Read Rise of the Darklings for Free Online

battle had made him melancholy. That always happened, even when they won.
    As they flew deeper into the mountains, into the treacherous,mist-shrouded areas impassable to humans, Scaithe felt a small surge of relief. He was safe now. Scaithe hated the city. It was dirty and suffocating. He needed the clear air of the mountains to survive.
    The mist thickened into a fog, but the hawk knew where she was now. She flew confidently, as if something was calling to her, guiding her through the wall of gray.
    Scaithe eventually fell into an exhausted doze. He was awoken some time later by the bird’s shrill call. He yawned and leaned over to see where they were.
    The mist had disappeared. They were approaching a deep basin, a huge space that looked as if it had been scooped out of the mountains by a giant hand. The basin was leagues across, encircled by towering cliff faces, and covering the bottom were sweeping grass fields and deep, ancient forests, all coated in a thick layer of fresh white snow.
    In the center of the basin was a lake, and in the middle of the lake, an island.
    The Dagda’s Court.
    The hawk folded her wings back and dropped through the air. The ground rushed toward them at a terrifying speed, the wind whipping furiously. Scaithe was soon close enough to see flashes of color beneath the snow; a hint of winter green, a flash of dark brown.
    The hawk soared over the still waters, the lake so calm itmirrored the sky perfectly. Scaithe leaned over and could see the bird’s reflected underbelly, skimming calmly across the icy waters.
    And then the hawk opened her wings wide and they slowed down with a lurch. She flapped a couple of times, then slowly dropped into the branches of a tall, leafless sycamore tree on the shore of the island. Scaithe leaned forward and stroked her feathers.
    “Thank you, old friend.”
    The hawk turned her head to look at him. She held out a wing and started preening, cleaning and tucking her feathers back into place.
    Scaithe got the message. He slid off her back, landing atop the thick snow. His breath clouded the air.
    He heard snuffling off to his right. A large black dog padded silently into view, stark against the white snow. The dog was one of the Dagda’s favorites. Scaithe’s presence was required.
    He climbed onto the dog’s back and it sprang into action, loping up the incline toward the middle of the island. Scaithe caught glimpses of some of the others—faeries, brownies, and piskies, a few of the hollow men. They all watched silently as he passed, their dark eyes troubled at his lone return.
    There was a small hill at the exact center of the island.On its crown sprawled a giant oak tree, its branches reaching down to form a concealing shelter around the trunk. Scaithe slid off the dog’s back and waited. After a moment the green leaves, untouched by winter’s hand, rustled, as if a soft wind had disturbed them. The intertwined branches creaked and pulled apart, revealing a perfectly round opening.
    Scaithe took a deep breath and walked forward. The branches and leaves closed instantly behind him. After a few moments, he left the shadowy tunnel and found himself standing on green grass.
    He looked around. He was surrounded by his people: brownies, kobolds, gnomes, goblins, the stocky alfar with their beards trailing in the earth, and piskies. Faeries flitted through the air, quick streaks of white light.
    “He’s angry,” one whispered.
    “He’s going to skin you,” said another.
    “Feed you to the dogs.”
    Scaithe batted the irritating creatures away. They flew up into the boughs of the tree so that it seemed as if every branch was decorated with tiny glowing stars.
    The lights revealed what he had come here to see.
    The Dagda, King of the Unseelie, was sitting upon his throne, deep inside the trunk of the massive oak.
    His face was in shadow. He sat unmoving as Scaithewalked forward and bowed his head respectfully. The fey all around him fell silent, watching