Warrior Rising: Real World, #3

A human’s guide to the Real World

Dryads - Dryads are the embodiment of a tree’s living spirit. They have the peculiar characteristic of changing their appearance of age with their mood, with the exception of Iws, which always look ancient. Iws are the spirits of yew trees and they make up a ruling council of dryads, known as the Iwhad. All dryads are known by the Old English name of their tree variety. Dryads are all sexless and leave reproduction to the trees they inhabit; new dryads form naturally within a tree once it is mature enough to support the additional life. Though very rarely seen by humans, they are treated with respect by other Real World creatures. Always treat Bercs (birch) with extreme caution as they will deliberately send you in harm’s way if they can. As they get older, many dryads begin to create long verses that can take hours to recite through its tree’s leaves.

Gifts - All dryads have the ability to search the minds of flesh-based races. They can also manipulate the memories of flesh creatures. Dryads are the source of prophecies in the Real World

Elves - Elves are a race made up of tribes and clans. Tribes are groups of several bloodlines that live together, hidden from the human world. The majority of tribes live in rural locations. Clans are single families and live closer to humans. Elves can be distinguished from humans by their gold eyes that glow with the energy they absorb. Elves cannot eat meat or drink alcohol. Because of the elven belief in keeping their bloodlines pure from dilution from outsiders (blood purity), they are not viewed favourably by other creatures. Contemptuous of humans, elves will, however, make use of their natural beauty to lead humans into sexual encounters. Elves have a particular hatred of faeras.

Gifts - Absorbing energy from the ground, communicating with animals, phasing out of sight. Clan elves have more evolved versions of some of the lesser gifts, such as healing and absorbing pain from others.

Faeras - Faeras are a warrior race, sometimes likened to Vikings. They live a high-octane existence of feasting, drinking and fast motorbikes. Their diet is mostly meat based.  All faeras live alongside humans with perfect ease. They have a complex culture full of ritual. Faeras are distinguished by their either light or dark eyes that reflect other colours. Their eyes also contain silver flecks that can spark with their emotions. Protective of their families, faeras are only dangerous when crossed, otherwise they are affable and sociable. They are most easily identified by their tattoos of complex knot work designs and preference for wearing leather. Faeras reciprocate the elves contempt. At one time, there were two courts of faeras, Blessed and Unblessed. Now only the Unblessed remain. The myth of fairies being repelled by iron can be traced back to the faera legal system: Any faera sentenced to death would be executed with their own sword.

Gifts - Plant manipulation. All faeras can make plants grow by placing their hands on or close to the plant and focusing on what they want the plant to do. They have incredible stamina, meaning they can cover vast distances on foot without needing to rest. Their warrior training from childhood means they are all exceptional fighters.

Gyptish - Descendants of the Egyptian goddess Hathor, the Gyptish are viewed as humans as being the same as Romany gypsies. However, they are very much a part of the Real World. Like their Romany cousins, they live a mobile life. Their leader is known as the Heart and Mouth of the Mother. The Gyptish have no concept of property, so are often at odds with others for taking what they view as free to anyone. Though virtually unknown of, even in the Real World, those who are aware of their existence have reported the eyes of a Gypt can turn white.

Gifts - Gypts are all mildly psychic. Some are talented seers. As with many other Real World creatures, they are stronger and faster than humans, though not to the same degree as halfbreeds.

Halfbreeds - Part human and part vampire, halfbreeds need to consume both blood and ordinary food. They are created when humans treated after vampire attacks are prevented from turning fully. The treatment was the brainchild of one Dr. Lindsey, though not successful until after his death, when his son continued his work. The Lindsey family still treats victims of vampire attacks. Though they pose no threat, halfbreeds can terrify humans with eye contact. The only time they are likely to be a danger to others is if they are kept from their mates. All halfbreeds have voracious sexual appetites and these can only be satisfied by their mate. Recognised by their black eyes, hence their other name of blackeyes.

Gifts - Faster and stronger than when they were fully human, halfbreeds also have heightened senses. Many halfbreeds have some psychic ability, though this varies from one to another. Their gifts can be combined and increased by physical contact with another of their kind.

