Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  "The odds, Petrus," the mage said. "We are only three."

  Wenlann joined them at the forest edge, her ears turned to the woods. "He's right," she said, turning to Petrus. "There are more in the forest. I smell a trap."

  "I suggest we return with reinforcements," Petrus said. "So that we can dismember them properly."

  "To the palace, then," Odras said.

  "We'll be bahk," Petrus murmured, in an exaggerated Austrian accent.

  Chapter Two

  By the summer of 1922, Randolf "Thorn" Wilson had only been racing for two years, but had quickly made a name for himself in the small but enthusiastic world of motorcycle racing. In his first race he had acquired his nickname by riding his Harley into a thicket of brambles, finishing the race covered head to toe in thorns. A dubious distinction, though it was a name people tended to remember.

  Thorn had slept fitfully in a barn's loft, which had been donated by a farmer for use by riders without the wherewithal for a motel room. At the first hint of daylight Thorn rose with a light, energetic feeling, despite his lack of sleep. Out of his duffel bag came his race gear: the leather flying helmet, complete with goggles, a well worn pair of work gloves and, finally, the leather aviation suit he'd modified for motorcycle riding. It buttoned down the right side, and was lined with camel's hair, with a tight-fitting collar around the neck to keep the air out. It only made sense to wear something designed for flying high when flying low. Wind was wind, wherever it was. It was also Thorn's answer to safety, having dumped another bike and lost a goodly amount of skin from shoulder to butt. He liked the idea of sliding on someone else's skin.

  Off came the well-worn knickers, replaced by the breeches. Then he pulled on a pair of old riding boots. They worked better than shoes when you had to slow a bike down, and helped keep you from spraining an ankle. He put on the gear with all the methodical care of the aviator he'd been too young to be during the war.

  Outside the spectators were already gathering for the start, and it looked like half the bikes had already lined up, including the four of the Harley-Davidson team. Thorn checked in at the registration table, affixed his number 13 on his front fork, and strolled over to the line of bikes.

  A few more bikes lined up, another Harley, a Sport single that had seen better days, and a few Indians with their bright red frames and ridiculously white tires, with their riders dressed as if they were going to a reception, not a motorbike race. Wearing bowlers, of all things, not even the silly caps that tended to blow off unless they were turned around. There was a four-horse Yale, an Excelsior with too much shiny nickel plate, a Pierce with a rider who didn't look like he was old enough to shave.

  The race coordinator gave the usual speech, asking everyone to play fair, take turns at the gas stations, and stick to the course. The latter point was made for humor; besides the course, a stretch of muddy highway winding through Kansas, there were no other roads. It was an unwritten rule to stop and help an injured cyclist, but it was repeated here anyway.

  His motorcycle, Valerie, turned over laboriously, pop-popping until she was up to operating speed. He let her idle, took a deep breath, and took one long look at his competition before the race started. The coordinator dropped his flag, and the bikes all lurched forward. He knew it wasn't all too important to get ahead right away in a cross-country, but you did have to keep the leader in sight. Already Walter Davidson had the lead, with two of his teammates following. They would be easy to spot, with big white letters spelling Harley Davidson.

  Let the rest fight it out, he thought, shifting to second, keeping his eyes on the bikes closest to him. Only two hundred ninety-nine miles to go . . .

  By midday Thorn estimated he was number five or six, having lost the edge by letting Walter slip way out of sight. He eased her up to fourth, hugged low to her frame, and gave her gas. Soon he was hitting around eighty miles per hour. He pulled back a bit on the speed to negotiate some bumps and, on passing a farmhouse, found himself on straight, open road.

  Up ahead was the dust cloud of another rider. Thorn pulled a scarf over his mouth, leaned low and wrapped himself around Valerie, his face directly behind the handlebars.

  If I'm gonna take this guy, it's gonna be now, he whispered to his bike, feeling the wind whip by.

  Wind gave way to dust and pebbles, bouncing off his goggles and helmet like hail, as the distance between himself and the other rider closed. It was none other than Walter Davidson himself. Thorn hazarded a glance at his speedometer: 95 mph. On rough dirt road like this, it was next to suicide, but he had conditioned his body into a springy, wire framed shock absorber.

  Despite Davidson's best efforts, Thorn blasted past by a good ten miles per hour. Now past Davidson's dust cloud, Thorn had a clear view of the road . . . which turned left, sharply, a few yards ahead of him.

  By the time he realized he was in trouble he'd already run into a barbed wire fence, feeling nothing besides the sudden absence of gravity, which turned to black. The envelope of darkness wrapped its fragile wings around him, shielding him from an intense, white light that now sought to claim him. Then he felt a presence, an entity, a voice.

  Your future is not on the other side. Not yet. Words appeared as thoughts, images. Whatever it was, it spoke directly to him.

  Who are you? Thorn asked. He had never been religious but was now having second thoughts. Are you God?

