Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  Spiritride

  Mark Shepherd

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1997 by Mark Shepherd

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 0-671-87775-5

  Cover art by Larry Elmore

  First printing, April 1997

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Pony and D

  Also in this Series

  Born to Run

  by Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon

  Wheels of Fire

  by Mercedes Lackey & Mark Shepherd

  When the Bough Breaks

  by Mercedes Lackey & Holly Lisle

  Chrome Circle

  by Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon

  Elvendude

  by Mark Shepherd

  Bedlam Boyz

  by Ellen Guon

  Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

  by Mercedes Lackey and Ellen Guon

  Summoned to Tourney

  by Mercedes Lackey & Ellen Guon

  ANGEL ON A HARLEY

  Do you believe in angels, Thorn? the Lord of the Land of Shadows asked.

  Thorn answered honestly. "Not much."

  The Lord turned to him slowly, and Thorn saw his face for the first time: a grinning skull. The sight did not frighten him; instead it filled him with warmth.

  You should believe in angels, now, the Lord continued. You have become one.

  Thorn looked at his arms, checking for telltale wings that might have sprouted when he wasn't looking. "So what did I do to earn this honor?"

  You died, the Lord replied. Most spectacularly, I might add.

  Thorn held his arms up, flapping them like a bird. "So do I get a harp? Where are my wings?"

  You get something much better to fly upon than wings, the Lord said.

  In the distance Thorn heard a familiar growl of internal combustion. His heart leaped. "Valerie?" he said. Riderless, and in pristine condition, Thorn's motorcycle rode up to him and stopped; Valerie had become a living, thinking being.

  You loved your motorbike. You created a soul. The Lord of the Land of Shadows began walking away. You will become familiar with my land, and travel it with ease.

  "As an angel?" Thorn asked, still unable to comprehend it.

  As a Rider Guardian, the Lord replied. A guardian angel, for living souls who very much need a guardian.

  "Whose souls?" Thorn asked.

  The riders of motorcycles will need protection, said the Lord and disappeared.

  Prologue

  I'm going to go in, keep my mouth shut, do my four years, and maybe the law will leave me alone, Wolf remembered thinking, a full year and a half earlier. Back then he was running with a biker gang in Texas, engaged in activities which had not pleased the judicial system. When the time came in court for them to hang something on him, he had a choice: prison or the army.

  Now he was standing in an ocean of sand, far from home, twenty-five miles south of Baghdad, fighting in a war that officially hadn't started yet.

  A massive buildup of multinational forces lay just on the other side of the Saudi Arabia-Iraq border. Operation Desert Shield had been in place for months, the troops biding time while fighting little more than crabs and sand mites. But Wolf had been seeing action, plenty of action. As a sergeant in the Rangers, he had taken part in a number of missions, all deep in Iraqi territory, all very hush hush. Blackhawk helicopters dropped them in, then picked them up when their job was done. This was one such mission, and their target was a small town, not far away.

  He marched in a squad of five, toting an M60A2, a 9mm Beretta and a full field pack. Their objective was a suspected amphetamine factory Saddam was operating to keep his troops razor-sharp and wide awake. This was supposed to be just another mission, but Wolf knew something was going to go bad on this one.

  The M60 was not a small gun, and not a particularly good patrol weapon, but a good tool to have in an all-out gunfight. Wolf had the honor of carrying the monster because he could consistently hit a half dollar-sized target with it at four hundred yards, but he had mixed thoughts about making himself such a prime target. But then, he wasn't there to think, he was there to listen and obey orders, and maybe even get out of Iraq alive.

  The squad of Rangers met up with a platoon of 81st Airborne, twenty-five foot soldiers armed with M16s who had dropped in the day before. Among them was a kid Wolf remembered from basic, who might have been older than he looked, seventeen. Wolf was a year older and was a sergeant, so the kid looked up to him.

  "Mister, are we going to make it out of this?" the kid kept asking, and Wolf told him they were, if he stayed with him and his M60.

  He's scared, Wolf thought. Hell, I am too.

  They were ordered to march through a town, but before proceeding they double-checked the orders, as something like this was not approached lightly. The place was a typical village, which meant a deserted village. There were a few jeeps on their right, but other than that there were no signs that anyone had been there for some time. Wolf counted twelve stucco buildings, not much else.

  They reached the first of these structures when the Iraqis sprang their ambush. The 81st platoon dropped to the ground where they were, with Wolf in front. He lay down with the M60 and went to work.

  He still couldn't see where the fire was coming from, but men were dropping all around him, and rounds were hitting the ground and buildings. With men screaming behind him, he lay down suppressive fire, targeting windows at random, still not knowing where the hell the snipers were. He loaded belt after belt, five hundred rounds each, spraying the buildings with bullets. In no time at all he melted his barrel.

