Fireshaper's Doom

by Tom Deitz

  David stared helplessly at the shape sprawled upon the rough stone of Lookout Rock. His enemy, his great adversary, had finally been brought low; was dead by the Death of Iron, his spirit driven from his body by the fear of eternal torment. And he had been a moment too late with his news. Suddenly he felt very much as though he might be sick.

  He paused at the railing, one foot on the Ship of Flames, the other on the rock of the Lands of Men.

  The ship bobbed beneath him, and he leapt forward into arms that were suddenly around him, as Uncle Dale and Alec pulled him to the security of his own world. Strong arms that could only be Gary’s locked around his chest in a bear hug. Little Billy tugged his shirttail gleefully. His mother was trying to kiss him.

  And then Liz’s arms were around him, her lips on his cheek, on his mouth. “Davy!” she whispered through a rain of joyful tears. “Oh Davy, Davy! I thought you were dead!”

  David closed his eyes, feeling an assault of emotions so intense he was nearly paralyzed.

  “Yeah, well, I nearly was, I—”

  A sound made him open his eyes: the sound of Morwyn weeping. He stared at the Horn he still held in his right hand. His lips drew back in a snarl of sudden rage, and he flung it away from him as if he had suddenly discovered he was holding filth.

  A slim hand caught it, a hand which had no mirror twin to match it.

  Two figures had joined them: a man and a woman of the Sidhe.

  “Nuada!” Liz cried. “Where did you come from? You’re all right!”

  David stared at her. “What do you mean, all right? What the hell’s going on?” He glanced at Nuada, saw how pale the Faery lord looked, noted the flimsy green robe that wrapped him, found his gaze wandering back to the Horn.

  Nuada’s eyes followed his. “This is not the Horn of Annwyn,” he said with some amusement, “if it is the one that Lugh usually keeps in the vaults beneath his castle.”

  David lifted weary eyes toward the tall Faery. “I don’t want to hear it!”

  Nuada raised an eyebrow. “Oh, but you should, for you see, these multiple Horns seem to have involved your friends rather intimately during the last few hours.”

  “Horns? There’s more than one? Oh, Christ!”

  “Yeah, I’m a little confused there, too,” Uncle Dale inserted.

  “You’re confused!” JoAnne broke in. “How in the hell do you think I feel? I’ve just seen a bunch of stuff that’s flat impossible, and heard stuff that don’t make a bit of sense—and David Sullivan, where’d you get them sorry longhandles?”

  David could only grin. “I’ll tell you later, Ma. Right now I think I need to hear about the Horn.”

  Nuada flashed his best smile at David’s mother and began: “Lugh feared the Horn, David, and no sane being would not. But more than that, he feared for the safety of the Horn, so he had it split into three parts—an easy thing, for the Powersmiths had already made it so. One part he placed with two dummy pieces in the hilt of a particular sword, and another in the handle of a certain dagger, and the final part in a duplicate of the Horn itself, which he then stored in his treasure chamber. Thus, when Fionna winded the Horn—as I was certain she would eventually do, once she learned what she had—she was in fact winding only part of it. The Hounds were therefore bound only to answer, not to obey. Indeed, being summoned without proper control, their resentment turned them upon the one who had called them, for they do not like to be disturbed.”

  David’s expression had clouded. “What’re you talking about? What hounds? And who’s Fionna? I was bringing the Horn to Morwyn to use on Ailill—though I didn’t want to—and then, when I found out about Fionchadd, I—”

  “You only know about that Morwyn lady,” Uncle Dale interrupted, coming to stand beside his nephew. “But there’uz another’n, Ailill’s sister. She was out to set him free, and to kill you. And she’d’ve killed all of us to get to you—maybe killed us in front of you, if she thought it’d hurt you more. But the joke was on her, as Mr. Silverarm just told you. She called the dogs, but she couldn’t control ’em. Et her up, body an’ soul together, so the Red Lady said.”

  Nuada smiled grimly. “There will be many tales to tell ere all the talk is done, I think.”

  “Yeah, like how’d you folks all get here?” David’s eyes twinkled and he looked at Liz. “Liz, this is all your doing, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know where to start, Davy,” Liz said, “but—Oh, look at poor Morwyn!”

