The Changeling Warriors Read online

  THE CHANGELING

  WARRIORS

  DOUG WILSON

  Copyright © 2017 by Doug Wilson.

  ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4990-9993-5

  eBook 978-1-4990-9992-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  Rev. date: 09/04/2017

  Xlibris

  0-800-443-678

  www.Xlibris.co.nz

  767036

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: No Way

  Chapter 2: Island Of The White Cow

  Chapter 3: The Village

  Chapter 4: Warnings

  Chapter 5: Revelations

  Chapter 6: Catharnach

  Chapter 7: Disbelief

  Chapter 8: Terror

  Chapter 9: Real Or Imagined

  Chapter 10: Cianán

  Chapter 11: Good And Evil

  Chapter 12: The Palace Of The Faeries

  Chapter 13: Tír Na Nóg

  Chapter 14: The Castle

  Chapter 15: Alarm

  Chapter 16: Discovery And Learning

  Chapter 17: Sleuthing Spirits

  Chapter 18: The Black Hole

  Chapter 19: Death And Danger

  Chapter 20: Invasion

  Chapter 21: Regroup

  Chapter 22: Balgorly Rock

  Chapter 23: The Miasma Of Evil

  Chapter 24: Battle Time

  Chapter 25: The Golden Harp

  Chapter 26: Do Or Die

  Chapter 27: The Dark Prince

  Chapter 28: Death Watch

  CHAPTER 1

  NO WAY

  HE NEVER WANTED to go.

  “You can’t make me… not to that cold, crummy island! No way!” His voice squeaked, completely spoiling the effect.

  For days Peter Wanderer had told his mother, over and over again. “No. These are my holidays. I want to stay here! Not with some stupid old lady.” He banged his fist on the table, which he knew she hated. He was tall for his age, and growing fast, so the table banging was getting louder. On and on it went – her insisting, him yelling and banging the table. For days. It was a middle-sized house, attached to one other, so if he shouted the old woman next door, Mrs Smayley, would peer angrily over the fence, shaking her head as if to say spare me. He knew his mother hated that as well, so it was worth a try. Might work.

  “Morning Mrs Smelly,” Peter would shout as he left for school. She was always watching, pulling back the curtains, or sweeping her pathway; she had lived there since creation.

  She bristled. “Smayley, Peter, Mrs Smayley. You know that.”

  “I’ll try to remember. Bye Mrs Smelly.”

  But Annie Wanderer ignored Peter’s shouting. Just ignored him. He didn’t know how, but she did. Where was the place now? Ireland. Island of the White Cow. How dumb was that?

  “You’re going Peter, whether you like it or not. Your aunt’s alone, she’s lost her husband, and she needs support and a bit of company… and just two weeks of your holidays. Don’t be so selfish! You know I can’t get time off from work. She’s very lonely, and you’re her favourite nephew.”

  Favourite nephew he thought… the woman’s barely met me.

  His mother had struggled with Peter ever since his father died, two years before. He was a tall boy, lean and whippy, with very dark eyes, longish black hair, a straight nose and weird ears, almost pointed. They were odd, and not his best feature, so he let his hair grow to cover them. He was pretty much an ordinary teenager, but did get angry when he felt crowded. At school in Chelmsford, in England, he was bright, and becoming a great swimmer. People used to say he swam like a fish, which was so cliché it was boring… but he did. He’d always been a bit of a loner, so swimming was good – with no need to talk. He’d always felt different from his friends. None of them were real friends, just kids he hung around with. What he didn’t know was that his life was on the edge… the edge of huge, explosive changes.

  “Your grandparents came from there, so its really home. And you were born there… if you remember, when we were on vacation. You came early. The only time you were ever early.” She laughed.

  “Of course I don’t remember being born! The place is like nowhere. Full of stupid old people, and they’re Irish, and its cold and wet all the time. That’s not a holiday, it’s a prison sentence!”

  He did the shouting thing again, stomped into his room and slammed the door. Why me, he asked himself. What have I done to deserve this? There was so much to do at home, and to stay with an old aunt, on a crummy, wet, cold Irish island seemed like the worst punishment. Worse than death! Even stamping his foot again didn’t make him feel any better. He spent hours on his computer, furiously playing angry, violent games, but that didn’t help either.

  He knew he should be practicing his violin, but that was another waste of time because he knew he was never going to be any good. His father had wanted him to do it, and said so before he died. It was about the only thing left that seemed a link to him. So Peter tried. Scrape, scrape, scales, rondos, whatever they were. He was sure his teacher, Mrs Black, knew he was hopeless, but needed the money.

  He pleaded with his mother, over and over again. “Can’t I give this up? I’m rubbish. I’ll never play this thing.”

  “No, that’s one thing you can’t do. Your father wanted you to play the violin, like he did. And he would be so disappointed if you gave up. I think you’re getting better.”

  Peter almost said he couldn’t be disappointed because he was dead, but thought better of it and shut his mouth. A wise decision.

