Doc Sidhe

by Aaron Allston

  Everyone looked slightly left of straight ahead.

  A triplane—something Harris had never seen outside of pictures in a book. Almost invisible in the faint light cast by the crescent moon, it came at them just feet above the water. Harris winced. The Frog Prince was moving, but couldn't possibly get clear before—

  It opened fire. Angry gouts of flame erupted from the plane. Twin lines of water-spray erupted from the lake's surface and converged on the Frog Prince.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  People scattered, Caster and Noriko leaping into the water. Bullets tore into the Frog Prince and sent wood chips flying. One engine coughed and died immediately. The triplane roared past, a mere six feet above the plane it had just strafed, climbing to keep from slamming into the mountain slope ahead.

  Alastair stood and opened up with his autogun. His long burst didn't seem to affect the attacker. Doc, hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull a boot onto the other, joined his associates.

  Harris helped Caster and Noriko out of the water. He took an anxious look at the Frog Prince; only one engine was running, and it was sputtering, but in dim light from the cockpit he could see Welthy and Ladislas moving, and they didn't appear to be hurt.

  Villagers emerged from their huts. Many more, Harris saw, merely peeked from curtained doorways.

  The attacking plane continued to climb, then wheeled around in a counterclockwise circle and headed toward the Castilian fort. It passed over the ruined structure . . . and Harris saw a flash of rocket trail as something fired out of the cockpit into the center of the old fortress.

  The plane passed over the castle and began a gentle turn. There was a flash of light from the interior of the structure; it illuminated the mountain slope behind.

  Doc struck his forehead. "Damn me for an idiot. I forgot about Duncan's paint-spraying missile. They didn't need to bring the equipment in by lorry!" He charged toward the fort.

  The others followed, spreading out. But the triplane angled toward them, firing again, its bullets plowing indiscriminately through the huts of the people of Itzamnál.

  This time everyone returned fire, sending lead into the aging triplane's flanks and belly. Alastair put a good burst into its side; Harris saw its cockpit riddled with holes. When the plane was past, they rose and began running again.

  The triplane waggled its wings. It didn't look to Harris like a celebration of victory; it seemed to be slewing out of control. It turned to pass once more over the castle. Then it climbed at an ever-increasing angle, as if the pilot sought to reach the silvery arc of the moon.

  The plane continued its arc until it stood on its tail. Harris heard the engine catch and fail. Then the plane heeled over and dropped, spinning, an unaerodynamic fall, to smash into the far wall of the castle.

  Doc was almost to the castle gate when automatic gunfire erupted from the entrance into the fortress.

  Harris saw him go down. Doc continued into a controlled tumble, getting clear of the trail, finishing up behind a gentle rise in the earth; apparently unhurt, he returned fire with his pistol. Alastair joined him, went prone, and opened fire with his Klapper.

  Harris left the trail and scrambled upslope. In a few seconds he was at right angles to the castle entrance, out of sight of its defenders. He cut across toward the fortress' western wall. This wall stood tall and unbroken, portions of it lighter and in better repair than others; its upper reaches were overgrown with the wooden framework the repairmen had been working from. Perhaps he could find a dangling rope or a rough patch of original wall to climb.

  Below, he saw Doc's other associates spreading out from the trail, returning fire against Blackletter's men.

  There was a brief whoosh and the sky above the castle lit up. It didn't look like the pyrotechnics that had erupted from Adennum Complex. Harris guessed that the crashed plane was on fire.

  Above the gunfire, he heard the rattling of a generator and the faint suggestion of chanting. But he trotted the entire length of the west wall and found no way up.

  "Harris!"

  He spun. Joseph stood at the bottom of the wall toward the castle's front face. Harris ran downslope to join him.

  Joseph pointed. "You want to go up?"

  "It's a hell of a good idea."

  "Get on my back."

  Harris did. He wrapped his arms around Joseph's neck. On account of the "cheese-grater" he was wearing, he wasn't willing to settle in against Joseph; he had to keep his knees pressed to the giant's back.

  Joseph didn't seem to mind. He started climbing.

