Fireshaper's Doom

by Tom Deitz

  Morwyn’s spell was at a critical juncture, her fingers moving just so . . .

  The dagger struck her upraised wrist.

  The Horn went flying.

  She grabbed at it, screaming, even as her spell collapsed. She wrenched the weapon from her wrist, flung it smoking to the ground—

  —As another hand curled about the Horn of Annwyn.

  A second only it took Fionna to raise the Horn to her lips. A second for breath to set wind to it.

  Around her—behind her—all movement ceased on Lookout Rock.

  A deadly silence fell upon the mountain. The waterfall’s hiss was stilled. The ragged breaths of the assembled host issued into air that was suddenly too thin to sustain their volume. Little Billy slipped out of Ailill’s grasp and came to stand beside his mother. Liz too stood, moved sideways into JoAnne’s dubious comfort.

  Liz found herself gazing toward the Lookout again, at the pearlblue sky of morning, the curls of fog among the mountains, the green of the leaves, the brownish gray of the rocks, the red of Morwyn’s gown.

  And the gut-wrenching, alien awfulness of the not-color that marked a rift in the air at the edge of the precipice.

  Suddenly they were there: the Hounds of Annwyn: tall, slender dogs, their feathery coats the white of snow in a place that had never been warm; the cold color of death and fear and ultimate futility. And their ears were as red as blood.

  One by one those Hounds leapt from the rift: ten, eleven, twelve of them. Thirteen, and the rift was closed.

  Sound returned to the world; the falls resumed its roar.

  But all upon the rock were frozen, not by magic, but by fear. The Master Hound had drawn back his lips the merest fraction, showing the tiniest gleam of fangs. But that sight alone was enough to send Liz’s mind reeling. It was as if that one glistening point embodied every image of devouring that had ever haunted her dreams. The shark’s maw from Jaws was as nothing beside it. She shivered uncontrollably.

  The pack approached Fionna soundlessly. One by one they encircled her, the Master standing aside as the others arrayed themselves around her, then sank as one to icy haunches.

  The circle completed, the Master came to stand directly before the sorceress, front legs braced wide, his elbow fringes brushing the ground beneath him. He raised expectant green eyes.

  Liz felt JoAnne’s grip tighten on her arm.

  Fionna smiled, her gaze skipping quickly across the crowd.

  “Hear me, o Hounds,” she whispered. “Once a mortal matched wits against my brother, and by cheating, thought to make a fool of him. Once a mortal caused the death of my brother’s son. Once a mortal dared lay hands on me. It is therefore my duty to redress my wrongs, and thus do I offer you a feasting. I had thought to offer you Morwyn first, but I think instead it will be . . . a human.” Her eyes searched the crowd as she held the moment, drinking in the smell of fear as though it were the bouquet of fine wine.

  “I hereby set you upon Liz Hughes!”

  Chapter XLVI: Cause and Effect

  (Tir-Nan-Og)

  A tower of light ten times her height silhouetted the Morrigu, then she was gone.

  Massive bronze doors boomed shut behind her, deep-carved faces thundering home with a sound like an ancient gong. The walls trembled with that sound.

  Lugh listened to it reverberate down the length of the hall, felt the vibrations touch the far end and return, setting a pattern of harmonics dancing about his throne. Beside him Angharad awoke, raised an inquiring head, then fell again to doze.

  “I think it is time, little eagle-claw,” the Ard Rhi whispered, “for I have heard the Horn of Annwyn.”

  He took a breath, clenched his jaw—and very carefully wrapped his right hand around the hilt of the dagger that bound his left to map and throne and land.

  There was a hush in the air, as if all Tir-Nan-Og waited

  One smooth motion, and it was over. The red slit closed painlessly and left no scar.

  Power returned to Lugh Samildinach, as the sealing faded from field and forest, sea and stream, from the air above and the land beneath. That which had been dispersed as flame, refocused and returned as Power. The Land gave up to its master that which its master had lent it for a space of time.

  Lugh stood, stretched, flexed his fingers, felt his muscles slide in long-neglected patterns. His robe flowed from his shoulders like a waterfall.

  He smiled and sat back down, took the dagger in his left hand and with his right began to unscrew the ivory hilt.

