Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  "Of course it's a challenge," she said petulantly, regarding the banner Petrus had flung to the ground as if it were a slain rodent. "Why else would they leave it in the middle of the old palace?"

  Petrus tossed on a new log and held his hands to the resultant heat. Their companion, Odras, seemed determined to stay out of their argument; the old mage gazed at a handful of topolomite stones, which he'd found in a ravine during their short journey. Silently, as if scrying for some hidden meaning in the stones, the mage refused to be distracted from his find. There was something significantly magical about the stones, but whatever it was Odras wasn't saying.

  "Then why was no one there to accept the challenge?" Petrus said evenly, pulling his thick mantle off and laying it near the fire. The problem with a wet cold, which had been their fate this entire trip, was that it was next to impossible to get warm without removing the wet garments. "Why did they just leave?"

  Wenlann was putting her riding gear on, piece by piece, making a point of checking the edge of her sword before putting it on her belt. Though she had grown much in recent times, she still had about her the air of a spoiled noble brat. Even on trips like these, she insisted on wearing her silver pendant. The ornate, heart-shaped Celtic knot clung to a deceptively delicate-looking chain. One of Niamh's constructions, the chain was anything but fragile, constructed in a matrix of carbon crystal and given the look and feel of silver. But despite its immense strength it was the kind of jewelry one wore for formal gatherings, not chasing Unseleighe.

  Granted, he and Wenlann had a similar upbringing, but since the fall of Avalon he had set his past aside and concentrated on being a soldier, one of many assets Avalon was in short supply of. To his dismay Wenlann had taken a similar path and, while he hated to admit it, she had become a formidable opponent in the practice ring. It was during times like these she liked to emphasize that she was every bit his equal, if not superior, even if Petrus was in charge of this particular campaign.

  "If indeed they were Unseleighe," Odras said cryptically. He spoke toward the fire, poking it with a branch. "There are pranksters throughout Underhill who would find such a 'challenge' amusing." Elves from other domains had volunteered their assistance in rebuilding Avalon, and had then petitioned for citizenship. Odras had been such a volunteer, and not only had shown loyalties but also exceptional magical abilities.

  "This is no joke," Petrus insisted, then realized Odras was simply making conversation. Or does he know something about this banner that I don't?

  Odras stood from his crouched position, unfolding his strong, wiry frame to its full height, seven hands above Petrus. His long, brown suede tunic draped loosely over him. A thick belt with an unadorned gold buckle held the garment in at the waist. With a flourish he threw a black cloak around him. The long mane of silvered brown hair reached to his belt. He had never revealed his age, but from the length of his ears and the rasp in his voice, he was old indeed. Nonetheless, he retained the strength and agility of youth.

  Odras regarded the banner with visible distaste; Petrus thought he was going to spit on it.

  "It is Unseleighe," he said softly, after a moment's deliberation. "And recently made," he added. "That staff, the vine it's made from. It was cut down only yesterday."

  "From around here?" Wenlann asked, reaching down to pick up the banner. Flag and ribbons hung limply from it as she studied the wood closer. "Swords made these cuts," she announced. "I don't recognize the vine." She held it aloft, swung it in the air. One of the ribbons fluttered off. "This is not something they would take into battle."

  "Of course not," Petrus said. "It's poorly made. Anyone can see that," he added, casting a heated glanced at Wenlann.

  "It was not made to be taken into battle, or anywhere else. It was made to provoke," Odras announced. "Which, it seems, it has." He stopped short of saying something else, but Petrus had a pretty good idea what it would have been. He and Wenlann had been arguing over any number of small issues since their departure from Avalon, and he suspected it was getting rather tiring for Odras.

  "No good can come from this," Odras said. "So blatant a gesture. On the sacred ground of Old Avalon, no less." His eyes veered from the banner, and gazed over the low hills of the area. With only the occasional bush and tree, the area was ideal for staging an attack.

  "We might do well to consider this a warning," Odras said to the younger elves. "We are, after all, only three."

  "But if this is a challenge, Petrus said, not liking the way the discussion was going, "I cannot turn it down."

  "Understood," Odras said. "But unless I'm mistaken, you are not required to take on an entire army by yourself."

  "If we are evenly matched or not, it won't matter," Wenlann said bitterly, and began gathering the sparse gear they'd brought. "Zeldan never considered himself bound by such rules. And I doubt his son would even know of such rules, much less operate by them. He was, after all, planning to overthrow his own father."

  Petrus admitted that she had a point. "Perhaps we should . . ." he began, but stopped when he glanced up at the horizon.

  At the top of one of the hills stood a mounted horse, its rider a dark figure, partially concealed in the mist. In the rider's right hand was a sword, and in his left was the outline of what was probably a shield. He made no move to approach, or take flight, and seemed content to stay where he was, regarding the three patiently while the 'steed nibbled at the grass.

  "I take this challenge," Petrus said suddenly, before Wenlann could say anything. It would have been just like her to try to take this opportunity from him, to prove once again she was capable of holding her own among the males of the Elfhame. Now the challenge was Petrus', by the rules.

