The Gate: The Triads of Tir na n'Og, #7

By Darragh Metzger

As the Triads race to save humankind, Ironwolfe and his allies watch their dreams crumble and schemes smash to pieces against the unstoppable Hut, his trolkien legions, and the armies of faerie creatures he has enslaved.  The cities topple one by one, crushed by his relentless advance.

While Tir na n'Og's mightiest heroes and even the Fey themselves fall before Hut's might, the Red, Blue, and Green Triads battle across the land in a do-or-die effort to get the survivors to some kind of refuge, while Ironwolfe pits all his cunning and courage against the trolkien leader.

Can Tir na n'Og be saved?  The only chance lies with the holder of the long lost Gem of Ohma and an ancient and forgotten Gate where humankind and the Fey together must make their final stand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TFA Press
• Release date: Sep 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310684821

Darragh Metzger

I make my living in the world's two lowest-paying professions: acting and writing. While my resume includes stage and screen credits, I've spent the last several years wearing armor, riding horses, and swinging swords with The Seattle Knights, a stage combat and jousting theatrical troupe. My publishing credits include plays, non-fiction articles, and short stories, one of which made The StorySouth Millions Writers Award Notable Stories of 2005. I've written two short story collections and ten novels to date, sold three of them in 2002, and have now re-released them under my own imprint, TFA Press. My first non-fiction project, Alaska Over Israel: Operation Magic Carpet, the Men and Women Who Made it Fly, and the Little Airline That Could, came out in 2018. I also sing and write songs for A Little Knight Music and The Badb. If I had free time (which I don't), I'd spend it with horses. I'm married to artist/fight director Dameon Willich.

Book preview

Prologue

A burning log hit the wooden floor with a loud thump and a shower of sparks.  Huddled in his cloak, the man in the farthest corner cringed as the carefully woven vision fragmented, jolting him rudely back to the rough, raw wooden wall at his back, the icy draft from an unfilled chink brushing his neck, the strangers all around him.  Across the room, youngsters erupted into shouts and frantic scrambles after the wayward log.  Flames shot upward, orange fireflies tagging unwary hands and faces, and the air filled with smoke.

Opa stood.

No.  Jason pulled his cloak over his nose and mouth.  In all the years he had known Opa, studied with him, he could count the number of times a story had been disrupted on the fingers of one hand.  And for it to happen now, with this story!  I've come so far, waited so long.

He'd been a mere youth, nothing but a thief, when Opa's stories had first revealed Tir na n'Og to him.  The mysterious, capricious, fascinating Fey Factions.  The terrible trolkien and all the lesser monsters that haunted the hills and forests.  The white walls and golden gate of Tir.  The soaring arches of the Temple of Ohma.

Ironwolfe.  The Grey Triad and the noble, doomed mission they had undertaken, that had in the end seen them Broken.

Which became the beginning of it all.  All the other tales.  And especially this one.  How well he knew it, the words he and Opa always used to call up the stories: A whisper of strange and dangerous magic reached the ears of the Green Faction, and the Green Triad was sent to investigate.  And the Red Faction, hearing similar hints, sent out the Red Triad.  But when next the wind carried news of the Triads to the waiting ears of their Factions, it was of death, swift and sudden; both Triads slain but for one man, and he a maddened wreck.  And the wind bore no whisper of how this had come to pass.

Jason closed his eyes while faces he had never seen passed through his memory, made vivid again by Opa's tale.  The Red, Blue, and Green Triads were old friends by now.  He'd grieved for Shee-An-Natay, Yaqut ibn Munqidh, and Girai Groushko as if he'd known them in life.  He'd followed the struggles of the re-formed Triads with bated breath, praying for their success, their healing, though he knew the events were unimaginably far in the past.  Even knowing who the dark rider truly was and why he'd done as he'd done, knowing how the Triads' pursuit of him had changed and strengthened each of them, led them to discover and challenge the secret of the black magic—firearms and gunpowder—and to uncover the menace of Hut, the half-Fey trolkien leader and sorcerer, could not diminish the tales' power to enthrall him afresh each time.