  His hands seemed to find every crack between the stones of the wall. To Harris, it seemed as though his fingers settled, even oozed, into the gaps. Joseph hauled himself up with great speed and utter confidence. Harris took a look at the ground below and waited for fear of heights to claim him as it had at the construction site, but it didn't.

  In moments, he was able to step off onto the highest of the wooden repair walkways. There was a coil of rope on the walkway. He quickly tied it off and then kicked it over the side; it unrolled as it fell. Then he stepped up between the battlements and joined Joseph atop the wall. He had an excellent view of the castle's interior.

  On the far wall hung the smashed triplane, burning furiously. The fire had already spread to wooden walkways and support beams.

  Below, occupying most of the castle's courtyard, was another Cabinet-henge. At the center was a small fire surrounded by men; red smoke rose from the fire.

  The castle didn't seem to have any sort of gatehouse, just a gate and drawbridge flanked by round towers. He could see men clustered to either side of the opening, spraying gunfire out at Harris' friends.

  Harris saw what they were firing. Klapper autoguns and what looked like machine guns, against the pistols and occasional autoguns of his friends.

  "Get under cover," he said. He didn't wait to look. He drew both pistols and lay down at the interior edge of the wall. He sighted in on one of the groups of gunmen and opened fire.

  He'd emptied one gun before there was a reaction. One of the silhouettes by the gate slumped to the ground. Others turned and opened fire on Harris.

  He heard something whistle near him. A little piece of the stone wall beneath him exploded, sending a shard of stone into his chin. It hurt, but it was a dull pain.

  There was a wet, meaty noise above him. Harris glanced up.

  Joseph still stood there. A small crater had appeared on the exposed flesh of his chest. The giant looked a trifle puzzled. As Harris watched, his chest began to resume its normal shape.

  Joseph walked back to the battlements. He reached past them and yanked. There was a cracking noise. He came up with a wooden beam, something like a four-by-six, at least ten feet long. He began walking along the wall toward its southern face.

  Harris switched to his second gun and continued to fire. Some of the men below had quit the gate and were sheltering behind the cabinets. They fired at him. Harris saw another man at the gate fall down; it wasn't one he was aiming at. Maybe his friends were making headway.

  He paused to reload. Joseph got to the corner where the walls met and turned toward the gate.

  The plane on the far wall exploded. Burning wreckage dropped into the courtyard. A sheet of fire blew out over the castle, raining flaming debris everywhere. Something lit on Harris' cheek and bit him; he swatted the ember off his flesh and began firing again.

  Joseph reached the west tower flanking the gate. He stepped off the wall. Harris froze, arrested by the sight of his friend attempting to kill himself.

  Joseph fell forty feet to the ground. He flattened just a little when he hit. He stood up immediately and swung his improvised club. Even at this distance, Harris could hear the crack as it met the head of one of the gunmen at the gate. The blow swatted that man aside. Joseph stepped forward and drove his beam into the chest of the next gunman.

  The men around the gate turned their fire on Joseph. Harris saw the giant shudder and jerk as h
e was hit, perhaps dozens of times. But Joseph waded into his enemies, swinging his club, smashing men to the ground.

  Harris kept firing until his second gun was empty again. He thought he saw two men fell under his gunfire. He began to reload.

  A hard, cold piece of metal pressed up against his temple. His stomach seized up and he froze.

  A man's voice, hard and cold: "Drop those pieces of shit over the edge."

  Harris complied. Below, he saw one of the gate defenders fall backwards, hit by fire from outside.

  "Your other gun, too, dickhead. Angus told us about you."

  Harris carefully, slowly drew out the revolver from his belt holster and dropped it off the wall.

  The man stepped back. "Stand up and turn around."

  Harris did. He turned to face Phipps. The man wore a dirt-streaked grimworld suit and burgundy-and-yellow power tie that seemed doubly incongruous in this setting.

  Phipps smiled. "Here it comes, punk." Then he froze.

  A woman's brown arm snaked from behind Phipps and relieved him of his pistol. Ixyail stepped back and away from the grimworlder. She carried another gun in her left hand. She, too, was smiling. "Two big steers fighting," she said. "I must see this. That will be worth all the climbing."

