Cursed Shards: Tales of Dark Folklore

Foreword

Kirstyn McDermott

To break a mirror, the superstitious among us would say, is to bring seven years’ bad luck upon yourself. To dispel this, you will want to get rid of the broken shards. Perhaps bury them deep in old dirt by the light of a full moon, or simply wrap them in newspaper and throw them into the wheelie bin, drag it out to the street and hope for the best. But don’t keep a single piece, not matter how prettily it glitters on your palm. Bad luck. Seven years. And that’s just ordinary glass!

What of a mirror made from darkest magic, a mirror that imprisons tortured souls within its depths, souls belonging to the Fae? What happens if you break such a thing as that? Would the resulting shards be cursed, or blessed? You might throw them away as quickly as you can, send them to all corners of the world, not quite knowing whose paths they will cross and what luck might be wrought from their will. Or you might be tempted to keep one, or two, or more, fashion them into magical artefacts, tools, weapons. You might think a curse could, in worthy hands, become a blessing.

Perhaps you would be right.

Then again, we all know how unwise it is to trust the Fae.

Bear such speculations in mind as you step into the realm of Cursed Shards. A shared-world anthology is a curious beast, a circle of trust and faith in which the authors link hands and warm their collective imagination around a single flame. Such a book calls to mind witches and bonfires, their spells sung to the sky, their bodies spinning faster, growing giddy and sweat-slicked. Or the fat white mushrooms of a fairy circle, springing up overnight from almost nothing, their caps bedecked with dew drops, inviting you so beguilingly to step into their centre and kneel. The stories in this anthology take their cue from the titular tale by editor Leannbh Pearson, each holding somewhere at its heart a single piece of the cursed mirror—at times remarkably, unexpectedly transformed—each expanding the shared world, adding history and filling in detail with their own unique flourishes. While darkness certainly dwells here, as the subtitle would suggest, the authors also bring love and triumph and a liberal dose of humour at its most wicked.

On your travels, you will stumble across many things that catch at your skirts, that feel oddly familiar while wearing strange new garb. These are not retold fairy tales so much as stories under the influence of faerie, folklore and legend, stories that weave themselves into the rich and time-worn tapestry that is the Fantasy genre. Some references are specific—Pinnochio, Bluebeard and even Robin Hood wander across the stage—although often only making themselves known once the tale is well under way and propelling the narrative in surprising directions. For the most part, though, the familiarity is organic, revealing itself in the fabric of the world, in the beats of the story. Here you will find dangerous quests and courageous, albeit reluctant, adventurers. Impossible tasks and befuddling riddles. Beast-infested forests and cottages that seem bigger within than without. Wizards and witches and wraiths, oh my!

And curses, of course. So many dark and delicious curses.

Showcasing a mix of emerging and established voices, Cursed Shards is an ambitious anthology that seeks resonance in more than simply theme or subject matter. The eclectic tales have much to offer readers of contemporary fantasy, fairy tales and folklore, many of whom will no doubt be delighted to discover a favourite new author or two among their pages. But take heed before following the winding path through the ill-lit forest: you are entering the realm of the Fae and things will not be as they seem, so trust your heart more than your eyes. If you make a promise, keep it honourably. If you are asked a question, answer it truthfully. Above all, mind your manners. The Fae cannot abide rudeness and, believe me, you do not want to land on their bad side.

Oh, and that intriguing shard of glass you’ve found? If you know what’s good for you—or even if you don’t—you’ll cast it to the ground and walk away. It’s keen of edge, that thing, and so very cruel.

And your blood, dear reader, is the very least of its desires.

Introduction

Leanbh Pearson

Be careful what you wish for…

We’ve all heard childhood fairy tales and hearthside stories passed from generation to generation warning us of unseen dangers lurking in the dark forest, the glimpse of a future in watery reflections, and to be wary of objects and people offering impossible gifts. The Fae are ageless beings dwelling between light and shadow, stalking the moonlit nights and wielding powerful gifts and curses. 

Welcome to Cursed Shards, a collection of dark fantasy stories inspired by folklore, legends, fairy tales and mythology. Ten authors spin ten different tales ranging from deserts, icy mountains and dark forests to legendary warriors and to the mythical Fae.

A realm where the landscape is as volatile as its rulers and an ancient cursed mirror, a once-powerful magical artefact created with blood magic, was shattered before it could be used against the realm. A cursed mirror broken but never destroyed. Ten shards remain: now disguised and repurposed into ordinary items that are traded, stolen, and sold between rulers, common folk and the Fae. Whenever a shard re-appears its curse influences the decisions of all who come within reach, threatening Fae and mortal kingdoms alike.