Their pursuit of Ironwolfe had also led the Red, Blue, and Green Triads inevitably to the clearing before a cave in the Sobaka Hills where they'd agreed to join forces with him.

From there, the Reds had ridden off to try and save the secretive and long-forbidden city of Magdan.  The Blues had first summoned the aid of the Knights of Ohma, then led a party of them to Sahyun, only to witness its fall and realize the full extent of Hut's magical might.  The Greens had agreed to race to Yasenovo, where Ironwolfe's old friend and aide, Markos Lazarevik, had become captain of the city guard—the famous Red Guard of Yasenovo—and to summon him once more to the Ironwolfe's service.

But what could they do without the aid of the Fey?  Hut's stolen power gave him mastery of any Fey he saw.  The Factions dared not face him, lest they fall under his sway and turn upon their own kind as well as their human servants....

And now, will I ever hear how it ends?  Years of waiting, holding the stories, all those heroes, in his heart, sharing their stories with the world, keeping their legends alive, imparting the lessons they had passed on to him, always desperate to pass on that last, greatest glory.  I have waited so long....

A small flash of shame.  All my waiting, the distances I've traveled, are nothing compared to Opa's.

He knew the whole story, more or less.  Opa made sure of that.  But he'd been forbidden to tell it.  Opa himself had never told it.  When the time comes, he said in answer to all Jason's urgings.  When the time is right.

The time had come at last, but the story had been cut short, the spell broken by the falling log.  He swallowed his disappointment.  We have to get them back, Opa.  Don't let it go now, he pleaded silently.  Opa was the Storyteller.  The Master.  He could call the magic up again, pull his audience back under his thrall.  It would be difficult, but surely Opa could do it.

He watched the old man capture the flaming, spitting log in his bare hands and return it to the fire pit.  He knew Opa took no hurt, but his heart contracted.  He had been careful to enter early, unnoticed.  Master, forgive me.  It isn't that I haven't missed you.  Best if the old man did not see him yet.  This story was too important to be interrupted.  Or rather, interrupted further.  Opa would be the first to tell him so.

A cold breeze gusted through the room, dissipating as the smoke cleared, though the room lacked windows, and the door remained closed; Opa's work.  Jason relaxed minutely.

Opa returned to his seat, paused, as if not yet ready to sit.  Now, where were we?

Jason breathed in silent relief.  Perhaps it was not too late; perhaps Opa could catch them up again—

The daughter of the house—Ava, her name was—reached out, half amazed, half alarmed.  Opa, your hands—

Opa did not silence her.  Fear not, my dear, I am unharmed.

She stared at his long, thin fingers, eyes round with astonishment.  How...?

Fire is an element, and can be mastered like any other.

Be still and listen, Jason urged silently.  Let him continue.  Surely Opa would silence her, silence all of them.  He waited for his old master to regain control, but Opa seemed lost, blinking up at Ava as if uncertain of how he'd lost the moment.  Jason's heart sank.  Opa had been old when they'd first met; in all these years he had remained unchanging, seemed all but immortal.  Could the storyteller's powers finally be waning?

Opa invited the girl to try a spell of her own.  A faint breeze touched Jason's face, fresh with the faintest scent of snow and sleeping pines.  He smiled despite his anxiety.  The girl had promise.  Magic takes root among the new breed.  A good sign.

But her foray into magic caused the others in the room to murmur among themselves, share an appreciative laugh, draw further away from the story's atmosphere.

Now, Opa.  Make haste.  Don't lose them.  Jason's fingers clenched on his cloak.

Instead, Opa leaned down toward a small, blonde girl on the floor before him.  Fear not, child.  Angharad survives the siege of Sayhun.

No, Opa, what are you doing?

The child stammered.  What?  No—I mean—

Beside her, a slightly older boy, equally blonde, groaned.  Opa!  Don't tell us that!

So, they did get away.  What next?  Another boy, also blonde and clearly the eldest, leaned forward and spoke almost with an air of command.  Show us.  What did the Fey do?

Opa cupped his two hands together and breathed into them, not as if he were cold, but as if his palms held so much chick down.

