Fireshaper's Doom

by Tom Deitz

  “I am certain I can think of something, brother. They might do as appetizers, for instance, until the other one gets here.”

  “You intend to use the Horn, then?”

  “Oh, aye. It is only a matter of ordering my victims. Silverhand is not here, for instance, nor is Lugh—though the Hounds can surely find them.”

  “It is dangerous, Fionna. I have seen it work. Lugh does well to fear it.”

  “It is a fool who fears Power, Ailill.”

  “As you will, sister.” Ailill sighed. “I myself am far too weary to be much of a host just now. The Call has become quite persistent—though if you were to set the Hounds on Lugh first, that would cease to be a problem.” He sank down upon a boulder and resumed staring at the assembled company. The merest ghost of stiffness marred his movement.

  Liz felt her heart skip a beat as the implications of the dark Faery’s words sank in. That’s why Silverhand was so secretive about the blessed sword we had to leave behind! Lugh tried to smuggle something valuable to him disguised as the hilt.

  The same hilt Fionna was now unscrewing.

  Liz watched in helpless fascination as the woman’s fingers twirled, wishing desperately that she could move to stop her and knowing full well that there was nothing she could do with her muscles frozen. The Horn of Annwyn, was it? She wondered what that was. Even across the intervening several yards she could tell it was a thing of immense Power. But what sort of Power? Jewels sparkled there in bands. And between those bands were carvings of ivory, interlaced with gold and copper wire. At the small end was an opal the size of a quail’s egg.

  “Je . . . sus” came Alec’s sluggish whisper beside her, the words stretched and muddied like a record played too slowly. His sentiment was matched by an attenuated “Oh . . . my . . . God” from Gary.

  Liz dragged her gaze sideways to survey her comrades. Alec was apparently all right, Gary’s breath was coming in slow, shuddering gasps. Uncle Dale looked stoic, but his mouth was set in a grim frown, and the muscles of his face twitched and quivered against the binding-spell. As for Froech, neither his face nor his carriage betrayed anything at all, though his eyes were slowly filling with hopeless dread. At least the Sidhe have some options, Liz thought. This could be it for us.

  She tried to scream. “Nnnnnnnnnnnn—”

  “Silence!” Fionna snapped, gesturing idly with her left hand.

  Liz felt her tongue cleave to the floor of her mouth. She tried to swallow—failed. She shifted her eyes—all she could move now—back toward Fionna.

  The sorceress looked extremely pleased with herself, striding purposefully among the boulders and fallen trees of Lookout Rock as if they were marble tables and oaken thrones. She reached the edge and stared briefly into space, a perilous step from the precipitous ledge that gave the place its name; then spun around and strode back to survey the semicircle of captives, pausing at last before Froech. She raised the Horn to her lips, poised it there a moment, mocking him with her gaze. Then she lowered it and flipped the opal closed as she saw the boy’s eyes widen with what Liz very much suspected was genuine fear. And if Froech was afraid, there was no hope for the rest of them.

  Liz’s heart skipped another beat.

  “You know what this is, don’t you, boy?” Fionna purred. “It is the Horn of Annwyn, isn’t it?—that the Powersmiths made and Arawn gave into Lugh’s keeping. But Lugh has not kept it very well, has he? Nor, it seems, has Nuada. Poor Nuada—does he still live? He will not for much longer, now that I have this Horn!”

  Froech could not reply, but a glint of hatred appeared in his eyes.

  What an absolute loonie, Liz thought. In spite of the binding, she found herself shuddering: cold and then warm, cold and warm again . . .

  Warm!—a warmth that stayed!

  A pulse of warmth against her hip where the ring was yet concealed: a momentary distraction from this hopelessly one-sided confrontation.

  “Our last guest should be here soon,” Fionna continued, raising the Horn again to gently stroke the opal along the angle of Froech’s jaw, then following it with a lacquered fingernail so that a fine line of blood showed against the smooth, fair skin. “I doubt you know her, boy. She sought to trap my brother, but we trapped her instead. Even now she answers the summoning we two have laid upon her. It will be she, I think, whose flesh will be the first to tempt the Hounds of Annwyn. Her body . . . and then her soul. And then you, Froech”—she carved a matching cut along Froech’s other jaw—“and then . . . we shall see. Perhaps Silverhand and Lugh. And when I have finished”—she turned toward Liz—“I will seek out David Sullivan. But his pain will last much longer.”