Here, the ancient adage ‘be careful what you wish for’ is true.

The Cursed Hunt

Leanbh Pearson

The Black Tower was a labyrinth of twisting tunnels and hidden chambers. Without our guide, it would have been impossible to navigate. In this solitary keep, the Dark Mage had enslaved Jorn—a coblynau—who could work with all metals, including iron, earning them mistrust from the other fey. Against his will, Jorn had forged the Cursed Mirror but not before his body had been bent and broken for his efforts. He hobbled in front of us, willingly leading my mercenary band through the underground passages and into the heart of the Black Tower. If the powerful Snow Queen and the five mortal kings were right, the Dark Mage had no knowledge we were coming.

I squinted in the dimness of the tunnels, the shadows still dense despite the torches Jorn had lit for us. Was this the effect of the foul magic here? Did the darkness eat the light?

Behind me, my brother Fergal paused mid-step. If the Dark Mage bound thirteen fae souls to the mirror, can they escape when it’s broken?

I looked at Fergal. Tall and broad-chested, blonde hair in warrior braids, he wasn’t one to ever fear anything. But his eyes darted around the tunnels, and his hand never left his sword hilt.

We’re told to suspect it, which is why that young mage is with us. He’s apparently the most skilled in the kingdoms. Even so, be wary, Fergal.

Fiana, I called to the lithe female archer behind us. Be ready when we enter the main chamber.

She nodded, taking several arrows from her quiver.

Fergal grabbed my arm. You owe me a drink after this, Herne.

I grinned. I owe you several, if I recall.

He grinned wolfishly. You do.

We climbed worn steps that soon changed to staircases showing signs of recent habitation. Fergal moved silently for a big man, his broad shoulders blocking the rest of the warriors from attack as we climbed the narrow staircase. Fergal’s wife Fiana moved with deadly grace, arrows trained on the space between me and my brother.

Jorn stood at the top of the spiral stairs, the coblynau waiting with his hand on the door knocker. I studied Jorn in the light of the brighter torches up here. He wasn’t pale skinned like dwarves or goblins who dwelled deep beneath the earth. I knew their kind avoided the coblynau, driving these rare fae metal workers deeper below the mountains. Scars traversed what was visible of Jorn’s body, deep red scars following his veins where the damage of iron had scarred his dark skin.

Pray you haven’t betrayed us, Jorn.

He turned lava red eyes on me and scowled. I owe no allegiance to the Dark Mage. He thought breaking my body was equivalent to breaking my will, and now he’s sadly mistaken. I’ll dance merrily over his corpse.

I pivoted on my heel to regard my small band of mercenaries and the young mage at the rear. Silently, I gestured to Fergal and Fiana, and they checked their weapons as did their men. I gave a swift nod to Jorn and he swung the door open.

I charged into the vast chamber, my sight adjusting to the bright light provided by many sconces lining the walls. Sword drawn, I moved carefully onto the sunken floor, glancing up at the high glass dome above. Moonlight poured in from the sky, contorting the torchlight and twisting the shadows that slid along the tiled floor to the platform. A robed figure stood in the shadows on the platform, a massive glass window behind him. I whistled to my band of warriors and hoped Fergal and Fiana could pierce the glamour cast by the Dark Mage too.

Several doors on the opposing side of the chamber burst open, and the Dark Mage’s warriors rushed into the room. Arrows shot through the air and swords met shields. I ignored it all. Slipping around fighting warriors and dancing between arrows, I kept my focus on the Dark Mage and the glamour he used to try to hide himself. This was my only task. I was here for him.

He turned to me; face hidden in the depths of his cowl. I climbed the steps to the raised platform, my heart thudding with dread. He was a not to be underestimated.

He laughed. The Snow Queen sends a mortal warrior?

I moved one more step towards him, body sidelong to his, sword raised to protect my torso and keep him in sight.

Do you know the tale of your Snow Queen? To avoid the complications of emotions, she buried her heart in the depths of the glaciers. She’s no protector of mortals. She’s cold and cruel, without loyalty to anyone but herself.

I knew the legend of the Snow Queen, how Holda had become a feared leader among the Fae. But I knew he tried to weaken my resolve with doubt, the five mortal kings had joined Holda to rid the land of the Dark Mage’s spreading evil. I hoped the wiry, skilled mage could destroy the Cursed Mirror as promised once I killed the Dark Mage.

The shadows at the Dark Mage’s feet rippled, and I finally saw a splinter in his glamour. Swift and without hesitation, I threw my knife, aiming for the break in his glamour that exposed his left side. The blade hit true, burying to the hilt in the tender flesh beneath the ribs. The Mage dropped his hands, breaking the illusions of his magic as he clutched at the wound. The cowl fell back and I saw the face of the deadliest man in the kingdoms. Young and handsome, full of pride, he could have been the son of any lord at court. He stared at me, pale with shock and confusion. I couldn’t lower my guard.