Around him, the restless ones quieted, looking up at him expectantly.  Jason held his breath.  Perhaps he could help Opa somehow—

He felt it then; the stillness radiating from the old man, the silent whisper of power.

Opa's voice rolled out, soft and rich as distant thunder.  The spirit of Life, that breath which blows through all things, that animates us, and which we know by the many names we give to God, binds all things together, though we, the children of Eve, are rarely conscious of it.

One by one, the young people around Jason forgot their distraction, stilled, their eyes once more fastened on Opa, flashing like gems in the room's half-light.

The children of faerie, however, are also bound together by the magic that gives them life and form, like sparkling gems strung upon the endless loops of an infinite necklace, or shining strings upon a great harp, Opa said, his long-fingered hands, graceful as a youth's, dancing through the air in illustration.  Pull a single gem from one strand and the vibrations tremble through its entire length; pluck a single note upon that harp, and the echoes resound across all.

Again, the firelight softened, lowered.  The shadows crawled up the walls once more, opening like windows onto other vistas....

The magic swept over them all.  The story rose up around him and Jason let himself gratefully drown in it.  He closed his eyes and the world around him receded.  The scents of dripping sap, of autumn leaves, of rain and cold damp, filled his nostrils.

Somewhere far away, Opa's voice faded, ceased to be mere speech; became the voice of the wind itself.  So it was that, like a great stone dropped into still, dark waters, the death of the one called Eochu Bres sent ripples through the world of the Fey.  A cold wind blew through a land that had known only summer...

Interlude

Autumn has come to this part of the Summer Country, where night descends like a fragrant, star-strewn cloak.  Leaves from which darkness strips the dying hues of red, gold, bronze, green, and brown pull free and swirl madly in their dance to the ground, riding restless, sibilant melodies in the air that are not mere breezes.

From mighty oak to silvery ash, to hawthorn, scented apple, hazel, alder, elder, yew, and fern-like rowan, the breeze blows, gaining strength and urgency, chill with the breath of fear.  And everywhere, immortal ears pay heed.

Furred, feathered, scaled, many-limbed, or man-like, immortal creatures flit, slither, run, drift, ooze, or gallop through the night, bearing word of a new power in the land promising death and worse than death for any trapped in his web.

In the enchanted halls of the Great, eyes that first saw the world when it was new widen in disbelief and the first flickers of fear many have felt in years beyond counting.

From hall to cave to glen and grotto, word spreads, carried on winter-cold winds: Tir na n'Og's masters are themselves mastered, helpless in the face of this new power.

Now Greater and Lesser alike must choose, each for themselves: to fight at the side of mankind, at their peril?  Or to flee, to hide, vanish once more into the shadows until this menace has passed?

But where can they flee, these who created Tir na n'Og to be strength and shelter, haven, womb?

In the halls of the Great, some choose, and ancient swords are taken down from the walls, spears sharpened.

In hidden clearings, in dark and tangled forests, beneath desert stones and mountain passes, in caves, in forgotten, wild places, others stir, move, change.  Woodwives and dryads leave their groves; satyrs and gnomes slip through shadows; pooka and selkies swim from pond to stream to river; sprites and pixies flitter through the brush; goblins slink and scurry.  Djinn and mazikeen, creatures that look like natural birds and beasts but are not, shapeshifters, boggies, korrigans, krampus, and all manner of things fair and foul draw what courage is theirs and creep, crawl, race, fly, swim, and slither to war.

Find the clearing in the hills where the Ironwolfe waits, they whisper.  Speak to him of what we see.  Carry word on wings of air and fire....

In a clearing before a cave, a man stands alone; his companions rest in the cave's shelter, recovering from the day's horrors, rallying their strength for the new horrors waiting on the morrow.

A cold breeze, like the breath of a winter never before felt in this land, alerts him first; his head, concealed within a black helmet with a flat, featureless steel visor, lifts as if he scents the wind.

The leaves, all but colorless in the growing dark, swirl and dance before him, spiraling faster and faster until they fall away, revealing what appears to be a man, though swathed in dark and tattered robes, face hidden so that only the eyes, red as fire, show.

