Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  Odras shrugged. "They are hardly a force worthy of attacking us here."

  King Aedham turned and walked to a narrow window, which overlooked the Arannan River.

  "We must launch an attack," the King said. "And rid ourselves finally of the vermin."

  Petrus slept fitfully, and when he did fall into a deep sleep it was already morning; he must have looked as exhausted as he felt, since the King argued against his joining the raid on Japhet Dhu. Time was of the essence; the King wanted to attack right away, before the Unseleighe had time to move. Yet he found the energy to convince the King, and himself, that he was fit to go.

  Wenlann opted not to go with the troops, to Petrus' relief. She was exhausted, and not afraid to admit she would make an unfit warrior in her present state. The King had ordered forty soldiers to take part in the campaign. If he had needed more he might have been tempted to appeal to the other Elfhames, but twenty Unseleighe opponents seemed a small lot. He voiced his doubts to the troops, as they assembled quickly on the castle grounds, that this scruffy band of Unseleighe would be any sort of a threat.

  King Aedham also announced to the troops that a mage was among the Unseleighe, and in the same breath reminded them that their King was a mage as well, as was Odras.

  "Our magic has beaten theirs before, and it will do so today. The nodes are better protected than they ever have been, and energy from one of them would be sufficient to counter any magical attack," Aedham announced. Fion, Captain of the Guard, stood at the head of his mounted ranks. His second in command and younger cousin, Liadin, was busy in the castle armory collecting weapons. A dozen new crossbows had yet to cure completely, and Fion had made a last minute decision to replace the new crossbows with older weapons.

  The troops were divided into cavalry and foot soldiers. The latter would ride to the Black Forest on two long wagons. Each mounted warrior bore a sword, shield, helmet and lance; each wore a long coat of chain mail. Bronze was the elven metal of choice, strong enough for armor and weapons, without the lethal side effects of iron.

  Petrus, eager for battle, had donned his mail. A surge of adrenalin revived him somewhat, but he still had to feign energy when movement was required. Hatred for the Unseleighe joined the different groups from the other Seleighe courts, and despite their slight differences in speech they had formed a formidable, cohesive fighting unit.

  During his brief stay in the humans' world, Petrus had seen weapons that could do far more damage than their swords and lances. Images of Rambo, toting the enormous M50 and Schwarzenegger in Predator flashed through his head.

  If we had one of those Gatling machine guns, he thought, remembering how it cut down a jungle in the time it took to draw a sword, there would be no contest. The Seleighe adhered to the traditional weapons, as the Unseleighe would never use anything but the sword, arrow and spear. To defeat the Unseleighe by using modern human weapons would be a hollow victory indeed.

  With a nod from the King the forces set forth across the drawbridge, and began the journey to the Black Forest.

  Petrus led them to the campsite on the moor. The black banner lay where they had left it. After one glance King Aedham said, "It is indeed. The same as Zeldan. You were right, this must be his son." He led his horse over the banner, trampling it with disdain.

  From the moor's crest they saw the edge of the Black Forest, a dense area of oak and ash that stretched over several hills; to the north was a bare hill which would make an excellent staging area for any direct attack on the forest.

  But where did they enter? he thought, gazing across the homogeneous line of trees. It all looks the same.

  "There," Aedham said, pointing to a thin spiral of smoke drifting from the forest interior. "A campfire."

  "Would they be so stupid?" Odras asked, riding up alongside the King. "What better way to give away their position?"

  "They're not stupid," the King said warily. "They simply don't care. Or it is a false fire, burning far away from where they actually are. That would make the most sense."

  A rumble of surprise rippled through Aedham's forces. Petrus looked toward the bare hill. To his horror a vast army had appeared, filling the horizon with black silk ribbon banners and the eagle crest flag. The opposing forces must have numbered in the hundreds. They all seemed to be cavalry; horses as black as the uniforms, elvensteeds that seemed to be as well trained as their own. Fatigue forgotten now, a new surge of energy swept through Petrus, accompanied by a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Aedham turned, slowly, to Petrus, and said with the utmost calm, "I thought you said there were only twenty."

  Petrus shrugged. "Give or take."

  Odras leaned over and whispered to the King. Petrus overheard him say, "Sire, as I am only half the mage that you are, surely you must see this spectacle for what it is."