  Phipps looked at her, confused, taking a moment to realize that he'd just been given permission to beat Harris to death. "All right," he said. "Just as good."

  He stepped forward.

  Harris knuckle-punched him in the throat. Phipps clutched at the injury, surprise in his eyes.

  Harris grabbed him by the tie and yanked. Phipps sailed off the wall, his arms flailing. He got out one strangled cry before he smashed into the flagstones four stories below.

  "Give me that." Harris, exasperated, took Phipps' revolver from Ixyail.

  "That was no fight." She looked disappointed.

  "Give Joseph some support. I'm going down."

  He found temporary wooden stairs leading to the ground. As he descended, he saw Joseph, one of his legs near-useless and dragging, smashing one of the gunmen against a wooden cabinet. The last defender still at the gate fell over backwards and Alastair charged in, still firing at him, nearly stumbling over his body. Men were regrouping among the cabinets; some opened fire on the doctor, who dove behind a pile of masonry rubble.

  Many of the wooden cabinets were on fire, as was the entire east wall of the castle. Flame and smoke rose into the sky.

  Harris saw the squat shape of Angus Powrie moving among the cabinets, red-gold from reflected flame. Harris hurried down the steps, firing at targets of opportunity as he descended.

  * * *

  Noriko ran in behind Alastair and Doc, keeping as low as she could. One of the bleeding men on the ground raised a handgun. She lashed out with her blade, dispassionately watched as the gun and the hand that held it went flying.

  Joseph, his face and body riddled with small craters, spun on them and raised the six-foot remnant of his club, but recognized them and stayed his hand.

  Gunfire from the cabinets ahead. Doc angled right, diving, rolling behind bags of cement. Noriko headed left, hoping her dark clothes would make her tough to pick out in this light.

  The lights decorating the cabinets abruptly brightened and burned out. The shaft of light Noriko remembered from Adennum launched itself toward the stars. The ground rumbled. She heard Doc groan. She knew it was from pain at having failed a second time. She felt it herself.

  All the incoming fire seemed to be aimed at Doc and Alastair; maybe she hadn't been seen. She moved between two of the cabinets, headed toward the center, her senses alert.

  Not alert enough. A loop settled around her neck and drew tight; a cold barrel pressed against the flesh of her neck. A gruff voice with a lowlander accent said, "Drop that toy, girl."

  Harris moved into the circle of burning cabinets. In the center, the fire still issued a little red smoke, but no one stood near it.

  That last shot had been his fifth. He swung out the cylinder of Phipps' pistol and dumped out its load of brass, then tried to reload.

  No such luck. The ammunition in his pockets was a different type. He cursed, replaced the unspent cartridge and snapped the weapon shut, rotating the cylinder so that the one live round was ready to fire.

  There was motion in his peripheral vision.

  Angus Powrie stood four steps away. He held a Wexstan shotgun pistol in both hands, aimed upward. The cord at its end held its barrel to Noriko's neck. Noriko's face betrayed no emotion.

  Angus caught sight of Harris in almost the same instant. "Drop your gun," said the redcap, "or she's dead."

  Noriko shook her head, a mere suggestion of motion.

  Harris took careful aim at him. "You need to come up with a new dialogue coach."

  Powrie looked confused. "Maybe you didn't understand me, boy."

  "Who was it who said that experience consists of recognizing it when you make the same mistake again?"

  They waited there for long seconds, while the fire on the east wall blazed up brighter and gunfire blasted from the south arc of the ring of cabinets.

  Harris kept his aim true. "Noriko?"

  Her voice was faint. "Yes?"

  "You're my friend, and I love you."

  "I know."

  "If it comes to it . . . good-bye."

  "Good-bye."

  He waited. Noriko slowly brought her hands up. Harris cleared his throat, held Powrie's attention. "Angus, listen. I'm willing to forgive and forget the thing with Jean-Pierre if you'll do something for me."

  "Which is?"

  "Kill yourself."

  Noriko clapped her hands on either side of the Wexstan's cylinder.