  Katie had no choice but to stop and rest. She dropped down on a log, set her purse on her lap, and tried to still her breathing. She didn’t have far to go now, if she read her feelings right. She was sorry she’d been so slow, sorry the little boy had run off, and sorrier when his mother had gone after him. JoAnne had apologized when she’d left her, but it just wasn’t right to leave an old woman alone in the woods in the dark—especially with the Fair Folk about. At home, with the Traders, she was safe, even with Them around. Nuada was nice, Regan listened to her tell old stories and talk of healing. Cormac had helped her paint her wagon. But she wasn’t safe here, she could feel it. There were others involved now, so she’d heard, and They might not be as pleasant.

  She sighed, reached for her cane, rose.

  A sound reached her ears—a horn? No, she wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure she’d even heard it. It was more like her bones had suddenly been shocked, like she had stepped on something electric. But it had still sounded like a horn—a hunting horn. And where the hunt was, she’d best be going. The cross had faded now, so she’d have to follow Gabriel.

  She started back up the mountain.

  Regan was losing him. Moment by moment Nuada of the Silverhand, once High King of the Sidhe in Erenn, was slipping from her grasp. And what a death: his body rotted by poison. Not like it should be, if it had to be at all. Not a glorious defeat on the field of battle, a more glorious resurrection a short while later on. No, he was in man’s flesh, and man’s flesh would not support him. He would die, and being unable to reach back to Faerie, might have to spend long years finding himself a new body. Or perhaps he would not return. She wondered what happened to men’s spirits when they died. She’d have to ask Katie about that—if she ever saw Katie again.

  Nuada moaned, stirred; she wiped his face with her sleeve.

  Something nagged at her ears—a sound?

  Yes—a sound, yet not a sound! She held her breath. Nuada had described it once, and she knew it from that description. Someone had winded the Horn of Annwyn.

  Fear gripped her. She stretched her little remaining Power, not toward Nuada, to ease his soul, but toward Tir-Nan-Og for comfort.

  The sealing had weakened, was weakening more as she touched it. She could almost get through.

  “Just a little longer, Lord,” she whispered to Nuada. “Lugh has unsealed the borders.”

  Nuada opened his eyes and smiled.

  Chapter XLVII: The Hounds of the Overworld

  (Lookout Rock, Georgia)

  “Upon Liz Hughes!” The words echoed in the air.

  Liz nearly passed out. She couldn’t move. Only JoAnne Sullivan’s hand around her waist supported her. But even so she could feel the older woman’s grip go slack as her own fear began to rule her mind. Somewhere behind her she could hear Little Billy whimpering.

  She glanced around frantically, desperate for help. But her comrades were still immobile, though she thought their bindings might be loosening more, now that Ailill evidently wasn’t minding them. Morwyn too was motionless, caught up in the terror of the moment. Liz could almost see the Fireshaper’s mind working, but she somehow knew the Hounds were beyond even that one’s Power. And Ailill . . .

  “Look at me, girl!” Fionna cried. “I want to watch your terror.”

  Liz found herself obeying.

  The sorceress very calmly raised her hand and pointed it at her.

  Without a sound the Master Hound turned and began to stalk towa
rd her. One step. Two . . .

  Liz crammed her hand into her pocket, found what she sought, put it on. “I have the Ring!” she cried desperately, holding her hand aloft. The silver band was now a circle of blazing fire. “The Ring of David Sullivan. These beasts may not harm me!”

  She lowered her hand, interspersing it between herself and the approaching pack. Maybe it would protect her. Maybe it would protect her friends.

  The Master Hound took another nonchalant pace forward; its fellows rose, began to fall in behind it. One of them stretched its mouth in a bored half-yawn.

  Liz ripped her eyes away frantically, focusing only on the silver circle on her finger.

  The Hound looked at the Ring curiously, cocking its head sideways in an all-too-canine gesture, so that Liz for an instant felt that perhaps they were not, in fact, as threatening as she had feared.

  But the Hound simply stared at the Ring.

  And the Ring stopped glowing, became a lifeless band of metal on a clammy finger.

  The Hound took another step, surveyed the company. Sniffed at Alec’s immobile leg, prodded Gary’s foot.

