"How long has Lord Kel been ensnared by elf-shot and made a puppet to your mental commands?" I wondered aloud."Long enough that he has become addicted to the drug. He will do anything. Say anything, as long as I supply him with my very own special blend.
"There is no cure now.
"His last few levels ups have re-written his cells to depend on the vitality that only my Elfshot can supply," Lady Patricia bragged.
The movements and jockeying for position behind me had continued as Lady Patricia and I addressed each other. Although it appeared, I was oblivious to her guards and underlings" maneuvers, I was aware.
When they finally felt they were positioned strategically, they struck. There seemed no rhyme nor reason to who they attacked. Strong, weak, male, female. No one was spared. The blood flowed as one after another, those that had been attended the banquet were wounded or slain.
We were not exempt from their madness, but their insanity was of little consequence, attacks were easily blocked as Cedric and Uron moved in synchronized concert to deflect and defend.
I could have summoned my weapon and shield to join the battle, but the Wild Magic was not done with me this day.
And it was no longer playful.
Wind can be gentle, but it can also be torrential and destructive. And it was this destruction the Wild Magic chose to release. Swirling and twisting into a vortex, winds forming a funnel that picked up Cedric, Uron, Lohne, and myself. We began spinning, faster and faster. A living tornado of destruction subsumed by Seelie flesh. And as we revolved faster and faster, the Wild Magic prodded and guided our voices.
The four of us in concert, our voices wailing like Banshee, sending shivers of fright and horror down the backs of those who heard us, began to chant. And because our voices were amplified by the Wild Magic, the sound carried. First those on the dais, then the room, then the keep, and finally the city at large heard as we focused the Wild Magic and spoke words into action.
"We are
Prince, Brother, Two-souls as one.
We see,
We name you, Oathbreaker,
We name you, kin-slayer,
We name you, the breaker of Guest rights.
We act,
And we call upon the Wild Hunt,
Let action be met with reaction
Lies and false oaths are judged,
Let the Wild Hunt ride
And by riding decide.
We judge,
A judgment has been made
Four voices as one.
Salvation or Doom,
The Wild Hunt will choose.
We trust."
All motion stopped.
Time and momentum froze as even the Wild Magic staggered and quieted. The tableau of fighting forces froze mid-swing. No eyes blinked. No breath was taken. An event outside of time. Life had become a tapestry, woven by the Fates themselves, and like that thread, the Fates used to determine how long an individual lived, those whom the Wild Hunt would judge were held in abeyance as the forces were formed.
Movement.
Ever so slow wisps of fog gathered and coalesced. Billowing from the cardinal directions, flowing to give form. The Huntsmen was built from the fog. Ideas and nightmares made manifest. As the fog increased so too did his appearance.
Not born fully formed and fleshed out, but a layering, like creating a skysc.r.a.per. Foundations built and solidified one floor at a time. Feet, legs, waist, chest, arms, head, horns.
No color. Just compressed fog.
The wisps of movement barely noticeable in the fully formed huntsmen. But the eyes. The eyes would strike terror and fear into any that caught his attention. Pools of blackness and emptiness, they had the ability to possess any who fell beneath his glance.
The first king of Sidhe.
Undying.
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His vow of eternal vengeance against Oathbreakers so profound he broke free of Fate"s grasp.
Gwyn ap Nudd. King of Annwn. Betrayed by King Arthur and doomed to battle his brother for supremacy every year for all eternity. Theirs became the contest between Summer and Winter. Fated to be embroiled in an unwinnable contest as long as the world turns, and the sun rises.
Slowly. Execrably. He raised his horn, his symbol of authority, and sounded the clarion call. A majestic trumpeting, a call to arms resounded in melody, a trumpeting that stirred the martial soul of those who heard.
The fog responded to this call. Rapidly flowing to surround and fill the room. And as it touched, those who had died. Those who were severely wounded. The sound beckoned, and they were asked, "Will you join?" And those that answered the call. Those few, transformed.
A King was nothing without an army. And so, Gwyn ap Nudd would have his army. The fog approached, and Fate decided. There seemed no rhyme or reason to whom the choice was given.
Dead and dying seemed to be given the choice first. Join him. Become a part of the Hunt. A timeless duty. An existence that broke the chains of life, death, and reincarnation, and made you a part of something more. Those men and women who would stand at the ends of day. Those few who would battle to stem the tides of Ragnarok. Who would answer the call when the trumpets sounded on Judgment day and banish injustice? They would join his horde and take part in an everlasting brotherhood, an army duty-bound to answer the call of those betrayed.
Beware those who would summon the hunt. For the Wild Hunt cares not for politics, rank, or wealth. And all those within sight and sound of his corporal form will be judged. Those found wanting will still join his armies, but as animals instead of men. Mounts to be ridden by those favored few who comprised his forces.
And as he called. Some answered. The dead first. Rising again and moving to stand at his back. They had been the few who died before his arrival, but they were not enough. So, he continued to sound his horn. Continued to call his army.
No more of those in the room were willing to answer that haunting melody. They were too inured in the fabric of life and refused to forego the pleasures that life offered. So the fog once again responded.
Where before it had created Gwyn ap Nudd. Now it created his huntsmen. Arches and flashes of lightning began to strike. Rumbling thunder accompanying the flashes of light as the fog became super-charged. Particles of plasma and energy merging flawlessly. Mounts. Weapons. Men. All sprung fully formed, energy constructs, devoid of emotion, no longer possibilities and imagination.
His trusted men.
Those who have followed him in hunts past counting, rose to once again follow his commands.
And then the scales of justice were summoned. The balance would be restored. Scales that could weigh sins and allow Gwyn ap Nudd and the Huntsmen to see how each individuals balance measured, the outcome of accusation and condemnation. Weighing mercilessly the sins of omission as well as commission. And as more and more scales were formed over more of the crowd, hanging like the sword of Damocles above each individuals head, a verdict was a.s.signed.
[You have been offered a Quest. Will you join the Wild Hunt and ride as a Huntsman to destroy the treachery found here this day?]
[Accept Yes/No]