Imps - Imps have no trace remaining of their own culture and live entirely in the human world. In evolutionary terms, imps are the cousins of elves. Imps have a unique aging process, growing to the age their spouse will be when they meet, then staying that age until they are espoused. Their aging after that depends on what creature their spouse is. Imps are only able to achieve fertility with their spouse. They are identified by their green eyes, a true green that can emit some light when they are particularly energised. Light is also emitted when they have sex with their spouses. Harmless, though occasionally tricky. Imps have an affinity with water and always live close to a river. They need the energy created by running water and absorb it in a similar way to elves from the ground.

Gifts - Absorption of energy from water. Hydratransmutation is a rare gift amongst imps, one that enables them to transform their bodies to water. It is commonly known as ‘going liquid’. Imps can take the energy from a human, and give it as well. If enough energy is absorbed from someone, it will render them unconscious.

Lady Sabrena (The Lady of Justice) - Born to a Blessed Faera mother, Lady Sabrena was sired by a mixture of elf, faera, imp and picsa. Thousands of years old, she is the ultimate justice for Real World creatures, and inspires fear in all who know of her. Though she will help those who ask it of her, she only does so at a very high price. Use extreme caution at all times when dealing with her. Highly dangerous.

Gifts - Being a mixture of so many creatures, her gifts are limitless.

Lukos - The lukos are more commonly known as werewolves. The lukos race originated in Eastern Europe and gradually spread out from there through the infection of humans. They transform to their wolf form in the two or three nights before and of the full moon, when they lock themselves away to protect others from their infection and appetite for flesh. In human form, they are impossible to distinguish. The lukos have a well-earned reputation for being extremely aggressive and territorial. Treat with caution, particularly approaching a full moon.

Gifts - All lukos are exceptionally fast and strong, particularly during the nights they transform. They have good night sight and their hearing is equivalent to that of a true wolf. A lukos will heal any injuries in minutes.

Naiads - Naiads are the spirits of the water. They live in rivers and lakes, often bearing the name of their body of water. They are usually thousands of years old. Comprised of water held in a human form by a centre of pure water energy, they generally have a watery appearance, though can look more solid if they wish to. They work to keep their homes clean and running efficiently. Not likely to be seen, they are usually harmless. Not naturally occurring, naiads are created by elves and imps combining their energy manipulation and passing it through dryads.

Gifts - They have the ability to move their form between liquid and solid and in solid form can breed with imps, though not with each other. Being made of energy, they can move and manipulate the energy from any moving water source, including flesh creatures.

Nereids - Nereids are very similar to naiads, only based in salt water. Unlike naiads, nereids are not created but born. They can live for thousands of years, though many chose not to. Nereids sometimes take mates from amongst the land-based creatures. The children and descendants of these unions are always drawn back to the sea.

Gifts - As naiads, they can shift their form between solid and liquid. They can predict storms. 

Picsas - An extinct race, picsas were identifiable by their fang-like pointed teeth and vividly blue eyes.

Gifts - Unknown.

Vampiros - The vampiros, or vampires, are another creature that has spread out from Eastern Europe. Dangerous at all times and entirely dominated by their hunger for human blood, they should be avoided at all costs. The vampiros form into small packs (more than four together tend to end up killing each other). They are only loyal to their parent, the vampire that turned them. They have a particular weakness for the blood of children and always kill them rather than turn them, which is why they are always adult in form. The easiest way to recognise a vampire is by the simple fact of not wanting to look at them at all. They have red eyes that give them their name of redeye parasites. Never approach.

Gifts - Stronger and faster than halfbreeds, they also have exceptional senses. Though lacking the halfbreeds psychic gifts, the oldest vampiros can learn to manipulate the air and solid matter with their minds. One theory suggests this is due to the sheer number of conscious minds they absorb when draining humans to death.

Acknowledgements

With heartfelt  thanks to Ava for all her encouragement, Melissa for helping me get started in the first place, Sue and for all her help with editing, and especially to my wonderful partner, Jack Silince, for letting me ignore him for hours on end to get this book done!

Four years ago. Kent

Brock Iarnan Torsten Lynch-Fortescue was a prince of the Royal House of Fortescue, hereditary rulers of the faeras, known mistakenly to humans as fairies. A tall man, he was well built with muscle but still slender at the hips; dark-haired and handsome in a severe way, considered very attractive, very masculine by those he had dated or slept with more casually.