  Liz felt anger start to simmer, burning away the fear. She had to escape, for herself and her companions—and for David. There had to be something she could do—but what? Fionna’s spell had trapped her as surely as it had the others. So much for the protection of David’s ring, she thought.

  As if in answer the ring pulsed again, almost painful this time, a vain reminder that the Sidhe were somewhere nearby—and threatening.

  Or was it?

  Fionna stepped sideways to stand directly in front of Liz, her eyes level with the top of Liz’s head.

  Liz fought to raise her gaze to meet Fionna’s. It took all the determination she could muster, but she managed to lower her brows as well, matching her adversary glare for glare, hate for hate. And as she did, she felt the ring’s pulse grow hotter.

  Fionna continued to stare hard at Liz, and Liz continued to meet that stare. Fionna’s face receded from Liz’s sight except for the sparkling black pits of her eyes—which expanded to fill the world.

  No sound for five heartbeats . . . ten . . .

  “Sister,” came Ailill’s careful whisper, “I think the last one comes.”

  The air beyond the precipice brightened. Fionna whirled around eagerly. “Ah yes,” she said. “Are you ready to expand the binding? This one will be harder to hold than these puny folk, you know, for her Power is far greater than theirs. Once she is bound, you will not be able to relax for even an instant; if you do, all will be for naught. Are you certain you are strong enough?”

  Ailill nodded. “With the Horn to draw on, I will be ready.”

  Liz blinked—slowly, yet not perhaps as slowly as before—as the brightness grew in splendor. For a moment it seemed as though the sun itself had been summoned and now hovered in the morning mist just beyond Lookout Rock. A shape slowly took form within that haze of light: a woman-tall darkness stippled against the glare. And then a fire-haired figure stepped onto the ledge to Ailill’s right.

  The Sidhe lord rose stiffly and strode with extravagant gallantry to extend a slow, mocking bow toward the mother of his child. A subtle movement of his hands preserved the binding spell; another expanded it to include the new arrival.

  Fionna stared first at the Horn, then at the woman before her. Her eyes narrowed. A flick of her wrist set the woman walking.

  Morwyn verch Morgan was in a fine rage: her eyes blazed, her bright hair crackled wildly about her head. Her movements were stiff and jerky, as though she sought with every forced pace to batter down that clutching fist of Power which dragged her step by step toward Fionna.

  “Welcome to my gathering, Lady Morwyn.” Fionna smiled, then nodded toward Ailill. “You will remember my brother, of course.”

  Ailill inclined his head slightly in mocking response and returned to his seat. His eyes again unfocused.

  Must take a lot to hold up his end of the spell, Liz thought. He must not be able to leave it for more than a minute or two, or we’d have been free by now. In fact, I think I felt it slip a little just then, when he was talking to Fionna. I wonder what would happen if he were distracted for more than a moment.

  Morwyn’s mouth twitched, but all that issued forth was a slow, dry crackling.

  Fionna’s nostrils flared. “You have something to say, Fireshaper? Well, say it then!” She moved a finger.

  “He onc
e had a son name Fionchadd!” Morwyn spat. “He—”

  A glare; a click of nail on nail; and Morwyn once again fell silent.

  “You will be the first,” Fionna continued. “I thought it only fair to tell you that.” And with that she thumbed down the opal and once more raised the Horn of Annwyn—then hesitated, the instrument a finger’s width from her mouth, her eyes never leaving Morwyn’s.

  Damn her! Liz thought, as Fionna continued to toy with her victim.

  She had to do something. If she did not, and soon, she very much feared she would burst apart from sheer frustrated rage long before Fionna got around to whatever she had planned.

  Godfuckingdamn her!

  The warmth flared suddenly against Liz’s hip, as if in response to that anger. It had become truly hot, and was getting hotter by the second. And as she focused her attention directly on that pain for the first time, Liz felt the slightest relaxation of the force that numbed her limbs.

  She blinked.