  Morwyn had risen from the ground where she had knelt by Ailill’s side. Her face showed a strange mixture of joy, shock, and revulsion. Her right hand still clutched Ailill’s, her fingertips twined with his, as if she could not bear to break that contact. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused—or focused on some sight none of the rest could apprehend.

  “I followed his soul,” she whispered. “It is no more. The Hounds were waiting in the Overworld. His sister and he shared one birthing; thus they shared one soul. And the Hounds were not yet sated, for they felt their hunting incomplete.”

  She paused, let go the hand, which fell heavily across Ailill’s chest. “I have had my vengeance,” she whispered. “But I think joy is lost to me forever.”

  David stepped forward. “Maybe not. I’ve been trying to tell you: Fionchadd’s not dead!” He reached into the bloused front of his shirt just above his belt and gently withdrew something small and green and alive which scampered into his cupped palm.

  The lizard darted a black tongue into the air.

  Something buzzed in David’s mind: thoughts, he knew now.

  And then he saw Morwyn’s face, saw joy banish the anguish that had taken dwelling there. Saw her eyes widen, and her lips curl, and saw the faint wrinkles of despair depart from her cheeks and brow.

  “Fionchadd!” she cried. “Fionchadd, my son! I have found you!” She stretched forth a delicate hand, let a slim nail brush David’s outstretched fingers, made a bridge across which the lizard scampered. With a flick of an emerald tail it made its way to the hollow beside her ear.

  “But Fionchadd’s dead!” Liz whispered. “David, what’s going on?”

  David flopped down against a convenient fallen tree trunk—solid wood, the real wood of his world. “Sit down, Liz,” he replied. “I’m tired, and it’s another of those long stories.”

  Wordlessly she sank down beside him.

  “Fionchadd was dead,” he began, “in the sense that his soul had left his body and couldn’t return to it, what with the iron damage, and all. But at the point of his death, that lizard tasted some of the blood that had dripped onto the ground, so some of Fionchadd’s essence was mixed with the lizard’s, and he was able to link his spirit with it. Don’t ask me how, ’cause I don’t have the foggiest. And then for nearly a year afterward, it was like he was asleep, with his mind inside the lizard. He probably could have gone on like that forever, just fading further and further away until he forgot he was ever human—if Lugh’s sealing hadn’t awakened him—and even that wouldn’t have done any good if he hadn’t met me. Apparently there’s some kind of bond between us, because he likes me, or something; and when he met me, he was able to draw on me to keep awake. He read my mind and knew I was his only chance, so he put everything he had into helping me fulfill my quest. But he’s barely hanging on now, so if we don’t do something real quick, he’ll fade again. It’s kind of a one-shot deal. Any ideas, anybody?”

  Froech shook his head. “Such things are certainly beyond me. But what angers me is that I knew about the well, and I should have suspected there was more to it than was first apparent.”

  “Yeah, I don’t understand that about the well, either,” David said. “Fionchadd was just explaining that to me when we broke through the Walls Between the Worlds.”

  “What well is this?” Nuada asked, squatting down in front of them.

  “It appeared after you went into the Lands of Men,” Froech replied. “Scarcely a ten day ago, in fact. We had come to call it the Well of the Bloody S
trand.”

  He returned his attention to David. “I did not think much of it—”

  Nuada interrupted. “But you should have, Froech; such things are common where some disaster befalls one of our folk which forever breaks the link between matter and spirit. When that happens, the spirit flees; yet it cannot take its Power with it, or only very little, as Fionchadd evidently did. The Power that remains must go somewhere, or be manifested in some way. Usually it strives to imitate whatever active forces are nearby, in this case the running water of the nearby stream. It took so long because water is a very difficult thing on which to focus—a stream does not, as it were, stand still.

  “What is not common,” he added, “is that some other essence survives. I did not think Fionchadd strong enough, nor, of course, did I know of the lizard.”

  David nodded. “And when I drank from the well, Fionchadd was able to forge a link with me. That’s how I could fight off Lugh’s guards: Fionchadd was working through me. Good thing I took that drink, too, ’cause that’s all that saved me! Not that it did any good,” he added glumly. “I still couldn’t keep Morwyn from killing Ailill.”