  Fionna looked surprised. “Ah, I see it now,” she said. “Oisin’s Ring shielded you from the full power of our binding—but these beasts are beyond the power of the Ring. They are not creatures of the Sidhe at all! They are beyond any power in Tir-Nan-Og, or in Annwyn or Erenn either. Even the dark Realm of the Powersmiths contains nothing that can stand before them. I alone command them now!”

  The Master Hound was close, scarcely a foot in front of Liz. It was looking at her, as if considering which portions of her might be most succulent. Its eyes sought hers, but she avoided that gaze.

  Its nose brushed her knee.

  She shuddered violently. She was vaguely aware of JoAnne’s choked gasp, of her supportive hand falling away, of Little Billy starting to cry.

  She was alone.

  With a movement too quick to follow, the Hound rose onto its hind legs, dropping vast white forepaws on her shoulders as its head rose above her own.

  Liz closed her eyes, certain her throat would be ripped out at any instant.

  —But the weight lifted suddenly from her shoulders.

  The Hound had fallen onto all fours, a brighter hatred burning in its eyes, as it whipped around.

  Fionna’s mouth dropped open—too late. The Master Hound was upon her, its fellows following in a wind-smooth curve as they redirected their headlong rush. The first one leaped head-high; a second followed. A scream cut the air and Ailill’s sister went down amid a mass of snowy bodies. A single slim white arm rose above that confusion of seething fur: an arm grasping a curving cone of bright-gemmed ivory—And then it was gone.

  One last scream: then silence.

  A dog raised its head, its muzzle red as its ears. Another did likewise. One opened its mouth in a silent baying, and the rift reappeared in the sky. They hurled themselves toward it.

  Abruptly they were gone.

  No blood remained upon the stony ground. No scrap of fabric, no grisly reminders of what had just transpired. Only the Horn of Annwyn lay sparkling among the pebbles.

  A long-fingered hand reached down to lift it. “This has failed in its purpose,” Morwyn said, her voice strangely tremulous as she clipped the Horn to her belt.

  Liz took a long shuddering breath, feeling JoAnne’s renewed grip upon her shoulders. She turned, embraced the older woman, let her tears flow. “It’s okay, girl,” JoAnne whispered. “It’s all done and over.”

  A choked cry reached her ears, and she found herself looking up again, toward Ailill.

  Beneath the sheen of his own blood, the Faery lord’s ruin of a face was deathly pale and calm, his eyes glazed, as if they surveyed some distant vista. And even as she watched Liz saw that face grow paler yet, and a look of blank and hopeless despair cross those once-fair features.

  “Her soul too,” Ailill said quietly. “I felt her soul devoured.”

  “Her soul was rotted long ago” came Morwyn’s quick reply. “If indeed she ever had one. She was your twin, Ailill: two bodies with but one soul between them, and that not enough, for it turned the thought ever more inward, so that her own desires became the center of the world.”

  Ailill’s gaze fell heavily on Morwyn’s face, as the lady began a slow walk toward her former lover. There was an emptiness about Morwyn’s expression too, Liz realized—as though some fire had been extinguished.

  A yard now separated Ailill and Morwyn, and they stared at each other eye to eye, their faces nearly on a level. Liz felt a stirring of Power, like a wind of strangeness whipping around the mountain.

  But Ailill sank to his knees before the Fireshaper. “My soul grieves for my loss, Lady. Surely you understand.”

  “I understand that I have lost my son, Ailill. Your son, too—in spite of all you said afterward so that you could break the binding upon us. Do you think I could forgive you for that? You knew the truth, though you did not say it. But I say that truth now.”

  Ailill bowed his head, black hair swinging forward to mask his face. “I cannot resist you, Lady. My pride is broken, and I am a hollow man. Is it possible you could forgive me?”

  Morwyn raised her chin imperiously, though Liz thought her lips trembled the merest bit before she spoke. “It is not for me to forgive. It is for our son to do that, and he is lost to us both, he who was innocent, as Fionna never was.”

  “What will you do, then?” Ailill whispered, his voice barely audible.

  “What I must,” Morwyn replied, almost sadly.

  “Not the Horn. Please, not the Horn.”