And he was fucking furious.

He knew his temper had to be kept in check until he had all the facts, but it wasn’t easy. Control had never come naturally to him, something he had battled with his whole life. Only with a sword in his hand did he feel in command of himself.

It wasn’t generally considered wise to annoy a faera, not unless you could also handle a sword. The chances of the man who had potentially crossed Brock being able to use one were extremely thin.

To the casual observer, Brock didn’t look much like the prince of a royal house, more a scruffy biker; his leathers worn and moulded to his long body, his steel toe-cap work boots scuffed and muddy. The casual observer wouldn’t necessarily be wrong in jumping to this conclusion, as that was precisely what Brock was. The biker impression was strongly reinforced by the presence of a large black Triumph motorcycle, which Brock was sitting on. Arms crossed, one foot tapping impatiently on the frosty ground as he held the bike’s weight with his other leg. Helmet still on, he looked for all the world like he was waiting for someone.

He was waiting, for the man who had possibly caused the icy fury in his chest. If things turned sour tonight, someone was going to die, and Brock knew it sure as hell wouldn’t be him.

Two beams of light reflected off bare winter tree branches and Brock rolled his shoulders back, preparing himself both physically and mentally for what was coming. If a young girl and disgruntled parent got out of the car, Brock could go home and forget the whole thing; tell his sister to contact her internet friend and arrange another meeting. He realised he would have to do a fair bit of apologizing and explaining to the girl’s accompanying parent first though. But surely his caution would be understood? No parent would blame him for his need to make sure there really was no danger to his sister.

But if it wasn’t a girl . . .

Brock took off his black helmet and hung it over the mirror on the handlebar, then reached behind his back to pull out the package he had carried inside his leather bike jacket, unwrapping it carefully. Draping the linen wrapper up the side of the cooled engine, he leaned the two short, heavy-bladed swords against it, points easing through the cold-whitened leaf mould to rest on the frozen ground below.

As an estate car, its colour uncertain in the chill evening dark, drew to a halt, the driver looked around for the girl he had come to meet. Seeing a movement amongst the trees, he got out. He couldn’t believe his luck. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, he could do what he wanted and there was no one about to witness it. For weeks now, he had been drawing the girl in, tempting her to confide in her ‘friend’. His efforts were about to pay off, in a big way. He was already aroused at having such a tender young body to play with. In his car, he carried the camera he would photograph her with. Later tonight, he would be sending those pictures to the other members of his like-minded circle of contacts.

Getting out of his car was the second to last mistake the man would ever have the chance to make in his life.

Branwen? he called in an uncertain, loud whisper, peering into the dark.

That was his very last mistake.

No, not Branwen, Brock growled back. Branwen’s brother. I take it you’re the sick fuck who tried to lure her here? Don’t bother answering that, I recognise you from the café.

Café? the man squeaked, then tried to bluster. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

"Don’t bullshit me, arsehole; I’m not a fucking idiot. You see, Branny told me everything, like how you’ve been pestering her for weeks to meet up. So I went with her to the café she told you about, though I couldn’t be sure it was you. That’s why I arranged this meeting.

"Now, if you’d turned out to be the twelve year old girl you’d claimed to be, we’d be having a very different conversation right now. You’re not though, are you, you filthy nonce? But my sister is twelve. Brock drew himself up to his full height of six feet four inches, towering over the other man Unfortunately, honour demands I give you a fighting chance . . ."

The man jumped back in fear as a sword landed at his feet, the tip sliding into the ground only millimetres from the end of his shoe, the force of Brock’s throw sending the weapon into the frozen soil.

Pick it up. I won’t fight an unarmed man, though I doubt you really qualify as one of those.

His eyes adjusting to the dark, the man grabbed the handle of the sword when he made out Brock stood in a comfortably practiced stance, his leather jacket removed to free up his arms, a sword held loosely in his hand. Brock swung the blade round in a fluid circumference, letting his wrist ease into becoming one with the weapon. This was what he knew, what he had done since he was very young, and the familiarity of the blade in his hand calmed him. He was in control of his anger now, and he would use that to do some much needed pruning of the human race. He didn’t dislike humans usually. It was only elves he hated on sight, but that was normal for a faera. But he did wish it was possible to dispose of every human that thought as this particularly repulsive one did.