  Power! That was what David had called it: Power—the force of belief manifested in reality; the active principle of the spirit world, bearing the same relationship to spirit as energy bore to matter. And this was her world, she realized; her magic—if she had any—was strongest here. She turned her thought inside herself, oblivious to the burning on her hip, seeking those secret places where her own Power lay.

  “I wonder what it is like to die?” Fionna was saying as she paced a small circle around the stationary Morwyn. “I would ask you to send word, but I doubt you will be able—not with the tatters of your soul writhing in the guts of the Hounds of Annwyn.”

  Once more she smiled her cruel-sweet smile.

  Liz had taken shelter deep inside herself, hoping to find there some hidden place of calm where Power was and pain was not. The ring had long since transcended mere discomfort and was a raw burning agony, a devouring, gnawing torture that drove away fear, anger—all emotion but the desire for escape.

  And she was winning, finding relief in the blessed silent coolness of her soul.

  She reveled in it, let it wash over her, filling her. All the world became her soul and her soul was all the world—the pain of the ring was as the stirring of a breeze against a single pale hair on her arm.

  Cooler and stiller, stiller and cooler, further and further in, so that she collapsed in upon herself . . .

  . . . and expanded again to fill the universe.

  Liz opened her eyes. She was free.

  But could she act? What could she alone do against a sorceress?

  Fionna’s lips brushed the ivory.

  Morwyn’s eyes grew large.

  It’s on my head, now, Liz thought. Got to do it soon. But what will I do? And the timing must be perfect, must be exactly right. She glanced at Ailill and was relieved to see that he was still intent on maintaining the binding. If she was going to do something, she must do it before he could interfere.

  “Gotta find Davy, gotta find Davy, gotta find Davy . . .” Little Billy’s gasps had become a chant as he thumped along the tunnel beneath the trees. He didn’t dare look anywhere but straight ahead, because the dark woods scared him. He leapt across a fallen limb (he hoped it was a limb, and not a boa constrictor, or an—an arm, or something), and resumed his alternate litany: “Slowpoke Mama, slowpoke Mama . . .”

  He twisted around, danced backward for a step or two. Boy, Mama was slow. He didn’t know where she was—back there somewhere, just trudging along with Katie like there wasn’t any hurry.

  But there was.

  Back around, and running again.

  “Gotta find Davy, gotta find Davy . . .”

  There was light up ahead, there where the trees thinned out. Daylight, almost. And he could hear funny voices, like he’d heard once or twice before. Those voices scared him, too, but at least it wasn’t dark where they were.

  He slowed, began to creep forward.

  Something made a clicking noise at his waist. He gritted his teeth and reached down, undid the chain he had got from the old lady and threaded partway round there so he would look like Davy. Gotta be quiet.

  He backed into the shadows and began to edge sideways, peered cautiously around a tree.

  Somebody was sitting on a rock right up there ahead of him: somebody with his back to him—a man with long black hair and a funny-looking robe.

  And there was a woman there, who looked just like the man, and another woman who didn’t and Liz and Alec and Gary—and Uncle Dale; and a good-looking boy with no shirt on. None of the ones he knew were moving; they looked like those plastic people you saw in department stores. He frowned. That redheaded woman wasn’t moving either. What was the matter with ’em all?

  He’d better take a look.

  Closer.

  The black-haired woman was doing something with some kind of horn he didn’t much like, dragging it along that strange boy’s jaw—cutting him! His lips puckered. Yecch!

  The closer man shifted his head a little sideways, and Little Billy could see more of his face.

  His heart flip-flopped. Memories he’d tried to forget leapt out at him: awful memories. That man had kidnapped him, changed him into a horse, whipped him and hurt him.

  He was a booger.

  And he didn’t like iron, Little Billy remembered, as he fingered the chain.

  “I’ll kill you!” he screamed, as he launched himself forward.

  “I’ll kill you!”

  Liz ‘s eyes widened, darted sideways.

  “I’ll kill you, bad man!” a childish voice shrieked as a small, blond form erupted from the trees behind Ailill and threw itself atop the Faery’s unguarded back. Something glittered hard-bright in its hands, arcing sideways to wrap around Ailill’s neck like a striking serpent.

  “No!” Liz’s scream cut the air so suddenly she hardly recognized it as her own.