  “Nor could anyone,” replied Nuada. “I certainly could not have. You see me whole, yet I am but lately healed.”

  “But still—”

  “You did a better thing, David, for it was not simply your drinking of the well that made possible the link with Fionchadd—that sort of bonding is something only a friend of his could have made. It is through you alone that we know Fionchadd still lives.”

  Realization burned onto David’s face. “Maybe he was my friend. I truly did like him—or would have, if I’d had the chance.”

  “And I imagine it explains something else,” Regan inserted smoothly, as if she had heard the whole conversation. “For if my memory serves, Lugh’s vaults are guarded by a particularly fierce young wywern, which, before its recent growth, was young Fionchadd’s pet. Dylan, I think he called it. If the mortal boy met it in Lugh’s vaults—which he evidently did—it would have torn him to pieces unless it recognized something of Fionchadd about him.”

  David’s eyes widened, as he realized how close to death he had actually come. “He helped me,” he whispered. “If it weren’t for him I would never have escaped. I still haven’t figured how he got out of the treasure chamber.”

  “Morwyn does not know as much as she thinks she does,” Nuada confided cryptically. “Perhaps there were other exits.”

  “Or maybe Lugh released him,” David suggested carefully, fixing Nuada’s face with a keen stare. “In spite of all my trouble, I always felt like the whole bloody thing was too easy, like I was getting nothing but token resistance—and now it’s all come to nothing.”

  “Not hardly,” Uncle Dale said. “Not if somethin’ good come out of it in the end.”

  “If anything did,” David replied.

  “We came out of it alive, anyway,” Gary said. “We—Jesus, Sullivan, it’s the old Gypsy lady!” He pointed toward the opening in the trees behind them where the trail from the logging road gave onto the clearing.

  David twisted around, saw that it was indeed Katie. She was not looking at him, but over his head, to where the Ship of Flames still floated expectantly.

  “Jesus H. God,” he heard Gary whisper to his left. “Will you look at that!”

  David whirled around again, saw the carved dragon prow, the slack red sail, the rows of shields of the Ship of Flames.

  And then saw what lay beyond it.

  Chapter XLVIII: Fireshaper’s Doom

  (Lookout Rock, Georgia)

  Clouds were forming: thick, heavy thunderclouds that cast a pall over the whole mortal vista of mountains and lakes, as though the storms that had watched Ailill into the world now gathered at his dying. Lightning flashed, and sharp gusts of wind whipped the pines. The smell of ozone filled the air, as bank after bank of sullen cumuli rolled over Bloody Bald. It grew rapidly darker, almost as if night were falling.

  A breeze stirred David’s hair, and he shivered, wishing for warmer clothes than his torn hose and stained shirt. He pressed closer against Liz, felt her respond, take his hand. It was good to be back in his own world with his friends standing by him, good to feel Alec’s warm, solid presence at his back; so good to feel Liz’s fingers lacing through his own that he almost couldn’t stand it. They were watching the sky, all of them were—except his mother, who was over by the falls talking to the old Trader lady. He wondered what JoAnne Sullivan thought about all this. Not much, he imagined. Then someone whispered to his right and, glancing that way, he saw Nuada and Froech and Regan gazing skyward as well, their eyes wide in expectation. Morwyn alone seemed doubtful.

  The clouds piled thicker, until they hung scant feet above the surrounding treetops. But there was something odd about those jumbled masses: they were too solid, too controlled in their movements.

  A single red-gold shaft of light broke through that brooding darkness and cut a path to Lookout Rock that was like a spear thrust from Heaven. And riding that beam came the narrow shape of a mighty sailing ship—bright, almost, as the sun. One high, carved prow appeared behind it, and then another and another, until there were ten. Each was shaped like the Ship of Flame, each had a wide, square sail emblazoned with some fantastic beast or complex pattern, and every one bore outstretched oars that beat the air and moved them swiftly forward. They halted in triangular formation a little to the left of the Ship of Flames.

  In the vanguard was a ship of gold, its white sail ablaze with a golden sun in splendor.