He dropped to one knee. Fool, he snarled.

I stared at his long fingered hands, but could already feel his potent magic leaking across the platform with his lifeblood.

The clamour of battle stilled surrounded us. I spread my feet, shoulder’s width apart and lifted my broadsword. The dying mage knelt before me, impassive as he waited for the fatal blow. Quick footsteps ran lightly up the steps on the platform and I jerked my attention to the left. Jorn walked to stand up beside me, staring at the man who had imprisoned and tortured him. The coblynau wore an expression I couldn’t read. Fast as lightning, Jorn darted forward and grasped the knife hilt buried in the mage’s side. He wrenched the blade free with enough savagery to open a fist-sized wound. Dark blood spilled across the tiled platform, pooling around Jorn’s boots and soaking my own. I couldn’t blame him for his hatred, but such a brutal death was an ugly way to kill. The Dark Mage coughed, spraying blood across the platform, his breathing a choking rattle as he struggled for air. He coughed again, dropping to his hands and knees before rolling onto his back. I didn’t move, forcing myself to stand with sword ready until I was certain of his death, until his vacant eyes stared sightlessly up at the domed chamber ceiling.

Hidden in the safety of the shadows, Fergal stepped aside and the wiry mage in our band hurried towards the platform. He ignored the Mage’s bloody corpse, and unlike others in the chamber, his gaze was on the glass window overlooking the ruins. He walked straight to the window and turned aside, hands outstretched as he plucked at the air. The mirror materialised where it had been hidden by the Mage’s glamour even after his death.

It was a huge, free-standing mirror, the metal frame curved with arching wings that spread from its back like a bird. I watched the young mage study the strange glass, the peculiar silver-grey, which was shadowy and dull rather than a reflective surface. The dark energy of the Mage’s power still pulsed from it, raising the hairs on my arms and neck.

I need to destroy it. There’s a terrible perversion to the magic, the corruption of death, and the torture of imprisoned souls.

Do whatever you can. That’s why you’re with us.

He nodded and lifted his hands high towards the night sky. The sleeves of his robe fell back revealing tattoos covering the length of his arms. Whispered invocations slipped from his lips, and as his summons grew louder, voice echoing eerily off the walls, I held my position on the platform, guarding our mage even while the Dark Mage’s blood still cooled at our feet. All the warriors in the room shifted uneasily as magic coiled around them, while Fergal tapped his ringed fingers against the hilt of his broadsword. I’d not seen him so anxious since our first days on battlefields.

I gasped as the mirror rose into the air, the impossibly heavy structure lifted upwards by an invisible force. I glanced at our mage, noticed the strain on his features to control what was happening. His hands shook with the effort to lift the mirror higher. I peered into the shadows of the glamour drenching the chamber, and saw spectral hands clawing from the mirror’s surface, fingers gripping at its edge, holding it as they carried upwards. Sweat ran freely down our mage’s face as the mirror continued towards the domed arch of the ceiling.

Are those the cursed souls? Fiana asked.

I glanced at her. I’m not sure but it seems likely. Be ready for anything that might happen. I’m not sure the souls bear as good or ill will.

The mirror hovered unsteadily in the air, its dull surface now reflecting the chamber and those standing here back at us. But what it revealed was a distortion. Darkness pooled where Fergal’s shadow should be, the impossibly long form reaching across the floor and away from my brother. My reflection was a twisted parody of myself, the blade in my hand dripping dark scarlet to the tiles.

Run! the mage called, shattered the spell and the silence.

Thirteen pairs of ghostly hands gripped the mirror’s edge and suspending it in the air. The chamber seemed to wait, and then those thirteen pairs of hands released it. The massive metal wings on either side of the mirror clanged against the stone tiles, and glass of the shadowy surface shattered into slivers, shards, and thumb-sized pieces. Darkness rolled through the chamber, dimming the torches in the sconces, and even obscuring the moonlight. The men and women who’d been warriors or slaves within Black Keep raced towards the broken mirror as if it were made of coin or flour.

I whistled to my band, and Fergal and Fiana followed me, falling into step as we quickly formed a loose circle around the shattered mirror. We couldn’t protect it for long, but we could protect long enough for the Snow Queen and the five kings to arrive. I may not trust five mortal kings with the shards any more than I trusted the rabble of men and women in front of me, but I trusted the Snow Queen.