  He saw the kid, lying on the ground, not far from him. Bleeding. Wolf thought about the deaths he'd seen, and the deaths in the movies.

  Death takes a while, he reminded himself, watching the kid die. By the time he decided to get the hell out of there, the kid was hit twice more.

  I'm dead, he thought, contemplating the glowing tip of his weapon.

  He was getting ready to shake himself free of the paralysis when he saw the waves of blue emanating from his hands.

  With the blue, his vision sharpened. His fingers felt warm, and he instinctively ran them across the barrel, cooling it, healing it. With his new vision he saw the Iraqis, on the second floor of a building, their auras yellow and brilliant red, stick figures crouched over their weapons. He reloaded his own, aimed, and picked off the Iraqis, one by one.

  He didn't question his new powers. Instead he put them to use, laying down more fire so the rest could get away.

  Wherever this is coming from I'm going to save our butts with it.

  At a lull in the fire, Wolf scrambled behind a building, where the other survivors of their doomed mission were; two rangers, three airborne. A radio, but no radio man. Someone called in the situation.

  If anyone thought Wolf's healed M60 was peculiar, they didn't say anything about it. A disembodied voice on the radio ordered them to a location ten miles away, where they would be picked up by Blackhawks.

  They had to leave, the sooner the better, because they were never there.

  Chapter One

  Petrus led his elvensteed toward a shallow stream, its trickling
sound muted by fog. Thick, white blankets chilled the air with a wet coldness the young elf felt in his bones, despite the mantle of bearskin that covered his doublet. He allowed his 'steed, Moonremere, to drink only a little. They had hard riding to do that day and he didn't want her to overindulge.

  The 'steed finished drinking, and looked up. Petrus urged her toward what had been the great Palace of Avalon, foregoing the rotted, smashed drawbridge and leading her across a dry moat. Through the gloom, fragments of wall stabbed the sky. He led Moonremere on, making a wide path around the ruins; he felt the wards as if they were branded into the deep green moss covering the ground. Double layered, and tied directly to the power nodes, the protections discouraged all but Avalon elves from exploring this place.

  Petrus had been a child when Zeldan Dhu's forces attacked Avalon. He remembered the war, the panic and then finally the futility, but most of all he recalled the terror when the bombardment began. He was the only one of his family to survive. The others, his mother and father, two sisters, and older brother, a guard in the King's army, had not been as fortunate. He didn't want to remember their ghosts, but they came anyway, and he allowed the painful memory to descend over him like a veil.

  It had happened so quickly, Petrus remembered, glancing up at the remaining walls. His father was a nobleman, who had recently been awarded quarters in the palace. They had been packing the last of their belongings when they had seen the sudden movement of King Traigthren's troops. Thirty or so of the elven soldiers had marched past their cottage. The troops' actions had seemed more urgent than usual, but he had made no connection with an attack.

  "Wonder what they're doing out there?" Father had said absently as he packed a wooden crate with stoneware from Outremer. Mother was in the back room, Jenel and Maron were playing in the front room, and Sameal was on duty, guarding the palace. He had often wondered if Sameal had died in that first attack, or if he was among the troops that fell afterwards; things had been so confusing that none of the survivors, King Aedham included, had known for certain. Father had looked up, confused, as node power crackled in the air.

  "Petrus, get down," Father had said sharply, and the desperation in his voice had made Petrus obey immediately. The levin bolt had struck with a sharp, deafening explosion. The impact had blown the roof off and taken with it three of the four outer walls, but all Petrus knew when he came to was that he could not hear, and something big and heavy was on top of him.

  He had squirmed out from underneath whatever it was, coughing on the cloud of dust that was everywhere, and had cried out when he saw that Father, or what remained, had fallen on him. After that were vague recollections of looking for his brother. The palace grounds had become a sea of chaos, with nobles and commoners alike running hither and yon. Bodies had lain everywhere, amid fallen rock and mortar. An entire section of outer wall had been destroyed, and beyond that a vast army had gathered on hilltops some distance away. Petrus had never seen their like; monsters, some of them, all wearing dark armor, with black banners.

  Someone had grabbed him from behind and pulled him toward the palace. He was too stunned, and too weak, to object. A small part of him had known that he would be safer deep inside the palace. Yet another part of him had known it would make no difference where he went, that Avalon was doomed.

  Petrus pushed away the memory, annoyed that he was shaking. That was so long ago. I was a child then, he thought, climbing down from his 'steed. He stood at the wreckage of the old cottages. Aedham had seen to it that all the bodies were collected and given a proper burial. Even so, blood still stained the ground. The King had ordered the old palace to remain as it was, while he built a new one in a more secure location. He had wanted Traigthren's Palace to be a reminder, so that Avalon would never again be lulled into a false sense of security.