Ironwolfe.  The man who is not a man addresses the armored warrior.

The Ironwolfe inclines his head warily.  The immortal guardians of Tir na n'Og have sworn his death.  He knows this.  He also knows that this one has not come as an assassin.  I am.

The being stands silent for a moment, studying this human, whose kind its have long tormented, and been tormented by in turn.  Whose service those greater than it have long valued, and whose loyalty none questioned.  Until now.

When it speaks, it is with reluctance for more than one reason.  A great champion of the high and mighty has fallen this day.  The very earth bewails his loss; the trees sing a dirge at his passing.

Ironwolfe nods.  I knew that something momentous had happened.  Why do you bring me this news?

The being shifts, pulls its shape more tightly around it.  Long have those above us found honor in battle.  Many are those in the halls of the mighty who have grieved for the passing of the way of the sword, resented the peace brokered by Ohma for the sake of mankind.  Yet now, when the call to arms has at last sounded, when swords and spears might again be lifted in a just and worthy cause, there are those who fear to answer that call.  These we have heard.  This we know.

You would leave humankind to face the trolkien alone?  The Ironwolfe's voice rings cold with contempt.

The faerie creature sways slowly, as if adrift in a wind only it feels.  Not my kind, it says at last.  After a moment, it adds, To stand openly against the Abomination is to become his tool, a mighty weapon in his hands against which even the Great cannot stand.

So.  Ironwolfe absorbs these tidings in silence for a heartbeat.  I ask again: why do you bring me this news?

Not all of us may bear sword or spear.  Yet the trolkien are our enemies also, we who are not among the great.  You fight our battles, too.  We would aid thee, as we can.

Ironwolfe stands still, even breath suspended.  Then he nods.  Eyes and ears we need as well as swords and spears.  The trolkien move hither and yon, and we must stay always a step ahead of them.

The Fey nods.  This we may do.  And waits.

Ironwolfe nods acceptance.  Many of us ride to spread word among our kind, to gather up our scattered kin and bring them to a place of safety.  Swift and certain messengers to carry news between us would aid us greatly.  The ability to pass intelligence to those in need as soon as it is gained is above price.

Again the Fey nods.  This we may do also.

I would have always near me those who can carry word, swift and sure, to whom I need give it.

A third time the Fey creature nods.  So it shall be done.

The creature dissolves into wind-blown leaves, stirring branches in its passing.  Ironwolfe stands alone in the clearing once more.

Then an owl drops from the sky on soundless wings, and perches on a low-hanging branch.  It stares at Ironwolfe with its great, golden eyes.

Who? it asks.

Ironwolfe nods again, this time in satisfaction.

Chapter 1

Oengus's stomach growled like an angry beast.  Quiet you, he ordered silently.  He'd an excellent breakfast under his belt back there somewhere; just longer ago, now, than he liked.  There would be no stopping for a meal between now and Yasenovo.

He took a deep breath of the fresh wind blowing off the prairie below, picking up scents of pine and fir as it whispered through the trees, and wished with all his heart he and his Triad traveled for simple pleasure, or at least on less dire business.  The day was fine and fair, he had a good horse under him, and a heroic quest before him.  And I'm sharing it with the very best of companions.

Jade rode half-a-length before him, his bow strung and resting in the new sheath on his saddle made for just that purpose; Rowan a length or two ahead of that, working to keep her horse to a manageable pace on the twisty, downhill slope as it dodged between rocks and trees.  Oengus didn't urge Kemp to catch up; the cob couldn't match the speed Magic, or even Ironsides, could call upon, but he was a steady traveler with smooth gaits, and all but tireless.  One didn't abuse such a horse by trying to force more from him than he had to give.

Oengus took another glance around, watching for movement, for anything out of the ordinary.  The sobaka guide who'd shown them this shortcut had turned back, but evidently the local wildlife was still suspicious, and disinclined to show itself when Sobaka moved among them.

In sight ahead, the forest rolled downhill and, just across the Olga, petered out into plain lands known to be the haunt of bandits.  The waving grass coating the undulating landscape looked open and inviting, but it sometimes grew as high as a man's head; might as well be a forest.  Almost anything could hide out there, and oft-times did.

