Frank Tuttle - Brown River Queen

And then they danced away.

Mama snuffled and mopped at her face. I hadn’t seen her come up.

“Reckon I might have been wrong about that one,” she said, gathering up her useless rope. “Might be a heart left in there after all.”

Gertriss rested her head on his shoulder.

“He give up, boy. You an’ me, we ain’t got that luxury.”

“He didn’t give up, Mama.” I looked away. “He chose how he wanted to die.”

“Same damned thing. Now unless you are figurin’ on takin’ up dancin’, we still got people on this boat. You comin’?”

I followed. There didn’t seem to be anything else left to do.

Darla and Stitches met us, Darla with hugs and Stitches with a cursory nod from behind her makeshift tower of bubbling vessels and sparking rods.

I am nearly done.

Darla let go of me reluctantly. I took a deep breath.

“Right. Mama, get ready to shake your birds. Stitches, I’m going to hold the huldra in one hand and Toadsticker in the other, and when I give you the sign, we light this thing up. Shortly after that we’ll know who’s Elf and who is not. Got it?”

Understood.

Buttercup scampered past, laying down her rope in a circle around us. Mama was busy tending her flock of dead birds. Darla was reloading. Stitches was putting the finishing touches on a complex device we both knew was a fraud and a lie.

“Not the time for games, honey,” I said. “Come back here.”

Buttercup giggled and scampered off.

Dutson appeared, a tray laden with beer bottles in his hand. I’d caught a glimpse of him in the fray with the construct dancers. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and his dinner jacket was torn, but his bearing suggested we were all merely enjoying another fine meal on another fine evening.

He nodded at me and gave me his customary ghost of a smile.

And then he stepped over Buttercup’s rope.

It wasn’t much. Just a shimmer, if you will. The barest flickering, the hint of a blur, as though Dutson stepped in front of hot air rising over a road. His features distorted-for a fraction of a heartbeat-showing as something with the basic shape and features of a man in late middle age that wasn’t a man at all.

Buttercup appeared at my side, slipped her tiny hand in mine, and began to howl.

Dutson dropped his tray. I brought my gun to bear. Buttercup’s howl rose up and filled the Queen , and before Dutson could move, Buttercup raised her free hand, pointing at him.

I fired. I didn’t miss. He turned and fled. I stuck Buttercup’s hand in Darla’s and charged after the Elf.

I caught a glimpse of Mama leaping to her feet, cleaver in hand. Rifles cracked, though who or what they were shooting at I couldn’t tell.

Buttercup’s banshee howl redoubled in volume. Glass began to shatter-here and there, beside and above. A tinkling rain of shards fell.

I caught a glimpse of Dutson’s white collar and made for him, yelling for help as I went. I didn’t look back to see if any of Evis’s people were on my heels.

The swinging doors to the kitchens still swung, as though someone just pushed through them. I put my back to the wall and pushed the right door open with Toadsticker.

Something struck the door hard enough to send it flying from its hinges. I stuck my gun inside and fired blind-twice-and entered the kitchen in a crouch.

Iron skillets swayed on their hooks. A forgotten pot boiled over on a stove. I heard the crackle and hiss of a cook-stove fire.

“There’s not another door,” I said. I held my gun steady. I was out of rounds, but I doubted ancient Elves were versed enough in gun craft to know that.

“By now two dozen halfdead are out there waiting,” I said. “It’s over. You’re not walking out of here. Maybe we can make you a better deal than Hag Mary.”

And there he was, appearing out of thin air, just like Buttercup.

“You are not worthy to speak her name,” he said. Gone was Dutson’s calm visage. His face was twisted with rage, twisted so far beyond human it was a caricature-eyes huge and bugged, brows pulsing, jaw protruding, and teeth growing as I watched. “The Wise One alone is fit to rule! Soon all will bow to her, and acknowledge her power and beauty! “

“Sure, but can she cook?”

Teeth became tusks. Hands became claws. It screamed and leaped, teeth dripping something thick and yellow.

I sidestepped, hurled the boiling pot of chicken stock into its face.

It didn’t blink. It didn’t scream. It wiped its face and grinned and began shifting its weight from foot to foot.

“You said I’d not walk out. But I will. As Markhat.”

“You won’t fool anyone. I’m told I am unique.”

“And your friends-where are they, hmmm? Why haven’t they come in to join us?”

“I told them to stay back,” I lied. “I don’t need any help putting down a wood sprite like you.”

“They can’t get inside,” it said. “I have magic. Magic more powerful than anything you know. I’ll put on your skin and bathe myself in glamour and I’ll go out there and I’ll kill her first, you know. Right before I lean close, and whisper in her ear, and tell her I don’t love her anymore.”

I laid down my empty gun and put both hands on Toadsticker’s hilt.

“You don’t have to be her tool,” I said. “Hag Mary. Wise One. Whatever you want to call her. You think she won’t throw you away when she’s done? That’s how those people work. You know it.”

“I’ll gut your Darla like a fish. Show Darla her liver before she dies. Take a bite out of it before her eyes close.”

“Going to be hard to do without a head.”

It gave up all pretense of being human and rushed me, snarling and flailing.

I buried Toadsticker deep in its chest, meeting no more resistance than if I’d pierced a bag of feathers. I twisted the blade and the Elf laughed and picked me up and threw me across the kitchen. Then it snatched Toadsticker free and tossed the sword aside.

“She’ll die in agony, betrayed,” it said, its words rendered nearly unintelligible as they passed through a throat and lips no longer human. The Elf’s skin split and hung in great ragged strips. Greens and browns-vines and shoots, I realized-moved beneath.

I found my Army knife, plunged it into its right eye as it grabbed me by the chest. Something like sap spurted out. The Elf laughed.

“Time to die, mortal man,” it said. “I won’t even need your ears for the rest of the spell. I can kill them all, one by one. They trust you. Killing them will be so easy.”

My hand closed over the false huldra. I brought it forth and shoved it in the Elf’s misshapen face.

It laughed again, a merry tinkle that sounded of chimes and crystal.

“It’s not even a terribly convincing fake,” said the Elf. “Your blind little sorceress has none of the skill my Blessed Mistress shows.”

I cussed. Dutson, ever present, always there and handy with a beer and a snack. Always lurking close, unfailingly attentive, always ignored-Elf ears wide open and listening, catching every unguarded whisper.

The Elf’s mouth opened and filled with black thorns as long as knives. “Eat it anyway,” I said, and when it roared I shoved the false huldra right down his damned throat.

The false huldra erupted in flames in my grasp. Fire shot between my fingers and rolled down my forearm and roared into the Elf, and while the flames didn’t burn me, they blazed through him like flaming oil dumped on kindling.

The Elf flapped and flopped and flailed, limbs thrashing against me, drumming on the walls, beating hard against the floor. The Elf pulled and strained and heaved, but some force beyond either of us kept us locked in place while the furious flames did their work.