Fireshaper's Doom

by Tom Deitz

  All who know of Power at all know of the Horn of Annwyn. Lugh is as careless as Arawn is cowardly. But you will not have it.

  How so?

  “This way, and this way,” Fionna cried aloud, and began to fling the horse shape from her, setting it wavering about the sleeping boy. Her own form blurred and twisted. She struggled to stand erect, even as she felt Power lancing toward her.

  “Power I will meet with Power!”

  The ghost-thought that was Morwyn laughed.

  Fionna hesitated. “What amuses you?”

  It is common to laugh at a child at its playing.

  “You call me a child?”

  In the ways of Power? Of a certain!

  “A child may yet withstand a woman!”

  Ha!

  Fionna froze, wrapped in anger. At last the spell slipped free enough for her to fully command her Power. She drew into herself then, focused it, began to send it forth.

  Fire!

  She was burning up. Flames licked about her in Tir-Nan-Og and in the Overworld as well. Everywhere she went there was fire. It chased her, devoured her.

  Morwyn smiled, sent a thought coursing behind her. I have no quarrel with you, Fionna nic Bobh. But your brother I am sworn to destroy, and you will not prevent me. Feel my wrath: feel the Power of a Fireshaper’s daughter!

  So, Fionna thought in her terror, that is why I cannot reach her. One cannot touch a flame, one can only . . .

  . . . quench it, Morwyn’s thought laughed. And that you cannot do, if I do this . . .

  The fires lapped hotter, and Fionna felt herself dwindling. There was only one refuge and that was deep within her. She went there: inward, ever inward, drawing away from the walls of flame that followed close behind her.

  And found, there in the center, a spot of coolness.

  Morwyn’s spell locked tight.

  Fionna felt her body spinning, stretching. Flames writhed about her, tortured her. She fell to the ground and rose again a horse—glanced about—She was trapped. There was only one way out.

  She stretched her thought in that direction. Failed, and tried again.

  —And was through. But it was no good, she had not strength enough to stave off Morwyn’s stifling enchantment. Only one option remained.

  She drew back into herself, focused her Power, then sent it arrowing forth—not at Morwyn, but at Ailill. Brother! she cried as she felt the spell enwrap him. Please forgive me, but this one would have your death! Now, run! I will join you if I can.

  Somewhere in the forest Ailill started, felt pain come upon him as he lay dazed upon the ground. He arched forward.

  “No!” he cried.

  No! No! No!

  Antlers sprouted from his head; his body fell once more onto four legs. Man’s awareness left him.

  Something sparkled on the ground before him, something familiar, something beautiful. He stepped upon it. Power welcomed him. And he ran, his mind awash in madness.

  You have not won yet, Morwyn! his sister’s challenge echoed in the empty air behind him. I will—

  The thought broke off like a slammed door. You will do nothing!

  Morwyn stepped out of the woods and looked at the fine black horse before her—and at the sleeping Froech. “Well, Fionna, I will grant you a good eye for boys,” she observed. “Perhaps the one true talent in your keeping. It is a shame I have no leisure to sample this one, so I will simply send him on his way—on your back. But know, oh Fionna nic Bobh, that where four spells bound that shape before, now there are five upon it, and the fifth you may not sunder. You may think you have beaten me, Fionna, but I will find your brother. And I will have my vengeance.”

  No! a ghost-thought whimpered softly.

  Morwyn smiled and began to plan her hunting. First she would have to search the Straight Tracks . . .

  Chapter VI: The Crazy Deer

  (White County, Georgia—Saturday, August 3)

  “Watusi Rodeo” ended, and the cassette popped from the Panasonic player hung below the red Mustang’s dashboard. David snagged it neatly and flipped it sideways to Alec for refiling. “Well, so what’ll it be, McLean? That was my choice; it’s your go again. Amazing the amount of music you can eat up in seven hours.”

  Alec fumbled through the assortment of tapes in the cardboard box on the console. “Is that all it’s been? Seems like years since we left Valdosta. But let’s see, we’ve had Mr. Petty, Big Country, all the R.E.M. . . . Just finished Guadalcanal Diary. Cat People won’t play. Aha! What about this?” He stuck a clear plastic box in front of David’s nose.