He'd heard more than one tale of an evil presence that haunted the sun-bleached stretch along the banks of the Kiskorei River between the Sobaka Mountains and where the Drava River joined the Kiskorei in its rush to the Inland Sea.  Which was why the normal caravan road followed the far bank of the Olga and skirted the Sobaka Mountains, instead of following the Kiskorei heading directly outward.

But Yasenovo lay somewhere near the head of the Kiskorei, so outward they'd go, haunt or no.

Without a road, he'd have his work cut out for him, keeping his Triad apace with the rest of the Triads and the intersecting missions they'd been given.  But he'd never feared a challenge.  If Girai Groushko could do it, surely he could, too.

He lost sight of the sunlit plains for a moment as the trees rose up around him, found them again as the way turned briefly uphill around where a rockslide had taken out the trees.  Koshka and Liontaurs were said to be out there as well; evidently they had no fear of the legendary haunt.

He'd never seen a Liontaur.  The Ironwolfe believed they were allies now, and if so, it would be a fine thing to meet up with those rarest and most lethal of the Tainted.  He found the Tainted fascinating, for all their strangeness.  How much of them remained men?  Even Elves, little different from normal humans to look at, sometimes showed a side that made them seem alien and exotic.

Including Jade, sometimes.  A fine fellow for all that, though.  None finer.  How anyone could hold the shape of a fellow's ears against him was beyond Oengus.

For a moment, he remembered the man and the mission that had started him on the path of adventure that had unexpectedly culminated with his arrival in Tir na n'Og.  Amusing, to think what Sir John Mandeville would make of the place.  I wonder if he ever made it to China.  If so, I'll wager he never saw anything half so fair and fantastic as this land.

Much as Oengus sometimes pined for the wet, windswept beauty of his native Scotland and the family and friends he'd left behind, he'd never entertained the slightest wish to be returned to the world of his birth.  That anyone would want to puzzled him deeply; try as he might, he could not fathom the reasons that drove the rogue Ironlords to do as they'd done.  Tir na n'Og endlessly enchanted him; even its darker and more terrifying aspects.

And now, this wonderful, magical place and all he loved in it faced imminent, unimaginable peril.  Even utter destruction.  And here he was, one of the very people to whom the task of saving it had been given.  The challenge of a lifetime.  What a song it'll make, if we live through it all.

Rowan slowed to a walk and turned to call something over her shoulder; the horses' passage and the rattle of her armor drowned her words.

Jade slowed his horse and half-turned in the saddle.  Did you catch that, Oengus?  We're just above the Olga; once we ford it, we'll head through the woods on the other side, straight outward.

Aye, I thought as much.  Oengus drew Kemp to a walk and looked down, trying to spot the river he knew was right below them.  He could hear it; how could he not, when they were nearly close enough to the joining of the Olga and the Kiskorei to spit in it?  Will we follow the river outward?

It's the shortest distance.

Well, if we do, keep a sharp eye out to landward; I'll be watching the water.  I've heard tell of all manner of beasties stirring about in there.

Evidently his voice carried forward better than Rowan's carried back.  She twisted in the saddle to look back at him.  Watch the ford here, then.  I've never crossed here before, and even the Sobaka rarely use it, they said.

Indeed I will.  He smiled at her.  "Thy steel is like to ward thee, but Jade and I might seem gustie bits."

She looked surprised.  Did you carry none when you came here?

Aye.  And then found I couldn't wear it and do magic.  He raised his hands and waggled his fingers, letting his reins lie slack on Kemp's neck.  I sold most of it and bought me this fine brigandine.  Though I've saved a few bits and pieces in hopes of making use of them one day.

"Ironlords can channel ki through steel, she said.  That means by and by you will too.  If we survive."  She smiled, though he knew she'd a better notion than he of how long the odds were against that.  Most especially now.

He could sense no fear in her or Jade, but now and again he felt a curious sense of fatalism that he knew was not of his nature.  Had they already accepted the inevitability of their deaths on this mission?  He hoped not.  They'd better odds of winning through than most, after all, and God surely favored their enterprise.