  The King looked at Odras, at Petrus, then the enemy. His eyes seemed to unfocus a little, and glaze fell over them. Mage sight, Petrus thought, and turned his sight to the foe. But after a long moment Petrus still couldn't quite see what Odras saw.

  "It's a projection," King Aedham said. "A good one, too." He regarded his forces anxiously. "We must tell them . . ."

  "It would be more efficient," Odras interrupted most diplomatically, "to simply rid our landscape of this abominable sight." Odras bowed, most humbly. "With your assistance of course, Sire."

  The King frowned. "In many ways your mage powers are superior to mine, dear Odras. Now is not the time for humility. What do you need from me?"

  The old mage's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the army. "Power, Sire. Node power."

  "Consider it done," the King said, and closed his eyes. Petrus felt a familiar buzzing that vibrated up from the ground to his inner ear. It was, he knew, only an echo of what was happening between the King and Odras.

  "Aye," Odras said, breathlessly. "That is . . . more than sufficient."

  "Sire, look," the captain said. "They are sending someone to parley."

  Four horses advanced from a brief opening in the army's line. The fourth rider seemed to be the leader, and from the finery that adorned uniform and tack, Petrus guessed this to be Japhet Dhu.

  "Now," the King whispered, and Odras dismounted and took a few steps forward, his arms spread. Then he waved his arms, as if casting a net. A crescent of energy leaped from Odras' hands and sailed through the air, gaining speed and size as it flew. The group of four Unseleighe slowed, then stopped in their tracks as the wave of power passed over them, spreading wider as it approached the enemy's line. When the crescent connected with the projection, an ear-splitting whine sliced through the air. The Unseleighe army froze, then shattered and vanished.

  Standing atop the hill was a lone figure in a long, black robe. This can only be their mage, Petrus thought. He seemed disoriented, even from this distance; Odras' gift must have stunned him.

  "I know that mage," Odras muttered as he gazed at the lone figure on the hill. "That is Nargach. A powerful one, indeed."

  The four horsemen glanced back, uncertain of their next move.

  "These odds look a little better, don't you think?" the King said, turning his attention back to Fion. "Captain, sound the charge please. One unit of cavalry should be enough."

  "Aie!" Fion shouted, raised his hand toward the army, and rattled off orders to the nearest soldiers. In tight formation seven cavalrymen charged down the hill toward Japhet Dhu and his men. They hadn't gone too far when Japhet and the other three turned and ran.

  "Captain, we must follow them. Have the foot soldiers follow up in the rear . . ." the King shouted.

  "Sire, I must urge caution," said Fion. "They may have prepared an ambush in the forest."

  "So they may," acknowledged Aedham. "Be prepared, then, but we must follow."

  Fion gave the orders and the remaining cavalry poured down the hill, followed by the foot soldiers. Aedham's cavalry disappeared over the crest of the hill, and the moment Petrus had cleared it he saw a broad, well
-trodden path leading into the forest.

  The path narrowed, and forest thickened around them. Petrus heard the clash of swords and the scream of wounded elves.

  Rounding a bend in the path, they came upon a battle. Two Unseleighe had already fallen, and a third was fighting desperately with a broken sword. The single Seleighe cavalryman overcame a parry, and his blade met the Unseleighe's throat. Blood poured as the elf fell from his horse.

  The King rode past, leading his remaining soldiers down the path. The trees closed in from each side and above, forcing the riders to crouch over their steeds' necks. Sounds of battle drifted through the dense wood, and Petrus fought back frustration. He wanted to be in the middle of the fray, wanted to feel his blade connect with soft Unseleighe flesh, to spill Unseleighe blood. But as a senior member of the Elfhame, his duty was to remain at his King's side.

  "There," Odras said, pointing ahead. "That clearing . . ."

  The King and Odras were a few horse lengths ahead when an Unseleighe warrior leapt from a tree, knocking Petrus from his 'steed. A rock connected with his hip and pain shot down his right leg. Gritting his teeth, Petrus scrambled to his feet, drew his blade and confronted a young Unseleighe holding a broad sword with both hands.

  "Argan greched sargann . . ." the Unseleighe muttered in ancient Elvish, a tongue Petrus had never had the patience to learn. As the Unseleighe swung at him, Petrus saw that the sword was too heavy for the youth's slight frame. He dodged the attack, not wanting to parry with his lighter blade. As the youth lunged past him, Petrus planted a foot on the foe's rear, sending him tumbling to the ground. The broad sword was lost in the brush and the Unseleighe youth drew a long dagger as he regained his feet.