  He saw the remains of a weathered crate, and when he pulled at it the wood crumbled in his hand. But he saw what it contained: stoneware, in the distinctive style of Outremer. He knew then this had to be his home, the very place where his family was killed, and the blood he saw staining the ground was theirs.

  This was not what he had come to see, he realized as his knees gave out, and he fell kneeling on the ground. The grief rose from his chest with a ferocity he wasn't ready for. I have never really grieved for them, he thought, as tears filled his eyes. I had been caught up in the chase in the humans' world, and had put out of my mind what had happened here. But now I am here. I cannot deny . . .

  He sat sobbing, grateful no one saw him here. Then he knew someone was watching him, feeling for him like a true friend would. Moonremere nuzzled the back of his neck gently, the wet coldness shaking him from his grief. The 'steed looked over his shoulder, nuzzled the side of his face. He reached up and held her, the 'steed's huge jowls warm against his forehead, until the grief was a gray shadow, far away, beyond reach for now.

  They are gone, and there's nothing I can do about it, he thought, wondering why he didn't feel any hate, or even anger. He felt only a helplessness, and deep surrender. I can do nothing now. I was only a child, and I could do nothing then, either. I did what I could, and that was to survive, and defeat Zeldan Dhu.

  And defeat him he had, or at least helped in the endeavor, as much as any child could have. He smirked when he remembered when Zeldan had cornered him in a garage, and Petrus had attacked him with a staple gun. Tiny flames had shot from the cold steel of the staples as they stuck in the Unseleighe's flesh, and Zeldan had turned loose a satisfying scream. It had only delayed the inevitable abduction of himself and Wenlann, another young elf of noble blood, but it had proved a gratifying diversion. In time King Aedham had come to save them, and had destroyed Zeldan Dhu in the process. Even then, it was tempting to think that the Unseleighe threat had been dealt with once and for all.

  But he knew such was not the case. Some of Zeldan's minions had escaped to Underhill, while others had been here all along, ruled by Zeldan's second in command.

  Japhet Dhu. His son.

  Years had passed, with no sign of Japhet, his minions, or the clan of demons ruled by Morrigan, one of Zeldan's allies. The defeat of Zeldan had evidently demoralized the remnants of the Unseleighe band, since they had not so much as made themselves visible after Avalon's victory. The elfhame had collectively assumed that the Unseleighe had fled to other areas of Underhill. Searches had turned up nothing, and the elfhame turned to other, more immediate endeavors, such as restoring Avalon to its former glory.

  Aedham had also protected the nodes with elaborate wards, encrypted with keys only the elves of Avalon understood, as it was the loss of these nodes which had preceded the fall of Avalon in the first place. Yet Petrus knew Japhet was loose, somewhere in Underhill. It would be the Unseleighe way to retreat, rebuild, and attack Avalon again.

  Petrus shrugged off his morbid mood as much as he could, turned his attention to the task at hand. I'm here to serve my King, not stand around feeling sorry for myself.

  King Aedham and Niamh, another mage whose abilities tended toward human technology, had for days been detecting some disturbing energies coming from this direction. Something new lurked here. He had risen early to get a lead on the others, perhaps impress Wenlann with his thoroughness. Wenlann and Odras were still asleep when he'd led Moonremere out of camp.

  This other thing, this new, possibly dangerous thing, left him wondering if perhaps he'd made a bad move.

  He pushed the thought away. Of course not! There's nothing here that can hurt me. It is just bad memories, nothing more.

  Petrus was not going to let the shadows startle him, as if he were some little child. Wenlann's feigned maturity notwithstanding . . . she is not going to best me!

  He proceeded through the ruins, carefully guiding Moonremere through the boulders. Then he saw the form standing, not far away, and he drew his sword smoothly without a second thought.

  "Who are you?" he shouted at the still form. "How dare you violate this sacred space!"

  The
figure didn't respond, or move. It wore a black cloak, or was that a dress? Moving closer still, Petrus began to sense something inanimate about the intruder.

  Within paces of the black cloak, Petrus laughed out in relief.

  It was not a being, but a banner hanging from a tall staff. The laughter was short lived, though, as it occurred to him who this banner might belong to, and what it might mean.

  Zeldan's banner. Therefore, Japhet's banner.

  The banner itself was emblazoned with the black eagle crest, with black silk ribbons hanging on either side. This was no leftover from the battle; this banner was new, and recently planted, right in the middle of the old palace grounds. It could only mean one thing.

  A challenge.

  With his sword still drawn, he looked around for the fight the banner seemed to be asking for. But no one was present to back up the challenge. Once he was confident it had not been tainted with traps, magical or otherwise, he seized the banner's staff, a thin, spindly section of a black wood that resembled a vine more than a branch, and set off for camp.

  Petrus tied his 'steed with the others, then approached the fire, readying himself for another blast of Wenlann's wrath.