Still, no sense fearing the rain; it comes or no as the Good Lord wills.  He wanted to say something of the kind, but the trail dropped abruptly into a river before them, and the chance was gone.

No mistaking the ford.  The trail plunged straight in and gave a body little choice in the matter.  Rowan paused on the bank, waiting until her Triad crowded in behind her.  Her gelding flattened his ears and hunched against the unwanted contact, but she held him fast.  Stay close and watch the water.  There's no telling what might be about.

River dragons?  Oengus stared out at the rushing water, wondering how anyone could tell.

She shook her head.  River dragons are the least of it.  And they prefer slower, warmer waters.  That's not to say they won't make an exception now and again, but I'm more concerned about nixies and the like.

To say nothing of the obvious speed and depth of the water itself; it leaped and thrashed against its banks, hurling itself in white plumes over large rocks and hidden obstacles.  Upriver no more than a few lengths away, a fall, perhaps the height of a tall man, plunged past several large boulders to the swirling pool of froth and brilliant turquoise water at its feet.  The water turned to foamy whiteness as it rushed over the so-far-theoretical ford, rendering the river bed invisible.  The shallow part they were supposed to cross obviously didn't extend far that way.

Rowan evidently shared his misgivings.  Well, the Sobaka say we can cross here.  I'm hoping they've the right of it.  She released her horse and let him pick his way into the water.  Jade followed her, muttering something Oengus couldn't catch, but the elf's apprehension came through loud and clear.

Oengus clucked to his horse to follow Jade's, and the faithful creature stepped right along, though with many a wary snort and an air that said clearly he harbored doubts about the wisdom of their course and would have preferred another option.

Out in the water, the river's enthusiastic roar drowned all other sounds, and its energy made Oengus's skin tingle.  There was power in water, and more of it here than in most.  He trusted to his teammates to pick their way, and kept his senses trained on their surroundings and the river rushing wildly past their horses' legs, rising with each step.  It slapped at his feet, then his ankles.  Much deeper and the horses would have a hard go to keep to their feet—

A faint sound, like a cat yowling to make itself heard, caught his attention.  His head jerked up.  There it was again; not a cat, but a voice.  Like a child, calling.  He raised his voice.  Rowan—Jade—hold.

I hear it.  Jade had already stopped, twisting to stare slightly upriver and shading his eyes against the spray.  See anything?

Rowan, too, had stopped, though from the frown she turned on them both, she was none too happy about it.  Cross first; look after.

But look there!  Jade pointed, and Oengus saw it at once; something splashing too wildly to be just the river over an impediment.

Help me! came a high, desperate voice, louder now and more distinct, as if encouraged by their notice.  Please help me, mortals, I beg of you.

Mortals?  Oengus had encountered Lesser Fey now and again in his travels.  Fascinated curiosity won over caution.  What manner of creature are ye, and how might we be of help?

Oengus— Rowan's warning tone reinforced the sudden, alert wariness he sensed from her.

Aye.  It wasn't as if he hadn't heard the horror stories of the traps and lures set for unwary humans.  Hadn't he thrilled to his grandmother's tales on winter nights, snuggled up with his brother and sisters next to the hearth?

But he'd heard just as many about the perils of failing to heed a fairy call for help as well.  And wasn't kindness often rewarded?  The Good Lord Himself bids us help those in need, Rowan.  And doesn't Lady Ohma teach the same?

Aye.  Well, do as you will.  Reluctance, resignation, and curiosity mingled in her spirit as well as voice; he could read her more and more easily, if he didn't think too hard on it.  Jade—we'll need your rope.

Jade eyed the falls and the place where the unknown creature lay trapped.  Just so you know, I'm not a great swimmer.  And I'm the smallest of the three of us.

And if that wasn't a hint, Oengus had never heard one.  This is my task, Jade.  Hold my horse; I'll brace myself on Kempy here.

Use the rope, Oengus, called Rowan.  Tie yourself to your horse; this water is fast enough to sweep even you away if you fall.

