibly high and had a heavy chandelier dangling from its centre; sun gems glowing within its gold fixings. Surrounding the richly decorated walls were rows of benches and stalls, running around the perimeter and rising half way up the chamber so the fae that sat on them glared down from above, making him feel even smaller then he already was.

  The noise was incredible. Hundreds of voices clashing around the room, a smouldering cacophony of conversation, each fairy competing with the next to be overheard.

  “It’s an eagle,” shouted a large red-faced fairy, meaty fist slamming into the bench in front.

  “A hawk,” argued another, his face a shade redder.

  “Neither bird is as black as the monster circling above,” came a third, “or as big. Sabesto would know.”

  “Aye, if he was here,” the first responded as he looked towards another bench, a young girl by herself, slouching at its centre - thick goggles sitting atop her bright yellow hair. “He’s probably in his cups. Why else send her?”

  “Indeed,” agreed his companions as they turned their noses up as if detecting a foul odour. Their next conversation was lost amongst the other babbling voices, until they noticed him enter.

  The rest of the room also saw him and fell silent. The only sound to be heard was the creaking of the oak as it swayed with the wind that rustled its leaves.

  He felt the weight of all those eyes follow his progress as he shuffled towards the centre of the chamber. The heads turning as one to follow his progress, hands gripping tightly to the bench rests, frowns deepening, lips narrowing. Their wings tightly folded behind them twitched or partly opened, revealing colours and patterns of all shades and hues. The Dylap perceived that the fae who sat on the lower benches carried the most colours and patterns whilst those in the higher, more decorated seats, were pale of wing and appeared to hold themselves with an air of arrogance.

  There were many here that he recognised. Fairies that had visited him in the Healing Wing of the Ash. Asking questions, seeking answers and all leaving unsatisfied. Perplexed and some even angry.

  His chain links jingled, as the guards locked him to a balustrade railing before a tall chair. A pinched-faced fairy dressed in fine silks sitting upon it. He snorted in disdain as he glowered down, staring through wire rim spectacles. The Dylap guessed that he must be the judge. Clearing his throat, the old fairy addressed the benches.

  “Are we all here?” he asked, his voice booming around the chamber. “Have each of the guilds sent at least one representative?”

  “They have, my lord,” answered another who sat at a desk. His finger paused above a long list of names that were scribbled onto a scroll.

  “The guilds of the builders, carvers and bridge erectors, have each brought several members. As has the bakers, weavers, potters and wood knoll squabblers. The borers, spell-casters and binders have come in their entirety, while the sisters, scavengers, hunters and collectors have brought but a few. The House of Servitude has seen fit to bring two manservants and three maids to represent the higher-class of each tree – to merely take note of course – and the Aviary has sent…” he checked his swirling handwriting before glancing up at the girl who sat alone. “Jambilee,” he offered irritably.

  The noise in the chamber had been steadily rising since the scribe had been reeling off the names. Muffled murmurings ascending into monotone ramblings before becoming as loud as it was before.

  The fairy in the tall chair gave a single nod before addressing the room once again.

  “Silence!” he growled, spit flying from the corners of his mouth. “We will not proceed until there is order. We are fae, high-breed fae and not split-wings. You will behave as such.” The room instantly went quiet once again, before he carried on. “Good, now that we are ready, please stand, in honour of his Majesty, Prince Rybal Farona.”

  Two fairies who were standing to attention by large double doors, raised brass pipes to their lips and blasted three single notes. A moment later, the doors were flung open. Beyond was a long platform, carved from a single branch the same width as the chamber. Golden daylight spilled through the wavering canopy, shifting the shadows along the enormous procession of men in golden guard uniform. They were standing in two neat rows along the tree limb, facing out as a small group of fairies casually walked between them. Two guards in polished armour accompanying a young handsome fae.

  When they came through the large doors, his wings briefly fluttered, catching the sun’s rays and The Dylap saw that they were pure white. His gait was slow and casual, head held high as he surveyed the room. When his gaze swept over The Dylap, it lingered for a moment before he sauntered to the throne that sat above the judge. After he made himself comfortable on the cushioned throne, he nodded towards the judge, signalling for them to proceed.

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” the judge said, before addressing the chamber. “Be seated.” He waited for the room to settle themselves before continuing. “We have come today to discuss the outcome of the creature that was found in the Twine, in the last moon’s quarter. The lost fae, if it is indeed a fae, that is known simply as, The Dylap.” His bony finger extended towards him accusingly.

  “Throw him back,” came a voice from the benches.

  “Let the Twine keep what it spat out,” said another, to a lot of agreement.

  The judge slammed his hand down on the chair arm. “Silence! You will have your say when the time comes.” He stared down and The Dylap felt the full force of his wrath, the blame for the outbursts and of course for ruining his day.

  “Have you a name, other than The Dylap?” the judge asked.

  “I don’t know,” The Dylap replied. His voice sounding strange as it reverberated around the bowl-shaped room. “I suppose I must have, but if I had, I can’t remember it now.”

  Scowling, the judge leaned back. “Then what should we call you? We cannot very well continue referring to you as ‘The Dylap’. Not when you have the power of speech.”

  The Dylap sucked on his tongue, struggling to think of something to have as a name, anything. When his mind went blank he shrugged. “Dylap?” he offered. It was what he was used to after all.

  “Very well, Dylap. Can you tell us what you are?”

  Again, Dylap shrugged.

  “Or where in Thea you are from? As big as the world is, fairies only live in small areas dotted around the globe. You must remember something.”

  “No, Judge.”

  Sighing deeply, the judge rubbed his temple and turned his attention to one of the healers. “Is this correct?”

  “Yes, your Honour,” replied the healer as he rose from his bench. A fae that Dylap recognised from his t
ime in the Healing Wing. The same fairy that had pestered him with question after question while poking and prodding him as if seeking the answers from his flesh alone. “The Dylap…I mean, Dylap, has no memory prior to being found by the night watch. He has total amnesia resulting in his time spent in the river.”

  “And you believe that he is speaking the truth? That he has no memories?”

  “Yes, your Honour.”

  “Then why has he the ability to speak and understand us?” asked the judge. “If his mind was lost, surely he would be no brighter than a fungus pimple?”

  “No, your Honour, the mind is a complex thing. It is possible for him to lose parts of his memories while retaining the basic knowledge to function and communicate.”

  “I see,” grumbled the judge, sounding unconvinced. “And the wings, or the…things which are placed where the wings should be. I understand that they have the ability to sting.”

  “That’s correct,” replied the healer, opening his arms. “But only if you touch them without him knowing. If he is conscious of the fact that you are there, then you can make contact without being stung.”

  “But he can sting as he pleases? Like a bee or honey hornet?”

  “He can, although the sting isn’t born of needles or poison. It’s more like that from the static left after a storm, or indeed, a shock from a lightning moth.”

  The fae around the benches began to murmur and whisper under their breaths until the judge fixed them with a scowl. Even the Prince began to converse with a large fairy by his side. The soldier was of extremely high rank, gold thread lacing his fine uniform.

  “But apart from the…things on his back, he is normal?” continued the judge.

  “Yes, your Honour - although he does seem to have a fear of heights.”

  “Well, that only strengthens the resolve that he is not fae. No creature of flight would fear heights. So, he is a ground-dweller of sorts.” Nodding to himself the judge asked the healer to sit back down.