Fractured Infinities

The Horned Lord

That's when, as the mortals say, all hell breaks loose.

It's been decades since I've seen the Horned Lord in any world, but no one could ever forget the terrifying aura that precedes him. Fae fall back as he strides forward, swinging his ponderous head around to survey the bejeweled dandies of the court. Fog clings to the antlers that protrude from his forehead, and icy sparks of winter blue drip from his hands. Riders of the Wild Hunt, clad in blackened iron helms that conceal their faces, follow in his wake. Some say that they're the spirits of the hunted who evaded the Hunt for the longest, while others claim that they're demons, fae, or demigods. I personally suspect that the former is closer to the truth, but I don't know for sure. Jet black hounds with eyes made from coals weave their way in and out of the riders' feet, flickering like smoke as they brush against the armored figures.

Oberon raises a disdainful eyebrow. "What is the meaning of this?" His tone could be mistaken for pleasant, if not for the hint of ice running through it. His courtiers flinch backwards.

The Horned Lord, though, is unmoved. "There be strange happenings in the mortal lands, Lord Oberon," he announces as he continues to stride forward, riders at his heels. The space around him continues to widen as the court flows away from his Hunt as though magnetically compelled backwards; silence drops after his words like a stone into a still pool.

Oberon leans forward in his throne. "Strange happenings?"

The Horned Lord snaps his hand into a fist and a hound stumbles forward. Faint, dusky-gray tendrils around its neck connect it to the Horned Lord, though I can tell that the leash is invisible to both fae and mortal eyes. The court shrinks back even farther, if that's possible, as it snaps and snarls. The Horned Lord's brow furrows between his antlers. "This," he declares, gesturing towards the hound, "was caught on the eve of yesterday. A skinny, paltry piece of prey, to be sure, but it led us on a merry chase indeed, until it took shelter within an iron-bound church of the hanged man."

Oberon's eyes darken. It's clear that he, like most of the fae, despises mortal religions and the sanctuaries that accompany them. Mortals have hedged the fae in with stories and walls of iron, constraining their hunts and forestalling their pleasures of old; few humans venture into the dark without the protection of a horseshoe or iron cross nowadays. The Sidhe can deal with the iron, but they struggle to combat the mortal tales that are slowly forcing them into unrecognizable forms – I know some worlds that lack a fae presence at all, due to mortal stories. This particular world has just begun to see the blight; I wonder if the Horned Lord has come to report the first signs of it.

But his next words disprove my theory. "We sent the hounds ahead to test the defenses, for the church was not warded all around with iron, merely guarded by the power of faith." His mouth stretches into a humorless grin. "Faith like cobwebs that vanished at the slightest touch of the hunt." The hound whines and lunges at a nearby fae lady; he yanks it back. "Their sanctuary be no sanctuary at all, to my eyes, and thus..." He jerks the hound to heel. "we have this."

I hear the huntsman gulp. Has he realized that the Horned Lord is not discussing the capture of an animal, that the hound used to be human until the hunt captured it? His face is pasty and his hand around my mirror is white-knuckled, but he says nothing.

Oberon is far too composed to allow surprise to cross his face, but he does permit himself a small smile. "Ah. That is good news indeed. But curious... what caused their protections to fail so suddenly?"

The Horned Lord takes a step forward, swinging his antlers from side to side as he surveys the crowd. "Now that is beyond my ken," he admits. "But can you not feel it? There are strange murmurs in the air of the mortal realm..." His gaze lands on the princess and his eyes – deep ebony lit by speckles of icy white – narrow. She gulps and steps backward, clutching at her skirt with both hands, as he turns to face her.