W-what? What is this? the man spluttered, taking a terrified step back. This was all wrong! Where was the girl? His eyes darted around for a second, but his brain wouldn’t let him look away from the threat for long.

This is your trial, Brock replied, his gravelly voice sending a chill down the human’s spine. It’s quite simple really: I’ve just challenged you, so now we fight.

Brock made his lunge slow, feinting high. Panicking, the man threw the sword up to block, too slow to understand the trap, even as the metal blade drove into his gut. He fell to his knees, head down, clutching his belly as Brock pulled the sword out with a slight jerk and moved to his side.

Trial over. Verdict: guilty. Brock raised his sword high. Time for sentencing. There is only one choice for a sick fuck like you. He brought the sword down swiftly, before the man could even draw in a breath to make a plea or objection. No better than a fucking elf, Brock muttered.

The head dropped to the ground first, blood pouring from the severed end of the neck, the crisp leaves crinkling under the sudden heat. It was followed a second later by the crumpling, limp body it had previously been attached to.

Brock quickly set about clearing up, forcing himself to remain detached from what he had just done. He retrieved the rolled away head, gripping the thin, lank brown hair, and put it on the body’s back. Then the faera placed his palms flat on the frosted soil. Tree roots snaked upwards into the frigid air, waving as if they sought to grab hold of something. Then they moved together to wrap tightly around the head and body, dragging both deep into the earth, never to be seen again.

Turning his attention to the car, Brock was relieved to find the key in the ignition. He turned it and lowered the electric windows all round.

Brock had chosen this location deliberately, knowing the landscape well from all the time he had spent there with his brother when they were young. He knew he could dispose of the evidence of his actions easily. It wasn’t that he had ever done anything like this before, but he had thought about how this could be achieved with a great deal of care. This was the first time he had ever raised a sword with any serious intent. His training had all been for show, formality and ritual, competition bouts and exhibitions. It had been very good training though; he hadn’t been beaten in competition for about ten years. There were few who could challenge Brock’s mastery with a blade. Now he had used those years of practice to save his young half-sister from a fate worse than death: the violation of an innocent.

Releasing the handbrake, Brock got out of the car, shut the door, and then went to push against the back, giving the car a start down the gentle slope. He watched as it built momentum and then slipped almost silently into the deep lake. It kept going deeper, seeming to defy the force of water, meaning the naiad of the lake was giving it a helping hand like she had been asked. It hadn’t been exactly hard to persuade her to help, not when she had a quite pronounced aversion to humans. Most naiads did, what with all the rubbish humans dumped in waterways. The water-spirit would ensure the car never saw the light of day again. By the morning, it would be deeply embedded in the silt, and no one would ever think to look for it there. Habeas Corpus, Brock thought to himself. Produce the body. No one would ever produce either the body or the car.

Next thing to deal with was the tyre tracks between the lake and the road. It took Brock a while to brush his feet over all of them. After that, he cleaned the swords off, washing away the blood in the icy water of the shallow edge of the lake, and wrapped the blades up again, leaving the package next to his motorbike. He would have to clean them properly later, but at least no one would spot blood on them when he got home.

Having done all that, he went over to the creature that had been watching since before the car had arrived.

Thanks for letting me use your roots, Brock said gratefully.

Thank you for asking. A flesh creature of your talents could have done all that without my permission.

A twitch of a smile crossed Brock’s lips for a second. I was brought up a bit better than that, he responded. Can you imagine what Audrey would do to me if she found out I hadn’t asked? The question was rhetorical. No one would ever know what had transpired tonight. Certainly not his aunt, the Cwena of Faera.

What will you do now? the creature asked.

Hang around for a week or so, just to make sure my sister can’t be connected to him if any questions are asked. I’ll go to his house and make sure there’s nothing there. He held up the bunch of keys from the car, and also letter he had snatched from the passenger seat before sending the car to the depths. After that I’ll leave for a while. I might have given him a sword but it was little better than murder. I’ll do my penance for it.