  His mother worked at the local supermarket as some sort of supervisor, telling people what to do, and where to put things. Since his father’s death she had been much quieter, as if she would never get over her loss. Peter didn’t know what to do to make her happier. He found it all very hard. He’d liked his dad, but in some ways never felt very close, as if he was somehow distant. But he had liked him.

  A few weeks later all the arguments were over and Peter was on a plane to Shannon, in Ireland. To his horror, he was travelling with an envelope, packaged in a plastic sleeve on a tape around his neck, for his passport and documents. Though he was really thirteen, a mix-up in the airline’s office said he was eleven, and too young to travel alone. The airline had to take care of him at each stop and he had to wear a passport pack. Unaccompanied minor the paper read. Underground miner would be better. He asked for a beer on the Aer Lingus plane, just for the hell of it.

  “Don’t be cheeky, young man,” said the cabin attendant, wagging her finger at him but grinning all the same.

  At Shannon airport he was escorted through immigration and customs by a very friendly woman in an airline uniform, who kept calling him Mr Wanderer, as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, and he couldn’t decide whether it was cooler to roll his eyes or just ignore her. The eyes won.

  He saw his aunt, Maggie O’Keefe, waiting to meet him,
all pink cheeks and bright eyes. She was wearing a dark brown coat, sensible flat shoes, a small hat with a feather and a big smile.

  “Oh you’ve grown dear, quite the young man.”

  What did she expect… that he’d stay the same size, like some sort of midget? He wriggled awkwardly as she hugged him, but smiled back at her while papers were signed to show he was really who he was, he had arrived safely, and carried no diseases, contraband alcohol or cigarettes. He tried a spin around with his arms out as if expecting a body search. “See…no hidden anythings.” The airline woman smiled politely, flicked her eyebrows and disappeared.

  “Now we’re off to Galway and then Cleggan,” explained his aunt, folding her large carry bag and handing Peter’s bag and his battered violin case to the driver as they climbed aboard a large bus. He’d promised his mother he’d practice his music, though he thought he might give that a miss.

  It was early afternoon, and as it was autumn, it was gloomy. It wasn’t raining but it felt as if it were – a soft, wet, damp and cloying mist. An early winter, his aunt explained. Oh great he thought, stuck inside that tiny cottage all the time. I’ll go mad and then what will they all think? He’d be pointed out. He grinned to himself. Mad Peter. Yep, mad as a meat axe, mad, mad, mad!

  The bus was slow, taking nearly four hours to cover the 170 odd kilometers. It seemed to stop at every little village, driving him crazy. Sometimes his aunt went for a cup of tea and the Ladies’ Room. How much longer? Why here? Why me? He was going to miss the best games of the season, Chelsea and Fulham, sitting with mates at Tony’s house. They had a big screen TV and his mother gave them crisps during the game. And Tony had a cute sister. They’d all shout and holler at the referee’s decisions, fouls that were missed, and player pussycats rolling in mock pain holding their ankles.

  Peter sighed. Instead he was stuck on a bus to nowhere – or the second closest thing – the Island of the White Cow, off the Irish coast, on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean.

  What he didn’t know was that he was heading into the greatest danger he could ever imagine. Things would never be the same. The end of life as he knew it was coming closer.

  Already he was thinking about going home. He’d been there twice before with his parents, well three if you counted being born there – but only for a day or so, to visit his aunt and uncle. His aunt chattered on, but he knew he was there just to be talked at, so he didn’t bother listening. He fell asleep as the bus rumbled slowly on into the dull afternoon light, waking up at Galway, where they had to change buses for the last leg.

  At the small fishing village of Cleggan they left the bus, staying overnight at a little bed and breakfast place near a small café, where Peter had fish and chips… pretty good, he had to admit, but he was tired and slept early. The next morning they walked to the ferry. Every house was built in stone, like the walls and the jetty. Very grey and looking cold. It was freezing.

  “Inishbofin, this way,” called a bearded man in yellow, wet weather gear, pointing to the red ferry. The Island Discovery looked pretty good with nice lines and space to sit on the deck and in the cabin.

  “Where’s that?” asked Peter, convinced by the misty rain that he’d be trapped inside his aunt’s cottage for the entire visit. She was still talking to some friends.

  “Inishbofin is the true name of the Island; Inis Bo Finne in the Gaelic. Do you have the Gaelic boy?” asked the ferryman. He was hard to understand.

  “Inis Bo Finne, where the great Graine Ni Mhaille, or Grace O’Malley as she is in the English, came with her pirate ship and the blessed Saint Colman built his monastery, rest his soul.”

  Peter was more interested in a pirate, even a female pirate, than any Saint, but at least something interesting had happened there, even if it was in the past. Bet there were no pirates now, though. They carried their bags onto the ferry and put them inside while ferrymen worked at ropes and other passengers came on board. Lots of “hellos, had a good break” and “saw so and so” or “stayed with my brother”. Peter switched off. He dropped his small shoulder bag inside the cabin and wandered around the deck, touching things and sniffing ropes, squinting at the sky.

  “Should be a quiet trip, Mrs O’Keefe, bit of rain, but fining up. No Cleggan Disaster today.”

