Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

Ceridwen pulled away and placed a hand on his chest, searching for the beat of his heart. Finding it, she smiled and was about to speak when a screeching din filled the air.

"Lord, what now?" Doyle muttered as he turned to see Eve and Danny walking backward toward them.

Beyond them, a flock of screeching, razor-winged birds filled the sky.

The Stymphalia had returned.

Conan Doyle and Ceridwen moved as best they could to meet Eve and Danny. The four of them gathered there on that hellish plain, and gazed at the glittering, screeching cloud coming toward them.

"Wish I knew what pissed them off so bad," Danny said.

Conan Doyle did not have time dwell on the question. The angry flock was quickly descending and he had to act if he and his charges were to survive the onslaught.

He took hold of Ceridwen’s hand. "Lend me what strength you have to spare." The sorceress nodded, gripping his fingers tightly, and he felt a surge of power flow into his body.

"Is this it?" Eve asked, panic in her tone as the birds wailed above them. "We’re going to drive them off by joining hands and singing Give Peace a Chance?"

"Eve," Conan Doyle snarled. "Stay close, and do shut up."

He attempted to blot out the sounds of the angry Stymphalian Birds, concentrating on a spell of protection. Where normally such a spell would flow from his lips, immediately providing the protection they so desperately needed, Conan Doyle found that his familiar magicks were not inclined to work efficiently in the Underworld. Even with Ceridwen’s strength added to his, the task of summoning a shield was exhausting and quite painful.

The birds unleashed their first wave, the more ferocious of their number diving down to touch razor-sharp feathers to delicate flesh.

"Doyle!" he heard Eve snap. "We’re waiting."

The birds’ cries were louder, more frenzied. He flinched as one flew past his arm, slicing through the material of his suit coat and the shirt beneath. He could feel the warmth of his own blood trickling down his arm.

"We’re going to be cut to fucking ribbons!" Danny yelled, and Conan Doyle sensed that the boy was about to bolt.

"Stay where you are," he commanded, feeling the troublesome magick begin to bend to his wishes.

The air around them hummed as the enchantment began to coalesce into the shield he had cast. The Stymphalia collided with the crackling sphere, their metal bodies falling to the ground in an explosion of cold, white sparks. It took everything Conan Doyle had — and what Ceridwen was continuing to give him — to maintain the bubble of magickal force. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold it.

The birds grew even more furious, descending in a ravening cluster, a blizzard of razor blades. Doyle and his companions were blind to the world outside as sparks exploded in the air around their protective sphere with the birds’ relentless onslaught. Conan Doyle felt Ceridwen’s grip begin to weaken and glanced over to see his woman struggling to stay upright.

"Hold on, love. Hold on."

The sphere began to waver and one of the Stymphalia managed to break through. Conan Doyle cried as the bird landed atop his head, sinking its needle-like beak into his scalp.

Eve was the first to react, swatting the animal to the ground and stamping on it with the heel of her boot.

"My thanks, Eve," he gasped, a warm stream of blood from his scalp tickling the back of his neck.

Ceridwen fell to her knees, her pale flesh tinted more green than ever. She had given all she could, but it still was not enough. The magickal sphere of protection threatened to buckle.

"Eve, I want you to listen to me," Conan Doyle said through gritted teeth. "I can’t keep this up much longer. When the sphere falls, I want you and Danny to take Ceridwen and run. I’m certain that there are caves nearby where you can find shelter and hold off any further attack."

"What about you?" she asked. "Don’t even think about telling me you plan to stay here because — "

"I will hold them off so you can get a healthy head start. Please, when my magick fails, take Ceridwen and Danny away from here."

Eve came around to face him. There was rage and a hint of fear on her beautiful yet tired features. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she screamed, the birds outside riled even more by her display of anger. "You’re an arch mage for Christ’s sake, and you’re going to allow some metal fucking birds to end your life?!"

Conan Doyle shook his head sadly. "My magick is not working as it should here. The power in this place is different, more ancient. Cerdiwen cannot wield the elements of this place as she should. They are not eager to be tamed, they fight her at every turn. And the magick is similar. Unfamiliar to me."

He looked into her eyes and saw that she was speechless, a rarity for her. Then Eve nodded. "I’ll get them out. But then I’m coming back for you."

He was weakening far faster then he would have imagined. All they had were moments, and he looked to see that they were ready. Eve held Ceridwen in her arms and Conan Doyle’s heart was wrenched by how frail the sorceress looked.

The magick fought to slip away from him, and he fell to his knees, straining to hold on to his control. The Stymphalian Birds continued to swarm around the sphere, screeching excitedly, as if they knew that their dogged patience was about to be rewarded. But then, above their cries of savagery, Arthur Conan Doyle heard something else.

A voice raised in song.

The magickal shielding fell away with a fleeting whisper, but somehow they remained safe.

"Should we be running?" Eve asked, warily watching the swarm of razor-feathered birds that flew above their heads.

"Listen," Conan Doyle said.

The song grew louder, stronger, and he could just about make out the words. Its message was one of peace and serenity, and it was sung in a language that even the Stymphalia could understand. Where the sky had once been filled with winged death, it was now suddenly clear, the razor birds darting into the distant shadows of the cavern, convinced to be elsewhere. Conan Doyle could still hear their screeching cries, but they were far away now.

And though the threat had been dispersed, the song continued to fill the air and Conan Doyle watched as Nigel Gull, singing out gloriously in the voice of Orpheus, approached, his Wicked following like obedient dogs at his heels.

"Hello, Arthur," Gull said. He could not help but smile. To see Conan Doyle so helpless, it was absolutely priceless.

"Nigel. I suppose we owe you a bit of thanks."

Gull waved his words away. "Not at all, old friend. You were in a fix, and I was happy to oblige. Would you not do the same for me?"

"Of course they would have," Hawkins agreed.

Jezebel giggled, biting at a fingernail with her dainty mouth.

Conan Doyle remained silent, ignoring the commentary, and turned to check the condition of his people. Despite his words, Gull wondered if the man would have left him and his operatives to the mercies of the razor birds had the situation been reversed. For in truth he would not himself have bothered with saving Sir Arthur and his Menagerie if he did not still need something from them. He would have quite enjoyed watching them all die horribly.

Gull watched as Conan Doyle took Ceridwen from Eve’s arms and laid her upon the ground. He caught the demon boy watching him with a steely, untrusting gaze. This is one to watch, Gull thought, returning his attentions to Doyle and his lover.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked with an attempt at concern. It was so difficult to muster.

"Nothing that leaving this place won’t cure," Conan Doyle said as he rose from Ceridwen’s side and stalked toward Gull. "Why are you here, Nigel? What purpose could you possibly have in this damnable place?"