You’ve chosen a self-imposed exile? Did you have a destination in mind?

West, away from other faeras: Dorset, Somerset, Devon, or maybe even Cornwall. It really doesn’t matter where. Brock scowled, hating the idea of being away from everyone and everything that mattered to him, which was precisely why he had chosen exile as his punishment. Every stupid thing he did had to be punished with a fitting penalty, though he couldn’t see ridding the world of a sick pervert as anything other than the most sensible choice. Herne knew, Brock would like to do the same to every twisted bastard who preyed on children.

Still, he would take the punishment.

The creature listened to the trees around them creaking, though there was no wind. North Dorset is a pleasant location, so I hear, it said.

Brock looked up at the trees. You’re all gossips, he told their inhabitants, knowing they were listening.

There is a village by the name of Okeford Wake. A family there has a large property, and they’re looking for a gardener. That should suit one of your kind.

Branching out into recruitment now?

"I am a dryad, the dryad observed dryly. Branching out is what we do."

A dryad with a sense of humour? Brock asked dubiously. That’s a new one on me. Or is this evolution in action?

It happens. Evolution, I mean, the creature replied. It grew more serious, and looked a lot older because of it. Be careful in the west; The Purge is not yet forgotten.

Fucking elves, Brock muttered under his breath.

They are what they are. Some are not as the rest though.

The faera raised an eyebrow. Yeah, right. They accept incest as if anything else is wrong. You can’t tell me you think that’s okay?

All flesh creature reproduction is unpleasant to me. Pigeons are the worst; they make so much noise about it. All that flapping is quite unnecessary. But you flesh creatures think that joining your bodies together is normal, don’t you?

"On the whole, but there are a few rules about it, and some rules should never be broken. There are some things I’d rather not even think about, to be honest, and elf customs are one of them. They fuck their own kids, for Herne’s sake!" Brock took a deep breath.

Anyway, I didn’t come here to debate reproductive methods with you. Are you sure you can get the rest of this cleaned up? I don’t mind hanging around and doing it myself. Brock studied the dryad carefully, wanting to make sure he hadn’t overstepped the bounds of the favour he had asked for.

"Your family has protected these woods for generations. I would not exist without them, so I will see to this. Return to your family, Hlāford Ӕtheling. Spend as much time as you can with them before you leave."

I intend to. Brock started towards his bike, then stopped and turned back to look at the dryad again. I wish you lot wouldn’t all call me that. My mum gave me a name, you know.

You can no more change what you are than I can. I bid you goodnight, Lord Brock.

The dryad watched in silence as Brock sat on his motorbike and slid the swords inside the back of his jacket again, then pulled on his helmet. Revving the engine, he toed the gear lever down, let the clutch lever out and sped away, the back end fishtailing a bit on the icy ground. The sound of the engine roared in the night before dwindling with the distance in very little time.

"Mūs ond wifel, fox ond brocc. Cuman clǣne āweg þes fūlian of monna. Lǣtan nese gebeacen wunian," the dryad called into the silence and darkness.

Out of the night came the mice and beetles, foxes and badgers the tree-spirit had summoned. The creatures moved over the blood soaked ground, digging down to hide all the leaves, twigs and lumps of soil with traces of dead human on them. Soon there was no hint of what had been done, only hundreds of footprints. As the animals departed to continue their usual nocturnal business, quiet descended for a few moments.

The dryad turned when another of its kind approached. This newcomer was ancient to look at, bent and time-worn, regardless of its mood.

I have done what I can, the first dryad said. With luck, he will go to Dorset. The rest lies in the hands of fate.

Fate can always be given a helping twig, the ancient one responded.

"Is she really going to do what is planned?"

She is, though not while the sire lives. I doubt he will long survive.

But he is almost entirely human; she will have to be careful.

The ancient dryad frowned. She will know how to kill without discovery.

So, now all there is to do is get the faera to the right place at the right time, then convince him to take an elf into his care. This will not be easy.

Her fruit does not have her prejudices and is of a purity not even the faera could dispute. Once he knows that, his honour will not allow him to do any other than offer his protection.

"Will she remain pure though? She is elf-born."