  David squinted at the hand-lettered label, then refocused on the road, pausing to downshift for a curve before accelerating again. “Blackwater! All right! I could get into a little Irish folk, just now.”

  Alec inserted the cassette and set it on rewind. “Not just Irish, strictly speaking. Too bad it’s only a copy.”

  David nodded. “Third generation, but I’m lucky to have it at all. They never made a record, and now I hear they’ve broken up, so this is all there’s ever gonna be.”

  Alec sighed. “Real bummer.”

  A moment later the sound of Uillean pipes filled the car with the rollicking opening bars of “Finnegan’s Wake.” David cranked the volume up, leaned back in his seat, and stuck his arm out the window. The hot August wind set his blond hair to thrashing wildly above his red bandana. Gentler breezes wafted across the bare arms and legs exposed by cutoff jeans and Governor’s Honors jerseys. MAD DAVE, David’s proclaimed: black, for communicative arts, which had been his area of study over the summer. Alec’s shirt, the brilliant green of science, simply read MCLEAN.

  As the second verse came around David began to sing along—off-key, as usual.

  Alec rolled his eyes, but he too kept time with his fingers as he took in the landscape streaking by outside. Great to be back in the mountains, he thought. Nearly the mountains, anyway; just then they were cruising down the eastern side of one of the narrow valleys that slashed the upper part of White County from north to south. A small stream paced them to the left, matching the wide, undulating highway curve for curve. Beyond the tinkling water, the Blue Ridge rose in tier on tier of oak and pine and maple. To the right; where the road had been gouged from the mountains, a vertical wall of jagged, iron-colored rocks loomed close above the pavement.

  A few miles farther on, the road would bend sharply upward and begin to wrap itself around the sides of Nichols Mountain. There would be a series of switchbacks and steep straightaways leading to Franks Gap at the top (site of a restaurant, now), and beyond that, home: Enotah County—David’s part first, the southern end; then Enotah, the county seat; and finally truly home: MacTyrie.

  Actually, Alec considered with a sigh, there was one thing he was not looking forward to: he would have to cross Nichols Mountain with David at the wheel.

  But that was a ways ahead yet; there was still time to relax, to enjoy the lush green of the trees, the subtle tans and grays of the forest floor, even the harsh patterns of the rocks flashing by six feet away to the right.

  As if sensing his mood, the music turned softer, became Nelson Morgan’s mandolin showpiece, “Ghost Waltz.” Alec allowed his eyes to close blissfully.

  David too was content. It was late afternoon and almost tourist season, but the road was blessedly empty. He set the Mustang into a sort of rhythmic back-and-forth glide along the crests and curves. This was what driving was all about.

  The instrumental ended, replaced by a livelier tune just as David braked hard, downshifted, and tugged the wheel hard left into the first switchback of the mountain proper. Beside him Alec uttered a groan of resignation, checked his seat belt one final time, and snaked a surreptitious hand down to grip the side of the console.

  The first few curves were fairly gentle, but then the music changed to a yet faster tempo. David smiled gleefully, mashed the gas, and bore down on a sharp right. Tires squealed as the Mustang skittered around the bend.

  �
�Damn, Sullivan, slow down!”

  David flashed a fiendish grin. “But if I slow down, it’ll just last longer. And if it lasts longer, you’ll just be scared longer. So why not cram all your fear into a few brief moments of eldritch terror?”

  “Mr. Lovecraft can have eldritch terror, Davy” came Alec’s shaky gasp. “I’d just like to stay alive, thank you. Next time I’m gonna drive.”

  “Ha!” David snorted. “Not my car.”

  “No, mine,” Alec shot back, “assuming I inherit Dad’s Volvo.”

  “Humph!”

  “What are you in such a hurry for, anyway? I mean we’ve already been gone six weeks. What’s another couple of minutes?”

  David shrugged. “No reason. No hurry. Just feel like going fast.”

  “Ha!” Alec’s eyes narrowed. “Ever since you heard Liz finally made it back to the mountains you’ve been acting like a horny old tomcat.”