  "Suit yourself," Odras said, sounding strangely unalarmed. Instead of preparing for a potential battle he tossed another log on the fire, looking completely detached. "I think you will be disappointed in this . . . confrontation," he said as he sat down again.

  Petrus wanted to ask him more, but he knew from experience that to do so would be futile. He would only answer in riddles, he thought before mounting Moonremere. He checked his sword, made certain the sheath wasn't bound, grateful he had put a good sharp edge on the blade the evening before. He had a small shield that under most circumstances would be inadequate; they had packed lightly. It will have to do, he thought without regret, remembering he had considered omitting it altogether.

  "Is there only one?" Wenlann asked as she brought the remaining two elvensteeds closer to the camp. Odras didn't answer, and Petrus didn't wait to see if he would. If there were more he would warn us, he reasoned as he sized up his opponent, who seemed to perk up at the prospect of battle.

  Petrus maneuvered Moonremere to one end of the field, as the other took up a position on a higher end, which might give him some advantage of momentum. He frowned at that, wondering if this was going to be a fair fight after all, and shook the doubt off as soon as it had occurred. This is the beast that left that banner on our grave site. And he has picked this particular fight.

  Memory of the banner, and of his family, fueled him with anger which he tried to defuse with calm. Angry thoughts tended to cloud judgment, and he pushed them away.

  The other called, across the field, in a deep baritone voice that had no trouble reaching his ears. "Are you the Seleighe vermin that has infested this part of Underhill? The pathetic rats we killed ages ago, at yon ruin?" He pointed his sword in the direction of the palace. "And you have dared remove my rightful claim to this moor?"

  How dare the bastard! Petrus thought as the hatred surged through him despite his best efforts to divert it elsewhere. Blood boiling, he glanced over at Wenlann, who simply shrugged. He expected, and wanted, no more; this was his fight. Odras, however, did not deign to even look in his direction, and had started sharpening his own sword with no apparent urgency.

  "You have no claim here!" Petrus shouted. "This is the land of my father, my father's father, and our ancestors before him! What r
ight have you to trespass on the Kingdom of Avalon!"

  The opponent laughed uproariously. "O, Avalon, is it! My father destroyed Avalon long ago!"

  Careful, now, Petrus thought, now seeing red. If this is the Japhet Dhu, he is a tricky one, and cannot be trusted.

  "As my King destroyed your father, Japhet the Pathetic!" Petrus shouted back.

  "So you know who I am," the opponent replied, sounding not the slightest bit humbled. "And you know why I'm here."

  Enough talk. "You are here to die!" Petrus shouted, and kicked Moonremere into action.

  The opponent followed suit, shrieking a cry that brought back vivid images of the long-ago war. Petrus charged ahead, tensing his left arm with the shield, and beginning the delicate balancing needed to inflict sword damage while remaining perched atop a 'steed. But as he drew nearer he saw to his extreme displeasure that Japhet was much larger than he had first estimated, as was his 'steed. A war 'steed, in fact, bred for height and muscle, which his own 'steed in its present form was lacking. Too late to make adjustments now, he knew, then realized Japhet's sword was not the bronze or silver their folk used in battle, but the death metal, iron. How can an elf wield such a weapon? he thought fleetingly. If I don't strike him down the first time, I have no chance . . .

  Petrus screamed something unintelligible as he leaped from his 'steed's back, choosing a fighting tactic one can use only once in such a battle. He intended to deflect the death metal with his shield, and strike Japhet somewhere vulnerable, with any luck knocking him off his horse and thus evening the battle some. Instead, he squawked as something completely unpredictable happened instead.

  Where his shield would meet sword, it met space, dismal nothingness, as did his weapon. Japhet and 'steed, flesh and bone moments before, suddenly, inexplicably vanished. In the brief moment of flight that followed, his mouth opened, but had no time to release the scream he was preparing to turn loose. As he landed in the marshy, soggy grass he felt his sword sink in the mud up to the hilt, his body connect savagely with the turf, and his face find all manner of grief as grass and marsh flailed at it. Then, silence.

  Except for a cackle, some distance away, that was female laughter. A familiar sound, from someone he knew well.

  Petrus struggled from the mud, which had turned out to be a relatively soft landing medium, and reached for his sword while looking around to see where, if anywhere, Japhet Dhu had fled. He pulled on the sword, which was inelegantly stuck firmly in the mud.

  "Shit," Petrus said, remembering vocabulary from his days living among the humans. He pulled and yanked ineffectually on the sword's hilt. Finally it yielded, making a sound that reminded him of a disgusting biological function as it abruptly withdrew from the ground. He fell backwards with the sudden release, landing arse first on the ground. Though coated with mud, the sword was at least something he could use for a weapon.

  He scrambled to his feet, ready for combat, looking around wildly. But opponent, and horse, had simply vanished.