  I am the Lord of the Land of Shadows, the voice replied. I am a god. From the darkness came a candle flame, lighting a vast plain of desolation. A single bare tree stood in the distance. This is the Land of Shadows. It is always winter, here. Thorn saw himself, a transparent ghost, still wearing the aviator's suit, the helmet, the goggles. He felt naked without his motorcycle. Remembering Valerie, and the way in which she must have died, sent a pang of guilt through him.

  The Lord was a tall wiry figure, standing next to the dead tree, his back turned to the cold wind that blew in from the north. The wind whipped at the edges of a robe of thin, black fur, wrapped tightly around him.

  "I'm not sure I follow." Thorn looked down at himself, taking in his ghostly image with a critical eye, wondering what if anything he had to barter with. With what? With who? he thought, now wishing he had gone with the white light that had abandoned him.

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

  Thorn's first reaction was to laugh. But when considering recent events, the humor drained out of the question. He answered honestly. "Not much."

  The Lord of the Land of Shadows turned to him slowly, and Thorn saw his face for the first time. What he first took as the pallor of snow white skin was revealed as 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, really wanting to laugh now. "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 he heard a familiar growl of internal combustion. His heart leaped. "Valerie?" Thorn said, looking toward the sound. 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.

  Love flowed from the bike, a pinkish, red haze. When he touched it, it flowed through him.

  Become familiar with my land, the Lord said, and began walking away. You will learn where it goes, and travel it with ease.

  "As an angel?" Thorn asked, still unable to comprehend it. However, he could think of worse fates than riding Valerie for an eternity.

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

  "Whose souls?" Thorn asked, though he already had an idea.

  The riders of motorcycles will need protection.

  The Lord was gone, and Thorn tested Valerie, revving her motor with a delicate twist of the throttle.

  "Let's see what's out there," he said to her, and they were off.

  Chapter Three

  They reached Castle Tuiereann after a long day of travel, and no small amount of bickering between Wenlann and Petrus. Odras rode in silence, as if lost in his own thoughts, but out of the corner of his eye Petrus had seen him looking rather amused.

  King Aedham had built the new castle at the fork of the massive Arannan and Gruac Rivers. Aedham made the river deeper, wider, and swifter, then established his new home between the two river branches. There had already been a sizable hill here, and with the five stories of castle it seemed even taller.

  Petrus' own chambers were on the third floor, and commanded a striking view of the surrounding landscape. The sight of the castle was a welcome relief. He hadn't realized how much he'd enjoyed living in cushy comfort until trying to sleep on a blanket on a soggy moor.

  They paused at the gatehouse before crossing a drawbridge. The house was an elaborate affair with a tall, pointed arch and a thick, bronze gate. A second gate of cold iron lay concealed behind wood panels, against the walls of the house, ready to be closed over the bronze gate should they again be attacked by the Unseleighe. Despite the concealing planks of oak, Petrus flinched at the death metal's heat every time he passed.

  "Aie, Scoriath." Petrus called the guard on duty. The guard stepped forward with the reverence due Petrus as one of the highest ranking elves of Avalon. "Another good day for hunting. There's Unseleighe vermin on our lands to the north, in the thick forests. Care to join us when we return in force?"

  Scoriath's eyes lit brightly at the mention of a hunt. The Seleighe was an expert with horses, and an excellent warrior. He and thirty others had emigrated from Outremer to join Avalon in their rebuilding. Scoriath and his brother, Rochad, had grown up with Petrus, and had taught each other a thing or two about swordplay.

  "Unseleighe?" Scoriath said, sounding more intrigued than surprised. He had stepped closer to Moonremere and had started scratching her jowls, his bright, blond hair cascading past his shoulders. "How many?"

  "Twenty, perhaps."

  Odras yawned expressively. "I didn't think their mage was very good."

  "Good enough to fool Petrus with a projection," Wenlann countered. "One that vanished the moment our hero here decided to leap on it. Instead, he leaped on some rather treacherous mud. Didn't he, Odras?"

  Odras said nothing, and Petrus glared at Wenlann, remembering a nugget of advice the mage had once offered. Never get involved in a boy and girl fight. Odras seems to be taking his own advice.

  "I suppose the King would want to speak with you directly," Scoriath said diplomatically, stepping back to allow them entry. "If there are Unseleighe to contend with he will wish to know immediately," the guard added.

  "Aie," Petrus replied, making a point of looking away from Wenlann. "And I'm tired as well."

  "There may be leftover supper," Scoriath said as they passed. "We dined only a candlemark ago."

  Petrus nodded, hoping the rumble in his stomach wasn't loud enough to be heard. He felt the magical shields snap into place behind him as they took the drawbridge across a moat, a wide channel guarding the northern side of the castle. As they approached the stables a page came for their 'steeds.

  I'll gather our gear later, he thought, as he started for the castle, not caring if Wenlann accompanied him or not.