  “Will you get off it , McLean?” David snapped. “That’s all I heard all summer.”

  “Well, all I heard all summer was you gasping and groaning across the hall when you thought nobody was listening. Think of it as a concession to the peace of the universe.”

  David found himself at a momentary loss for words, though he could feel his cheeks burning. He chose to thwart Alec’s attack by increasing his speed, cutting curves deep and close, tires shrieking louder at every turning.

  Alec hung on tenaciously, both to his seat belt and his topic: “So—you gonna try it?”

  David chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “I donno . . . Maybe. I’d like to . . . I mean I’m normal, and all. And she is mighty nice-looking.”

  “Good! We’ve established the intention, that’s step one. Now to step two, the execution: When?”

  “What is this, McLean?”

  Alec’s face was smug. “Scientific method: establish the problem, then proceed step by step to the solution. No task too big if you break it down into logical steps. We’ve established step one, now comes step two: When you gonna do it?”

  “Better you should concern yourself with your problems.”

  “Such as?”

  David’s lips curled wickedly. “Such as what you’re gonna tell yo’ pappa when he sees that bodacious earbob.”

  Alec’s fingers sought automatically for the small silver cross that depended on a chain from his left earlobe. It was the only sign of flamboyance in his usually restrained appearance—that, and the thin ghost of mustache that had lately begun to grime his upper lip.

  “You gonna answer me, McLean? You’re on the spot now.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll take it off before I get there. Comb my hair over it, if it’ll go that far. Wear Clearasil on it or something till it grows over. ’Sides, my dad probably won’t notice. All he ever notices are my English grades.”

  David reached over to tweak the dangling bauble. “Dr. M. may not notice, but I bet Mama McLean does. What’s she gonna say when she finds out her foolish son’s started sporting an earring? If I were her I’d—Damn! There’s another one!”

  “Wha . . . ? Huh? Another what?”

  “Another friggin’ Straight Track, Alec. That’s four we’ve crossed since we left Valdosta. Four—and I shouldn’t even be able to see one!”

  David’s eyes began to water and he blinked them furiously. A soft white glow flickered briefly through his shirt from the silver ring that lay upon his chest. Almost before it was visible it was gone.

  Alec twisted around in his seat, squinting out the back window at nothing. “Not even with the Sight?”

  David shook his head. “Negative. I shouldn’t be able to see them at all unless the Sidhe are using them. And Nuada told me that the Sidhe don’t use the Tracks down in south Georgia much. They only use them anyway when they need to get somewhere in a hurry, and who’d want to rush to Macon? Mortals don’t, why should the Sidhe?” His brow furrowed. “This doesn’t fit at all.”

  Alec looked perplexed. “Nothing Nuada or Oisin told you any help?”

  David shrugged. “ ’Fraid not. Most of what we’ve talked about is cosmology—the difference between the Worlds, and all that. A bit about the different realms of Faerie. Some history, the line between myth and reality. Lady Gregory was awfully muddled, for instance. And Kirk was even worse. The Secret Common-Wealth’s as full of holes as one of my old T-shirts . . . I’ve got to get that back to the fortuneteller at the fair this year, too: Xerox myself a copy and return the original.”

  Alec made no reply, but he regarded David thoughtfully.

  David noticed that stare, though he pretended not to. He knew perfectly well that Alec could see right through his flimsy efforts at redirecting the conversation, but he knew, as well, that Alec would abide by the ancient conventions of their friendship and not press him—yet. If the topic came up again, though, Alec would spare him no quarter. He’d have no choice but to admit that the sudden visibility of the Tracks was bothering him more than he was letting on. Should have kept your big mouth shut to start with, Sullivan, he told himself.

  David expertly shunted the Mustang around a sharp uphill right. Once around it, the treetops dropped away to their left, suddenly revealing the gut-wrenching swoop of a steep-sided valley filled with lumps of trees that looked like the lichen and moss replicas made for model railroads. It took Alec’s breath, and made David’s stomach flip-flop. Heights gave him problems, sometimes.

  A long straight followed, them a left, a right, and another left.