  Morwyn shook her head, laid a hand on the Horn at her side. “I do not trust this trinket,” she said. “But I swore to have your death, and in that, at least, I will not be forsworn!”

  “He is still under Lugh’s law,” Froech’s voice sounded behind her, and he strode forward to prison her arm with one hand, even as he wrenched the Horn from her belt with the other.

  The others were there then, shaking away their shock and the last of Ailill’s binding, reaching out with still-sluggish muscles to augment Froech’s grip as best they might: Alec, and Gary, and Uncle Dale—and a furiously wiggling Little Billy trying to help as well, by standing on the hem of the Fireshaper’s robe.

  “No!” Morwyn cried, as she tried to twist free of those hands. “It is my right! He slew my son, and kinslaying demands a stronger doom than Lugh has seen fit to deal!”

  “You do not rule here,” Froech snapped.

  “Nor do you!” Morwyn replied, and began to wrap herself in Fire.

  It came, burning from the center of her being, pouring out through her flesh to light the world, setting the air to throbbing with heat hotter than a furnace. The mortals fell back instantly. Froech cried out, raised one hand to shield his eyes; then he too backed away.

  And as Froech released his hold, Morwyn moved, quick as only a Powersmith could move. With one fluid motion she stooped and grabbed the thing she had thrown to the ground earlier: the bone hilt of an iron-bladed knife. One moment she stood before Ailill, her flames raging about her, the next she had raised her hand and was drawing him toward her by subtle movements of her fingers.

  Ailill fought it, or appeared to; but the flames were around him, and Morwyn was behind him, looping his arms behind his back with one deft twist of hand and elbow, while the other poised the blade above his heart.

  “Not the Horn, Ailill,” she said. “But perhaps a more fitting death: the same that you gave our child. The Death of Iron.”

  Froech started forward, but Morwyn’s head came up. Fire flared out at him, forcing him back.

  Liz squinted—it was hard to tell what was happening, so bright was the glare from the fire. Someone took her hand. She glanced beside her, saw Alec, grim.

  Slowly, slowly—as Liz and her comrades looked helplessly on—Morwyn began to drive that point home between Ailill’s ribs.

  He screamed as the naked metal burned slowly
into his body.

  —And light filled the air, as, with a sound like canvas ripping, the scaled head of an immense wooden dragon pierced the Walls Between the Worlds beyond the precipice. An instant later the whole of the Ship of Flames appeared, sail redder than the sun, as its own eldritch glory came full into the skies of the Lands of Men.

  In the prow of that ship stood a blond-haired boy, a jeweled curve of ivory in his hand. And that boy’s eyes were opened wide in shocked alarm.

  “I have brought you the Horn of Annwyn!” David cried. “But you no longer need it.” He stared foolishly at the knobby object clenched tight in Froech’s hand.

  “I have brought the Horn of Annwyn,” David called again, almost in panic this time, as the ship edged closer to the precipice. The low, sweeping sides brushed the granite. “And better news than that, even! I—”

  He fell silent. Something was dreadfully wrong. What were Liz and Alec and Uncle Dale doing here? Not to mention Gary. And Little Billy and his—his mother, for God sakes—how had she got here? And who was that Faery boy? The one wearing Gary’s old sweatpants?

  And those figures wrapped in fire . . . was that Morwyn? what was she doing with—

  Was that Ailill with the wrecked and ravaged face? What had happened to him?

  “Morwyn, stop!” David cried desperately. “Fionchadd’s not dead!”

  Morwyn was staring straight at him from across Ailill’s shoulder. With her left arm she held the dark one helpless. And in her right was a flash of shiny metal visible even within the flames that he recognized as Uncle Dale’s favorite hunting knife. It was pointed right at Ailill’s heart.

  A chunk of cold fear dropped into David’s stomach. He looked again at the glittering object in his hand.

  “I no longer need the Horn of Annwyn to work this one’s doom,” Morwyn cried, as, with deliberate precision, she buried the dagger to the hilt in Ailill’s body.

  The dark Faery did not cry out, did not grimace. His body simply crumpled in Morwyn’s arms, slid to the ground like a puppet that had lost its strings. A trace of its beauty yet remained, but it was an empty beauty, like the ravaged photo of a handsome man.