The dam has ensured her fruit will not look to a human, the fruit does not like her dam’s kind or imps, and so who else is there?

The other fruit? the first dryad suggested.

No, they were raised with human sensibilities, such a thing would be as distasteful to them as to the faera. And the other fruit has different inclinations. The female fruit will remain as pure as she was the day of her germination. The faera will need to know no more of her than that.

"But your brotherhood hopes for more than just that though, doesn’t it? The Iwhād wants to combine the elf and faera kind again."

And he is strong-willed enough to do that. The time of prophecy is approaching. ‘The Rising Warrior True/ His Lady of Elf shall wait,’ the old dryad quoted. "The faera will be helpless to do anything else once he sees her. Lord Brock Fortescue is the awaited warrior. The Papaver scion bears the spirit of his bonded-love."

"How did the Iwhād manage that?"

The ancient dryad smiled. We did nothing. Her spirit was gifted to the elf-born female by the goddess who guards the spirits of the Ethereals.Their spirits have always been in her care.

Then it truly is the time. The Dragon King is returning.

The aged dryad nodded, but added, Not just yet; in the next decade. A mere blink of a flesh creature’s eye.

Chapter one

In the front garden of a thatched cottage, on the edge of a North Dorset village, knelt a young woman. Under the wide-brimmed straw hat that kept her very pale skin from burning in the hot sun, was a head of long black, luxuriously wavy hair, pulled back into a messy plait that laid down the full length her spine like a thick rope. Where the sun caught it, her hair glistened with natural hints of azure and crimson. When loose, it formed a rippling cape that dropped to below hip level.

This striking colouring the woman had inherited from her late father. From her occasionally present mother, she had got unusually light brown eyes that could be, and often were, called golden. They slanted up at the outside corner to add to her exoticism. This was complimented by a slim figure and delicately fine, even features: slender arching eyebrows, narrow nose that had an aristocratic air, softly pointed chin that stopped just short of being stubbornly shrewish, to appear determined instead; and dainty but well-defined cheekbones. Her mouth was plumply sensual, enticing.

Though only twenty three, the woman lived alone in the cottage. This was her home and had been from the day of her birth. Although very rooted in her native soil, a few times in recent years she had wondered if she would prefer to live nearer to her brother. That would mean relocating to East Sussex, which felt like a totally different world whenever she visited.

Vanessa Ellwood, known to the Real World as Apis Papaver, owned her home jointly with her brother; it was left to them by their father. There had been no question of Vanessa’s mother having it when Aaron Ellwood had passed away, not when, to the human world, Vanessa’s mother didn’t even exist.

Leaning back on her heels, Vanessa looked at the small pile of weeds she had pulled from the flowerbed, then at her grubby hands, the dirt under her nails, and sighed. It had taken ages to scrub them clean. A total waste of time yet again. Sometimes it would be nice to be able to stay clean for more than five minutes and not always be a dirt-magnet. Not that Vanessa wanted to be as fussy as her brother, but just once in a while it would be nice to remember she was meant to be keeping herself presentable.

She shrugged and wiped a few stray hairs off her face, leaving a smut on her factor fifty sun-screen sheened cheek. The day was hot, which was rather a surprise when the summer had been little more than disappointing so far. The sudden heat was hard to adjust to without an acclimatizing build-up to prepare the body for it.

A two-spot ladybird landed on Vanessa’s forearm, its hard feet gripping onto the fine, almost invisible hairs, and Vanessa raised it to eye level. I don’t have greenfly, she told it quietly and held her arm close to one of the rose bushes. Have a look round on there and see what you can find.

Her voice was low, mellow, with a natural hint of throatiness, giving it a seductive tone that made the opposite sex aware of every word she spoke, on the rare occasion Vanessa spoke to anyone male.

The ladybird wandered onto one of the glossy leaves and headed to the stem.

Vanessa was about to resume her weeding - something she only really did in the front garden as that the part visible to rest of the village saw - when a sporty black Alfa Romeo slowed to turn onto the once gravel driveway, now covered in short grass. The car, which had collected dirt on the rural roads, stopped behind Vanessa’s more pedestrian Renault Clio, also inherited from her father.

Wiping her