  David slowed. Ahead was the worst turn on the mountain, a true ninety-degree right-hander, totally blind. Beyond it was one final straight and then the gap. He began to brake for the turn, pulling the wheel hard as he downshifted into second. The tires shrilled their protest.

  They rounded the curve, entered deep shadow.

  “Look out, Sullivan!” Alec yelled abruptly.

  “Damn!”

  There was something in the middle of the road ahead, something huge and alive and extravagantly antlered.

  And it wasn’t moving.

  The ring awoke, sent pain stabbing into David’s chest—there and gone too quickly, almost, for him to notice.

  He braked hard—too hard. The brakes locked; unlocked; locked again. The steering wheel tore from his grip, spinning wildly. He grabbed at it, felt it bucking against his fingers.

  Beside him he glimpsed Alec bracing one arm against the dash, his legs pressing hard on the floorboards.

  The car lurched sideways.

  David grabbed the wheel—twisted—

  And spun.

  Rocks—too close. Too close.

  The galvanized steel guardrail swept by in that strangely attenuated time that accompanies the sudden onslaught of panic. Someone had pasted a smiley face there.

  And then it was the road again. A dotted white line atop a long gray surface that had narrowed to a flat plane of fear.

  He was sliding now:

  The tires screamed a counterpoint to the howling of Jim Dunning’s piping.

  Sliding—straight for the rocks.

  “Oh, shit!” Alec cried.

  Impact.

  Metal shrieked.

  David’s head jerked back and forth. From somewhere a pain came into his wrist.

  The car listed to the right . . . stopped.

  The engine coughed and quit.

  “I just wrecked my car,” David whispered into the suddenly heavy quiet. “I just wrecked my goddamn, friggin’ car!”

  Alec was twisting his head from side to side, fingering it gingerly. David noticed his movements. “You okay?” he asked.

  Alec nodded, wincing as he did. “Think so. Did you see the rack on that thing?”

  David rolled his eyes. “Not really. Just the guardrail. Just the cliffs. Hard things to bounce off of. No time to play boy naturalist.”

  “Well, we’d better bounce out of here, if we don’t want to get rear-ended. One wreck a day’s enough for me, thank you.”

  David ignored him. He bowed
his head onto the steering wheel, pounded his hands on his thighs. Tears burned in his eyes.

  “I wrecked my goddamn, friggin’ car,” he repeated. “And all because of some goddamn, friggin’ deer.” He looked up, snarled through the windshield—unbroken, he was relieved to note. “If I get my hands on that goddamn deer, Alec, season or no season, there’s gonna be venison on the Sullivan supper table!”

  Alec poked him forcefully on the shoulder. “You don’t get out of this car, there’s gonna be Sullivan on the coroner’s table, with a side order of squashed McLean. We could get snagged from behind any minute just sitting here. All we need’s a semi to come charging round that corner and knock us all to Kingdom Come.”

  Still David hesitated.

  Alec raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I mean I appreciate you waiting for me to go first and all, Davy, but I’d kinda have to move a mountain—either that or cut a hole in your roof, and I know you wouldn’t like that.”

  David sighed and reached back to unlock the door. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Now get your ass out.”

  “Shit,” David grunted as he pushed at the door. The Mustang had come to rest hard against the rock face with its right side wheels in the ditch. David thus had to fight gravity to open the door. Finally he wormed his way through. “Window’d probably have been easier,” he observed as Alec joined him a moment later, after first tangling himself in the shift lever and then pausing to turn off the tape player, which had, perhaps appropriately, begun the first heartrending bars of “Flowers of the Forest.”

  “Whew!” Alec breathed, casting furtive glances up and down the mountainside.

  The deer was nowhere in sight.

  David stomped around to the front of the car and stepped purposefully into the shallow ditch, oblivious to the stagnant water slopping into his new white Reeboks. He squatted to examine the damage.

  “Well, it could be worse, I guess,” he muttered. “Lost the headlight. Fender’s pushed into the tire, but it doesn’t look like any suspension damage. Side’s probably scraped all to hell, though. Definitely have to be repainted.”

  “Reckon Gary can fix it?”

  “Oh sure, if I’m willing to pay him enough.”