  A man stood in the front of that vessel, and he wore golden armor and a golden helm. Black was his hair and black the mustaches that brushed against his shoulders.

  “The Ard Rhi!” David gasped, then said to Gary, “It’s the king of the Sidhe himself!”

  Lugh raised his arms above his head, then lowered them again. Arches of light sprang forth to bridge the space between the hovering ships and the rock of the Mortal World. The High King leapt from his ship and was the first to touch land. Behind him, a company of warriors followed, each man or woman coming to stand in disciplined array behind him.

  Last of all came a woman dressed in red, with a black crow perched on her shoulder. She looked more than a little irate.

  The High King of the Sidhe in Tir-Nan-Og ignored Nuada and the two Horn fragments he held, ignored Regan and Froech and Morwyn. Most particularly he ignored the mortals who pulled back into an awestruck group. He did not ignore David Sullivan.

  Lugh pointed a gold-cased finger at David and curled it slightly toward him.

  David gulped, stepped forward, found himself looking into the sharp angles of the Ard Rhi’s face, into blazing eyes that he was certain could see all the way to a conscience that was far from clear. He took a deep breath.

  Lugh said nothing at first, merely stared at David, and David could not read the emotion written there. Once Lugh’s brows lowered and his eyes glittered so brightly that David feared for his life.

  Finally the High King took a long breath and spoke. “It is almost a year since we have met, David Sullivan. And in that time you have learned many things, some of which you may even find useful—but I never expected you to number thievery among your studies. I do not think much of your recent visit, mortal, nor of my treasury being raided; though you may have performed me a service there—by showing me flaws in what I had thought unbreakable defenses.”

  David’s lips quirked upward in an embarrassed, lopsided smile. “I’m glad you see it that way, sir.”

  Lugh raised a wry eyebrow. In spite of himself a ghost of amusement played around the corners of his mouth as well.

  “I also realize that there were, ah, extenuating circumstances,” the High King continued, fixing Morwyn with a meaningful stare, “so I suppose that leaves me with a single reasonable choice: to congratulate you for your skill at achieving the quest, and, more important, to acknowledge the honor you have shown by reuniting Morwyn and Fionchadd. A
man who will do good for his enemy because it is a good thing for a friend is an honorable man indeed. And now,” he added by way of dismissal, “I think I must speak to Morwyn.”

  David released the breath he had been holding, and rejoined his friends as Lugh motioned Morwyn forward.

  The Fireshaper dropped on her knees before him, but Lugh raised her again to face him. Her body was taut as a harp string.

  “Long has it been since we have met, Morwyn verch Morgan ap Gwyddion,” Lugh said. “And the occasion of that last meeting was far happier than that which brings us together once more. But even then, I think, I had a foreboding of some mighty doom that awaited you—and now it seems that you have set it upon yourself. And that doom is guilt, Morwyn: guilt for the death of Ailill Windmaster. Whatever he did to you and to your son, yet I see that a shadow of love remains, and I fear that shadow will torment you. He need not have died, you know, had you waited but a little while. Though you have had your vengeance, Ailill’s death was a thing in vain.”

  Morwyn’s jaw tightened slightly. Lugh paused, his eyes narrowing before he continued. “And with the doom of that vast guilt must come another, Morwyn, which, though you may deny it now in your pride and arrogance, may come to haunt you even more as the seasons turn. And that is guilt for the anguish your selfishness has brought on a whole array of innocent folk, not the least two unfortunate lovers. And, Morwyn verch Morgan, there is one doom of guilt upon you that is greater than any other.”

  Morwyn raised her head and looked him square in the face. “And what is that, Lord?”

  “The price that must yet be paid for the deaths of Fionna and Ailill. They had kin, Morwyn, mighty kin indeed. The King of Erenn was their half brother, and in more distant realms dwell others who might call them family. One slew herself through her own folly, though I know not whether her kin may see it that way, but you have slain the other by your own hand. And in that you may have helped bring war upon us: war between Erenn and Tir-Nan-Og. Think of it, Morwyn: All because you would not temper vengeance with mercy! All because Ailill’s death—or your own pride—was more important to you than peace between the Worlds.”