“None,” I informed him.
“Oh?” said he. And then, “Oh.” A look of profound disappointment crossed his features. All the strength seemed to leave him. He slumped in his bed, gave a sad, tired shake of his head, muttered, “Stupid fairy,” and slipped into that dreamless sleep from which he nevermore awakened.
“Idiot,” I noted.
And I might have said more if it were not for a sudden, high-pitched “Squeeeeeeeeeeee!” followed by one of the head-sized gray rocks flinging itself across the room. I leapt aside with a cry of alarm, but poor Torg was caught entirely by surprise. The rock smashed into one side of his face at thirty or forty miles per hour. I think the force was more than sufficient to batter down a fortified prison door.
“Ow! Hey!” Grogsson protested and rubbed at his cheek.
For those of us who were not quite so durable, matters were worse. “Squeee! Squeee! Squeeeeee!” went the rocks, as they came at us from all sides.
“Look out!” Holmes shouted. “He’s Northumbrian!”
Yet the particular provenance of my antagonist did not trouble me nearly so much as the few hundred pounds of stone assailing me from all sides. Lestrade’s eyes went wide for a moment but—when it came right down to it—Lestrade was a vampire, and vampires are quick. He zipped this way and that, avoiding all harm, wearing an expression more of wonder than of fear. Grogsson took a few hits, but the more common outcome was for him to catch one of the incoming projectiles and fling it through the nearest wall with twice the force it had before.
Holmes seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Melfrizoth!” he called, and his burning black soul-blade appeared in his hand. The next time a rock came at him, he sidestepped and swung his mighty weapon through the air. The hapless rock was struck in twain, even as it flew.
Which was not helpful, if I’m honest.
I mean, it’s not as if he stopped the thing. Now there were two pieces of rock hurtling about. And as a special bonus: though it had been rounded before, now it had sharp edges. Plus, as if I did not have enough to try and keep my eyes on, now I had to worry about Holmes flailing about with a God-killing weapon like a happy young boy with his favorite stick. Sure, a good hit from one of those rocks might end me, but the slightest touch from Melfrizoth most definitely would.
I dipped!
I dodged!
I whirled!
I got my left leg all tangled up with my right one and went down like a drunken moose! My face bounced off John Turner’s floor with enough force to bloody my nose and set my head whirling. Half-stunned, I rolled over onto my back.
There, hovering near the ceiling above me, was the biggest, grayest rock of them all.
Cheeky bugger! He’d just been waiting for his chance.
“Squeeeee!” he cried, and flung himself down at me.
Dazed from my fall, I had no time to dodge it. I didn’t even manage to get my arms up to ward off the blow.
Instead, Holmes lunged towards me and thrust Melfrizoth forward. The ebon blade struck through the center of the falling stone, impaling it and stopping it just a few inches above my face – which, of course, it should not have been able to do. But what were physics when Holmes was in a mood? The black blade sang with the impact. Not that high-pitched “tiiiiiiiiing” steel makes, but a low, keening moan like a dolorous human voice.
“Um… right… thanks for that,” I mumbled.
But Holmes didn’t hear me. In his deep, demonic voice he intoned, “Bogh-Harrat! Bogh-Harrat, your name is known to me! Cease this outrage!”
The rocks hesitated for a moment, then clunked down to the floor. From the air around us, a disembodied speaker replied, “You have killed my chosen mortal!”
And do you know, he did sound more Northumbrian than Australian.
Which is not to say he sounded particularly reasonable. Shaking some of the cobwebs from my brain, I said, “Wait just a moment! You killed your chosen mortal!”
“What do you mean?” the empty air demanded.
“You took both his kidneys!”
“Well… I was hungry.”
“That is no excuse!”
Bogh-Harrat, the Bog-Hearted Boggart of Ballarat, did not seem to appreciate being spoken to in such tones. The rocks hovered up once more, ready to renew their onslaught.
I had no idea what to do.
Holmes, however, did.
How should one handle a Shakespeare-ish fairy? With Shakespeare-ish threats.
Holmes straightened to his full height and let the sonorous tones roll out of him, as he spake:
“I see you, oh unlustrous, knavish sprite!
I think not well of what you do today—
A callous sport of flinging baleful stones
And chasing all my noble friends away.
But hear me ere you chance your foolish game
And learn of me the fearsome hidden cost
That will perforce bring on you such sharp grief
If thou continue doing what thou dost.
Yay, I shall blight the stone and damn the earth
With seedling discontent and rotting wroth!
The mare shall heed no more the shrieking foal
And lovers change their hearts and break their troth!
The apricocks and dew leaves cancre’ous waste.
The field no longer furrow to the hoe.
Then all the fey shall name thee with the blame
And shake this weary valley with their woe!”
Around us, the hovering rocks bobbed indecisively for a moment.
Then, a moment more.
After a time, the disembodied speaker said, “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh no?” Holmes countered. “You just keep on misbehaving, mister, and see what you get!”
“Argh…” said the voice from all around us, “…fine.”
All the rocks fell lifelessly to the floor.
Including the one that had been silently maneuvering itself up above Holmes in the hope of dashing down on him unexpectedly. It plummeted from the ceiling onto Holmes’s right foot.
“Ow! Ooh! By the Twelve Gods! Oh, that bastard fairy!”
“Squee-hee-hee!” the air opined, as the spirit of Bogh-Harrat faded back into the fey.
“Well…” I said after a moment, “I think I’m going to