  Angus yanked the trigger. The cylinder, trapped between Noriko's hands, could not rotate; the hammer could not draw back or fall.

  Harris fired. The bullet took Angus high in the chest. It didn't stagger the redcap.

  Angus wound up and struck Noriko, a punishing blow to her cheek; her legs gave way but she kept the grip on the gun.

  Harris ran forward and side-kicked, catching Powrie in the chest, throwing him to the ground. Harris dropped the empty pistol. Noriko crawled away.

  Powrie was up in a split-second, charging. Harris side-stepped, grabbed the man's sleeve and added some momentum to the charge. The redcap flew past and slammed into the burning side of a cabinet. It didn't slow him; he bounced off and stepped away from the wood, fast enough that the fire didn't even char his shirt.

  The redcap's pointed teeth gleamed in the firelight. He held up his undamaged left hand. "You ruined this," he said. "Now it's all better. I'm going to break your neck with it." He came at Harris, grabbing.

  Harris leaned left, blocked right-handed, and as Angus reached him he spun into a backfist. The blow smashed the dwarf's nose into a flat, bloody mess of gristle. Angus staggered past a couple of steps.

  Harris backed away, dancing, his hands at chin level to guard.

  Angus turned, unslowed. Blood poured across his mouth but his smile mocked Harris. He charged again.

  Suddenly Harris was in Sonny Walters' position, fighting the long-range battle against an enemy who had to close constantly. He fought it the way Sonny did, nailing Angus at the moments of transition, dancing away, throwing baffling combinations. He didn't forget the crucial difference between the two fights—he couldn't allow Angus ever to get a grip on him. He threw hard blocks against every grab and boxing-style punch Angus tried against him. He hammered the redcap's ribs, ears, stomach, knee. He kicked Angus full in the mouth and watched him spit out a half dozen teeth.

  Then Angus took Harris' best cross to his jaw. He stumbled forward to his knees . . . and brought an uppercut straight from the ground, slamming it into Harris' crotch.

  The thin cloth of the pants was no protection. Angus' fist crunched into the spike-laden bowl Harris wore as an athletic cup. Razory points and edges of cold iron and steel gouged Angus' fist, shredding flesh, ripping tendons and cartilage. />
  Angus staggered back, horror on his face as he stared at the new ruin of his left hand. Pieces of iron protruded from it.

  Harris bent over, the pain from the blow making it hard for him to stand straight. He found his voice; it emerged as a wheeze. "Hurts, doesn't it?"

  Angus didn't answer. The flesh on his hand not covered with blood was already blistering; he frantically plucked at it, pulling iron bits free. His eyes were wide.

  Noriko stepped up beside Harris and fired the Wexstan. The shotgun discharge tore Angus' tormented expression away as though it were a paper mask, leaving behind only blood and bone. Angus' head rocked and he fell. He slapped onto the stone of the courtyard.

  Harris stood over him and got his breathing back under control. He glanced over at Noriko and was amazed to see her cheeks wet with tears. Her words were barely audible over the crackle of burning wood: "I am sorry, Harris. He was yours, but I had to. Family honor demanded."

  He took her in his arms and held her. "It's all right."

  They collected in the center of the henge. Doc, unhurt, was first on the scene. Then Harris and Noriko.

  Welthow, lately arrived, knelt beside Joseph. The giant's face did not express concern or hurt. His body was riddled with bullet-holes, but one by one they slowly began to contract to nothingness. Bits of dark metal worked their way free of his flesh and dropped to the stones.

  Alastair moved from one fallen form to the next. With most, he did little more than check pulse and then close the victim's eyes.

  The others trickled in. Gaby pushed a couple of gunmen before her, keeping them at riflepoint; both were fairworlders. Gaby looked in alarm at the blood streaking Harris' crotch. "Not mine," he said, but did not elaborate.

  Ish moved to Doc, touched his cheek, stayed beside him.

  "They finished the ritual," Doc said. "We've failed."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Angus Powrie and fourteen of Duncan's men were dead. Another dozen, most of them injured, were dragged off one by one into Harris' workout cargo hold, now pressed into duty as a temporary gaol.