The five mortal kings hurried into the chamber, their clothing rich enough to save entire villages from starvation, and dressed in jewels and rings. A creeping coldness filled the room, hoar frost forming along the walls. The darkness of the shadows receded. The Snow Queen had an ethereal beauty like all the fae; she was tall and slender, pale blonde hair almost silver in the darkness. But the flash of her emerald eyes in the torchlight chilled the blood of more than one man in the room.

Our young mage stepped forward, pale and exhausted. He bowed his head. There were thirteen souls trapped within the mirror, and they wrested control from me. I don’t know if they intended to destroy it—or if the intent was to reflect the curse back from the heavens above. But the mirror shattered. I think we’ve avoided one tragedy but created another.

Her green eyes flicked to me. You’ve confirmed the Dark Mage is dead?

I nodded, keeping my attention on the mob now encircling Fergal, Fiana, and me.

She turned to the mortal kings. We’ve destroyed the Mage, his cursed mirror, and freed the thirteen trapped souls. Take your spoils of war and leave now.

She strode towards the shattered mirror, pushing the young mage aside. He protested noisily, but she ignored him. She crouched to collect four shards from the splinters, shards and fragments of the mirror. The mortal kings rushed forward, jostling each other for the largest pieces.

King Ezmeth glared at the Snow Queen, face red with outrage. Why should you take four pieces and us expected to take only one?

One shard is for myself; the others are for each of my three champions who led this party to vanquish the Dark Mage.

The king quietened, glared accusingly at his fellows as if expecting them to voice their outrage. They did not. He glowered darkly at them, fingering his knife hilt.

The Snow Queen turned to me, and with subtle nod, Fergal, Fiana, and I stepped aside. A crowd had rapidly grown with the spread of the word that the Dark Mage was dead. Fergal and Fiana followed me to a narrow alcove where we rested. From where I was concealed, I watched the coblynau slip from the great chamber without even glancing at the shards. I still felt an indescribable power turning within them.

The Snow Queen ruled the most powerful fae kingdoms. Our return to Darkthron Castle was greeted with a blizzard of unheralded praise. While Fiana and Fergal spent the nights dancing at dinners, I remained vigilant, unable to shake the foreboding that had followed us home with the four mirror shards our queen had taken. In the depth of the bitterest cold, the Snow Queen called our trio forth to commemorate our victory over the Dark Mage by jewellery she’d crafted especially from the four mirror shards.

Fergal met me in the corridor outside the audience chamber in his finest midnight blue doublet and hose. He pulled at the collar of his shirt as uncomfortable in formal attire as he’d always been.

I grabbed his wrist. Stop it.

This is such a pompous waste of time.

She wishes to honour us. Are you going to question the Snow Queen?

No.

So, we wear whatever she wants us to. Smile, be gentle and accept whatever fineries she’s crafted for us.

Is he still moaning? Fiana asked, walking up behind us. She wore an dark green dress embroidered with snowflakes, her red hair ornately braided into a circlet of curls.

I nodded. He is.

Fergal, I didn’t marry you for your fancy clothing. Let me admire you in something fine for once.

Subdued into near-silent muttering, my brother stepped back allowing me to lead them into the audience chamber.

I swung open the oak doors and strode down the centre aisle, Fergal close behind me, with Fiana walking demurely as the last in our trio. We were met by furious polite clapping, fae lords and ladies that under the dominion of the Snow Queen. Surrounding the audience chamber were mortal servants and a number of the house guard. Fergal, Fiana and I were the only ones to be honoured tonight. I realised that among our mercenary band, I was the only one dressed in ceremonial armour. While we walked to the throne, we received no kind looks from the other fae lords or mortals assembled tonight. Ignoring it all, we proceeded the final steps to the front the room.

The Snow Queen, Holda leaned against her throne as unmoving as if carved from ice. I hesitated, her face unreadable, and her emerald eyes impassive for now. She was dressed in a flowing cape of white fur, and a dark green dress pooling around her feet. But it was the glittering diadem in her pale hair that was skilfully twined in silver to crown her head. I shivered as my pulse quickened in fear.

Herne, vanquisher of the Dark Mage. You do me great honour.

I stepped onto the ceremonial platform and knelt before the Holda; arms crossed over the breastplate of my armour. I dared a glance up and met her gaze. My smile faded. Dull threads of silver twisted in the iris of her eyes, the darkness still slithered behind her cold smile where once there had been impassiveness. I fought the urge to rise from my knees and flee to the cold might.

She moved to a spindly table at the side of the throne. So captivated by the changes in her, I’d not noticed it until now. She placed hands either side of a massive warrior’s helm cast entirely from steel, and smoothed her hands along tall antlers. A single piece of the mirror shard, cut was embedded between the eyes. A cold sweat broke out over my skin