  This cannot be, Petrus thought frantically, even though he knew it had to be, because it was. With Wenlann's laughter echoing across the moor, piercing his ego, he knew that he had been fooled by something magical. Moonremere returned, snorting something that might have been amusement, and with as much dignity as was possible Petrus led her back to camp. Covered with mud, he didn't want to ride her; he'd just cleaned her saddle before the trip, and didn't much care for doing it all over again. He was still unwilling to believe Japhet Dhu had simply vanished, and remained wary as he trod back to the others.

  Odras patiently sharpened his blade, with a determination that looked unshakable. Wenlann stood with her hands on her hips, appearing rather pleased with the situation. Petrus avoided her look.

  "What was that you were saying earlier about disappointment?" Petrus asked.

  Odras looked up, looking vaguely annoyed that Petrus had interrupted his blade sharpening.

  "Did the Unseleighe strike you as being brave enough for a fair confrontation?" Odras asked calmly. "Though without mage sight I suppose it would be difficult to see the opponent for what it was."

  "Being?" Petrus asked.

  "A projection, of course," Odras replied, testing his sword's edge with the fat of his thumb. "A well executed one, granted, even if I've seen better."

  Petrus cast a long look over the surrounding countryside. They had intentionally set camp in the hollow between two hills, limiting their view while making them less visible from a distance. It also gave them the disadvantage of being downhill from any attack, but when they'd settled in for the night, attack was not a consideration.

  "If you are still thirsting for battle," Odras said softly, "you may have your opportunity yet. The source of that projection is nearby."

  Petrus quickly wiped the mud off the blade, the complexion of the situation having changed suddenly. Blood, perhaps, he whispered to his blade. He listened, but heard only the winds caressing the hills around them.

  "Where are they?" Petrus asked urgently. He must have been probing the area for them while I was out swimming in the mud, making a fool of myself.

  "Beyond that rise," Odras said, getting to his feet. "There are four of them. One is a mage." Odras smiled nastily. "The mage is mine. The others are yours to deal with."

  No argument with that, he thought. Petrus had never seen Odras in full magical form, in combat with another mage. He both anticipated and feared the prospect, knowing the results would not likely be gentle.

  "Let's ride," Petrus said, mounting his 'steed, the cleanliness of his saddle no longer an issue.

  Odras stood very still, and closed his eyes as he fell into trance. Petrus felt the familiar tingling of a glamorie falling into place around them, a shroud of magic that would not only make them invisible to normal sight, but to mage sight as well—assuming they found no countering spells that were stronger than Odras could handle. The mage opened his eyes. "If we are to attack, we must go now."

  They left the gear behind and rode immediately, with the intention of surprising the group with their sudden appearance. A shallow valley branched off to the right. A thick grove of trees surrounded it, and Petrus saw that it was a clever place from which to send a projection.

  "We should come up behind them," Petrus said, remembering a narrow trail they had passed the day before. "We may even trap them."

  The trail narrowed as it wound through massive boulders; not liking their vulnerability, Petrus looked about for an alternate route, but saw none. The trail opened suddenly on a clearing at the hill's summit.

  "Damn them all," Petrus sputtered as he saw a black banner, identical to the first, planted in the center of the clearing. "Where did . . ."

  Then he saw where they must have gone. Another trail led sharply down the south end of the hill, directly to the moor. And at the base of the hill he saw the small black forms, atop 'steeds that were too large for them. Youths, Petrus thought acidly, conveniently forgetting that he himself had only seventeen summers. Mere Unseleighe children. Playing games with those much their superior.

  As they approached the banner, Petrus felt their glamorie shatter around them, reminding him that at least one of the wretched Unseleighe was the mage Odras had sensed. Whatever they had bespelled the banner with was enough to counter Odras' work. The mage frowned when Petrus met his eyes, then turned his attention to the four Unseleighe, who even at that distance looked collectively uncertain of their next move.

  "After them!" Petrus shouted, as the four Unseleighe turned tail and ran. Odras and Wenlann pulled their swords as he unsheathed his, and Moonremere sprinted after them. Seeing the enemy renewed old hatreds, stirred up old memories. They killed my family. They killed so many of us, without provocation.

  He knew he was angry, and that the anger might hurt his fight, or add to it; no choice but to let it run its course. The Unseleighe didn't seem to be much of a threat, particularly when in retreat, but that didn't make the sight of their blood, preferably a
ll of it spilled on the ground, an unworthy goal.

  At the base of the hill they found an open plain. Unseleighe tore away at a fast gallop, their taunting whoops and shouts echoing across the hills. The mist had cleared some, but still lingered in a soupy blanket across their path. They pursued the band to the edge of a dense forest, where Petrus paused. He heard their horses and laughter drifting through the trees, and he very nearly followed them into the dim interior of the woods.

  "Don't be a fool," Odras said and pulled his 'steed up beside Petrus. "There are ten more where they have gone. This entire ruse was a trap."

  "But . . ." Petrus began, wanting desperately to ignore Odras' warnings and chase after them. But the mage made sense. It was the perfect setup, drawing them into an unfamiliar, closed environment, perhaps so tight a space as to make their swords useless. The young elf stared at the forest, listening for clues that might tell him more, but all he heard were retreating hoofbeats, fading to silence.