  “You hurt me! Hurt my brother! You die!” Little Billy squealed, as he tangled one small hand with the dark Faery’s hair and tugged the chain free, then sent it whipping around again, this time into Ailill’s face. Steaming red welts erupted across the fair skin where the shining metal struck Faery flesh. Blood streamed from the Faery lord’s nose.

  Not Little Billy! Oh God, no!

  Fionna spun around.

  Now or never . . .

  Liz lurched forward, her body unexpectedly numb and awkward. She grabbed for the Horn—missed—lost her balance and staggered into Fionna. Her arms flailed, brushed Cormac’s head, and closed on something hard and knobby. It jerked, she jerked back—and pushed. Fionna stumbled backward onto the ground, her mouth agape in outraged astonishment.

  Liz looked down, found herself holding the Horn, and paused in midstride, staring at it foolishly. Maybe she should—

  “Liiiiizz!” Little Billy screamed from Ailill’s back as the Faery lord leapt up, fingers scrabbling behind him for the child’s throat.

  She snapped her head up, saw Little Billy swing the chain again, right around Ailill’s neck. Saw him catch the other end, let go and slide down the Faery’s back, hanging on for dear life, the chain a garrote around his enemy’s throat.

  Ailill gasped, raised both hands toward the smoking metal as Liz continued to stare.

  “Liz, help!”

  She started forward, but a hand like steel enfolded hers, dragging her back—a hand with a red velvet sleeve attached. Something jolted her wrist , numbing her hand, calmly prying the Horn from her grasp.

  Morwyn! Ailill had relaxed his vigilance and the spell had failed, freeing the Fireshaper—which meant Liz’s friends should be free shortly if it worked like she thought it did—

  “Curse you girl, let go!” Morwyn was shrieking in her ears.

  “Liiiiiizzzz!”

  That did it. Let her have the bloody Horn; Little Billy was more important. If Ailill hurt him, she’d kill the bastard.

  Liz flung herself away from the Fireshaper, felt at her waist for her dagger. Two quick strides and she had reached Ailill. A jerk a
t the hilt freed the weapon; a turn of her wrist jabbed it clumsily toward Ailill’s unprotected belly.

  The Faery lord shouted his surprise, but one hand flashed down to stop her, grabbing her wrist and twisting. Agony coursed through her arm.

  She dropped the dagger.

  “Don’t you hurt my baby!” JoAnne Sullivan suddenly appeared at the edge of the clearing, her blonde hair wild as her face was fierce.

  “Mama!” Little Billy shrieked.

  “Don’t move! Nobody move,” JoAnne hollered. She halted then, looking puzzled as she tried to assess a situation that was far beyond her.

  “And what will you do, mortal?” Ailill shot back.

  “Miz Sullivan, help!” Liz kicked at the knife, saw it go sailing in JoAnne’s direction.

  JoAnne scrambled after it.

  Ailill yanked Liz completely off the ground and pushed her toward the startled woman.

  JoAnne tried to intercept Liz as she stumbled forward, but both women went down in a tangle. The breath thumped from Liz’s lungs; her eyes spun wildly. She saw Fionna, still on the ground beside Morwyn. The sorceress was trying to rise, but Morwyn was making motions in the air above her. To her left she could see her comrades’ bodies straining against their unseen bindings. Maybe if we can delay a little longer, they’ll be free.

  Little Billy lost his grip and slid to the ground behind Ailill. The dark Faery was on him in an instant. The fingers of one hand locked around the boy’s throat, even as he sought with his other hand to reinforce the failing binding spell.

  “You goddam bastard, leave my boy alone !” JoAnne shrieked as she found the dagger and dived toward Ailill.

  “No! He is mine, mortal!” Morwyn shouted, holding the Horn of Annwyn aloft while a newly frozen Fionna glared in silent fury beside her. Already the Fireshaper’s free fingers were expanding their spell toward Ailill.

  JoAnne skidded to a confused halt.

  “Put the boy down, Ailill,” Morwyn snapped, as her fingers continued to work automatically. “I have the Horn.”

  “Do you indeed?” Ailill cried—and with one smooth movement he ripped the dagger from JoAnne’s startled fingers and hurled it straight toward the Fireshaper.