Right then.  He caught the rope Jade threw him, tied it off to the saddle, the other end around his waist, and stepped off Kemp into ice-cold water nearly to his hips.  He couldn't suppress his involuntary gasp.  I hope this is worth it.

Still, wasn't this just the sort of adventure he loved most in tales?  Makes a man feel alive.  Cold mayhaps, but alive.  Arms outspread, he forged upstream toward the whatever-it-was in the water.

A pleasant surprise it was to find the object of his search lay just at the edge of the pool, in water little deeper than what he was in now; no more than waist-high.  A fish trap, well-made and well-used, caught on the branch of a submerged tree.  It had surely washed downstream from somewhere near Torsick, or perhaps Lake Krak at the far end, for no human fished these waters.

A trout perhaps the length of his arm between wrist and elbow stared up at him, its mouth opening and closing in what looked for all the world like piscine panic.

The fish thrust its mouth just above the surface of the water.  Free me, I beg you!  I've been trapped for days uncounted, and I'm near to starving.

Oengus untangled the trap and turned it over; a bent iron nail, red with rust that joined it to itself, sealed the latch fast.  He grasped the nail and tried to unbend it, but the current threatened his hold on the trap; he dared not risk it.  Well, I see why you've not magicked yourself out.  I'll have to take you ashore and break this thing apart.

His stomach chose that moment to voice its protest over his long neglect of it.  He chuckled.  And if all else fails, well, roast trout sounds a treat.

He meant it in jest, but the fish clearly didn't take it that way; the creature thrashed wildly, its bulging eyes even larger.  Oh please don't eat me, kind sir!  Set me free and I'll grant you a wish!

He blinked, taken aback.  Almost, he protested his innocence of such a thought; a rush of excitement chased away the impulse.  Will ye now?  And what guarantee do I have of that?

The fish hesitated.  I swear it by my shiny silver scales, by the waters that birthed me, by the warm sands that cradle me, by the dark, deep pools that shield me.

Oengus shook his head.  Not good enough.  Mind, there's scarce enough of you to feed three people—

Three wishes!  One wish for each of you!  The fish twisted in its trap.  Please!  You won't regret it.

He thought for a moment.  What promise would this creature find binding?  The same as Rowan, or Jade, myself, or any other, I imagine.  Swear it by the Seven and by the Three.

The fish burbled, sank, then popped its head up again.  By the Seven and by the Three, three wishes I grant if you set me free.

So heard and witnessed.  He couldn't keep up the pretense any longer.  Be at peace, fish; we'll see thee free soon enow.  Gripping the trap in one hand and his rope in the other, he slogged his way back to his horse.

Once ashore, it was a matter of moments to cut the trap apart and release the wriggling captive into the water, while Rowan and Jade looked on in wary interest.  He could hardly blame them for their skepticism as the creature disappeared with a splash.  Like as not, that's the last we'll see of him.  Ah well; it had been an adventure to tell his bairns one day—

The fish poked its head out of the water no more than an arm's length away, in a relatively still pool near the bank.  Blessings on you, kind friend.  Speak now your first wish.

He'd already told Rowan and Jade of his bargain.  She looked at the fish.  We need to get to the city proper of Yasenovo, and Gates are closed to us.  Can you take us there more swiftly than we can ride?

The fish was silent for a moment.  Yes, I can.  Go you now to where this river joins the larger.  Take the ferry.

She frowned.  But we've no need to cross the river.  That will put us on the wrong side.

Take the ferry.  I will meet you there.  The fish dove down and vanished.

Oengus saw the same look of bemusement on her face and Jade's he felt on his own.  Jade spoke first.  Well, it means heading back inland again, but not by much.

She frowned and gave Oengus a searching look.  You say it swore by the Seven and the Three?

He did that.  Indeed he did.

She sighed, grimaced, and finally smiled.  It could be a trick, but, well, I confess, it's more than I can do to ride away from this without knowing.  And it's worth any risk if it can do as it says.  To the ferry, then.

Jade was quite correct; in a short time the ferry dock, the ramshackle inn, and the cluster of outbuildings and animal pens surrounding them for the convenience of caravans, hove into view.  They rousted the ferryman from his nuncheon and