  Peter’s aunt nodded at the ferryman. “There’d better not be. I’ve my nephew Peter here. His mother would never forgive me if we lost him.”

  Despite himself, Peter looked up in interest. “Cleggan Disaster – what was that?”

  “Well now, in 1927 a huge gale blew up unexpectedly and drowned over 25 fishermen from here and more from a town nearby.” The old man looked serious. “No chance of that happening today. Though you might want to keep an eye out for the White Cow, she’s due sometime soon.” He grinned at Peter showing the gaps in his teeth, which were clamped on an old pipe.

  “What’s the White Cow?” Peter looked puzzled, and squinted at the old sailor.

  His aunt laughed. “All fairy stories; just stuff and nonsense. Now off with you Clem and stop feeding such rubbish to the boy.”

  “Not so sure about that, Missus. Old Tom said he saw her once.”

  Maggie O’Keefe looked annoyed. “Now no-one in their right mind holds much for what Old Tom says, either inside the pub or not. Go on Peter, go and watch the ropes cast off and the harbour as we go out.”

  “They say that when the White Cow appears she brings disaster and death, that’s what they say.” The sailor nodded at Peter. “Just what they say, that’s all,” he mumbled as Maggie frowned at him, shaking her head.

  Peter watched as hawsers were dropped off bollards and tossed back to the jetty. Others splashed into the water and were hauled back on board, dripping wet. The big engines went into gear. Water surged at the stern, and the ferry shunted from the jetty, turning slowly towards the small harbour entrance. The engines thudded cheerily, as if happy to be at work again. There was a toot of the whistle. As the stern pulled away the bow swung around and he saw fishing boats, all dingy, rusty and cold, tied to the opposite jetty. A few were unloading their overnight catch. Men with waterproof overalls and gloves heaved containers of dripping fish. Seagulls flew around, calling for food and occasionally diving when fish guts were tossed into the sea.

  Despite himself, Peter was enjoying the sights. The smell of the sea and the bird cries made him more cheerful and he started to look forward to the boat trip. He leaned over the side and looked down at the dirty water of the harbour. It had the feel of an adventure.

  His aunt had moved to the large cabin and he saw her talking with more people she obviously knew. But, as he’d feared, they all seemed to be a hundred years old, with heavy dark coats and hats and kit bags bulging with stuff. The men wore all looked the same, wearing caps, and only spoke to other men. There were no kids – no-one even close to his age. Sighing deeply, he turned away. He didn’t mind the wind in his face as the rain had stopped. He looked out to sea. White Cow, what a stupid story. And no-one had seen it, except the Old Tom guy, and according to his aunt, he’d lost it. Old folktales and legends. The superstitious Irish, that’s what it was. He snorted with derision.

  A hand touched his arm. He spun around, startled. A girl was standing there, her head tilted a little as if listening for something, but away from the wind.

  “You must be Peter. I’m Siobhan. How’d you do?”

  She held out her hand and Peter shook it. It was a firm handshake, like boys showing who was tough. She was a little taller than him, with very large green eyes, high cheeks, even teeth and her hair covered by a green woollen cap, pulled down to cover her ears, though wisps of black hair crept out. Her jacket was bright red, almost Manchester United, and zipped up against the cold. She wore tight jeans, and stood out vividly from all the dark greys and browns of the other passengers. How had he missed her? No doubt she was Irish, her accent was like the ferryman, only softer an
d easier to understand. She moved easily, shifting her weight as the ferry began to toss and roll in the open sea, as if she was a sailor, or an athlete, or whatever. He thought she looked very fine.

  He was beginning to notice girls, but was still uneasy around them. But she looked better, much better than his friend Tony’s cute sister.

  “My aunt must have told you,” he said after a pause.

  The girl laughed, making him feel foolish. “Of course. Who else would know you?”

  He felt himself go red as he listened to her lilting voice. Talk about stating the obvious.

  “Maggie O’Keefe told us you were coming, so hello again and welcome.”

  “Do… do you live in… in Cleggan?” He stumbled over his words. The girl was so confident and stared at him without blinking.

  She nodded. “On the Island, with me ma and pa. Have done all me life, when I’m not off at school in Galway, that is. We don’t see many other teenagers, except for tourists. You’re a teenager aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes. I’m thirteen – nearly fourteen.” He hoped his voice wouldn’t squeak and catch him out in the lie. It was only a small one.

  “Oh that’s fine then, so am I, but it wouldn’t matter if you weren’t. I’ll show you around while you’re here, if you like. What’s that for?” she pointed to the violin case at his feet.

  “Violin. I play a bit.”

  “Any good? Are you a champion or what?”

  “With this case? No, my mum wants me to play. She thinks I have the ear, so there it is. But I’m not very good. Actually, I’m awful. Rubbish. Swimming’s what I do. And a bit of football and running, you know cross country and stuff.”

  “Oh, you do the football do you?”

  Peter couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him, but she was different and seemed cool so maybe the visit wouldn’t be so bad.