  He found the Great Hall empty. The thick ceiling timbers matched the stoutness of the entire castle, which had an ornamental rock exterior laid over a dense, granite frame. This castle would, according to the mages who had assisted, withstand levin bolts twice as strong as the ones that had leveled their previous home.

  Petrus decided on a quick change in his quarters; casting a glamorie to hide his mud-soaked clothes would be tricky, and impolite. Etiquette required all business with the King be done without disguise, magical or otherwise. Besides, Aedham would see right through it, and would likely find it all the more amusing. It will only take a moment to make myself presentable, Petrus thought as he ascended the main stairwell at the end of the hall. But as he passed by the King's solar, Aedham called out as he tried to sneak past.

  "Petrus? Is that you?" Aedham inquired, and reluctantly Petrus turned and entered the solar, mud and all.

  "Yes, Aedham," he replied. "As you can see, I am less than presentable."

  "Since when have I cared about a little dirt?" Aedham said cheerfully. Today he looked more like Adam McDaris, teenager, than King Aedham Tuiereann, Ruler of Elfhame Avalon. As he often did, he had forsaken his royal robe, crown and scepter for more casual clothes. The slogan on the simple red T-shirt was certainly appropriate, reflecting Petrus' mood as well: When It Absolutely, Positively Has To Be Destroyed Overnight. U.S. Marines. He sat at a long narrow table salvaged from the ruins of the former castle. This was the same table King Traig had used in his final minutes while holed up in the bowels of the castle, and Aedham had grown attached to it. On it sat a pink Lava Lite, a halogen desk lamp, and a hundred or so compact disk holders spread around him in a semicircle. Depeche Mode's Songs of Faith and Devotion played through four deceptively small Bose speakers hanging from the ceiling's rock.

  Aedham was barefoot, wearing a pair of well worn and faded jeans, with holes for knees, his face illuminated by the dim glow of a computer screen. The pc sat upright on the floor, wires spilling out its back, with the big crystal port sitting on a shelf behind him. It was one of the Unseleighe technologies Niamh had learned to convert to peaceful use, and was the means with which Aedham was able to dial into the human array of computer systems called the Internet. Other elves questioned this link to the humans' world, fearful it might be traced back to Underhill by unfriendly humans. But Niamh had assured all that such a thing was not possible. The King had used it from time to time when he was feeling nostalgic, and wanted to converse with unknowing humans.

  A long wooden torch burned on the wall in eerie contrast to the technology spread out on the ancient table. Petrus might have mistaken the King for a young human man, if not for the pointed ears protruding from his curly mop of shoulder-length hair.

  Aedham took in Petrus' muddied condition, visibly suppressing a smirk. "I take it your trip was eventful?"

  Petrus nodded, meeting the King's eyes. "It was. We encountered Japhet Dhu, my King. They are here, and they are looking for trouble."

  Darkness fell across the King's face like a portcullis. He calmly tapped a few keys, turned off the monitor, then the computer. Its falling whine sounded like a dying animal.

  "Are you certain?" Aedham said, his demeanor now completely different. He stood slowly, rising to his full height.

  The look Petrus saw in his face was frightening, and one he had not seen for a long time. "Yes, I am certain." Petrus told him about the first encounter that turned into solo mud wrestling, and about finding the banners.

  "The son of Zeldan," Aedham said, pacing the floor. Sparks of energy flared around him, a sure sign the King was very, very pissed. "How dare they defile what they have already destroyed."

  "We pursued them to the edge of the Black Forest," Petrus said. "I wanted to go after them, but Odras urged caution."

  "How many?" Aedham said. His human clothing had changed to more elven attire. Gone were the jeans and T-shirt, replaced by a gold fur-lined robe with large cuffs, hose and short boots. The ring with the large letter A had also appeared on his hand. The transformation to his elven self was sudden, and startling, and a certain sign the King wanted blood.

  "Twenty, perhaps, according to Odras. I only saw three. A mage is among them."

  Aedham frowned, and continued his pacing. "Dammit all, I knew things had gotten too sedate around here."

  The K
ing's anger made Petrus nervous, and he began stammering an apology. "Forgive me, if I have failed you. I—"

  "You've done no such thing," Aedham said acidly. "You were right not to go after them." He stopped pacing and walked over to Petrus, putting a hand on his shoulder. "If there were as many as Odras says, it would have been suicide to follow them into the forest. We need our heroes alive, thank you. I need to speak with Odras."

  As if on cue there was a knock on the solar's entrance. "Sire?" Odras said hesitantly.

  "You have met some of my old enemies, Petrus tells me," Aedham said. "A mage was involved?"

  "Aie," Odras replied. Petrus repressed a surge of his own annoyance. Didn't the King believe him? "One capable of projections." Odras didn't elaborate, and Petrus was grateful. "They tried to lure us into a vulnerable place."

  "No forces to be concerned with this evening?" the King asked.