  Petrus took a fighting stance and met the Unseleighe's eyes. This was the little bastard I chased yesterday, he realized, and his blood heated further. Petrus attacked, and the youth parried. Off balance, and feeling his bruised hip, Petrus stumbled.

  "Mergach . . . Avalon!" the Unseleighe shrieked as he lunged forward. Petrus leaned sharply to his left, bringing his blade up. The Unseleighe youth ran headlong into the blade, driving it into his neck to the hilt. Ascertaining that the youth was no longer a threat, Petrus moved along the path, searching for Aedham.

  Seeing the King's back, Petrus called out, "Sire!" Aedham was pulling his blade from another Unseleighe.

  "This way," the King said. Odras rejoined them at the edge of a clearing, where six Avalon warriors lay dead or wounded.

  Captain Fion, one arm bleeding, studied a luminescent disk hovering in the center of the clearing. "A Gate, Sire," he said dejectedly. "Already up when we got here."

  "How many made it through?" the King asked grimly. "Who made it through?" Aedham turned to Odras. "Can you find where that Gate took them?"

  The mage nodded and stepped forward, the light of the Gate reflecting brightly off his dark features.

  "Should we follow them, Sire?" Petrus asked. He was no stranger to gating, and would gladly step through to continue the hunt. He did not care to see the Unseleighe escape.

  The King hesitated, considering. "That would be foolish," he said. "Tempting as it is, it would be too simple for them to kill anyone coming through. And we don't know yet where it went."

  Ah, but we will soon, Petrus thought, regarding the mage hopefully.

  Odras lowered his hand and strode over to the King. "They have fled to the humans' world, sire," the mage said, looking frail and tired. Extracting information from the construct must have been more difficult than it appeared. "I know precisely where they have gone, and when. However, this Gate—" Movement to his right distracted him. The Gate dimmed, shrank to the size of a shield, and popped out of existence altogether.

  Odras continued in the silence that followed, ". . . will not exist much longer."

  The King stared at the empty space for a long time, and Petrus stepped back, leaving him to his thoughts. Aedham didn't look beaten, only temporarily set back.

  "We will follow them," the King whispered. "We will follow, and destroy them."

  Chapter Four

  A month after Lucas turned fifteen, he was absolutely convinced that he was going insane. Not just going crazy insane, or having a bad day insane, or lust for the opposite sex insane, but literally insane, clinically insane, hopelessly, irreversibly psychotic.

  Lucas was fairly certain about his diagnosis. A year ago his best friend, Mike Vaughan, had awakened one morning believing he was a werewolf. The night before, Lucas and Mike had taken an impromptu trip to Santa Fe on Mike's new Suzuki Katana. The 750cc sport bike was too big, but Mike managed to keep it on the road, somehow, and in the warm summer night they went off riding. The experience was exhilarating. Lucas' hair was hopelessly matted from the wind, and it took a good hour to comb through it, but he was hooked. He wanted a motorcycle too.

  Soon, though, the urge cooled. The day after the ride, Mike told his parents, in complete sincerity, that he had shapeshifted into a wolf while riding the motorcycle. His insistence led his parents to send him to a private mental institution in Colorado.

  Within six months, Mike had been released, but he didn't return to school. Lucas tried to call him once, but Doctor Vaughan, Mike's father, said Mike wasn't taking calls. Three days later Lucas read in the paper that Mike had committed suicide by taking a hundred over-the-counter sleeping pills, an undisclosed amount of Valium, and a half pint of bourbon. His parents had thought he was just sleeping in.

  Now Lucas was the one who was screwed up. Would he end up like Mike? He tried to talk to his stepdad about how he felt, but it didn't seem like he was getting through. Alvin Tatum had a constant upness about him, which may or may not have been genuine. When Lucas tried to talk about his friend's suicide, Alvin had looked at him blankly. He might as well have been talking to a mannequin. His mother referred him back to stepdad. Lucas gave up, and buried the pain and the loss as far down as he could.

  He spent a month trying to find himself in psychology books. Soon he knew about the many forms of schizophrenia, as well as other psychoses, neuroses, paranoias, and an entire alphabet of phobias. He checked out a huge book entitled Schizophrenia and carried it around with him. His grades fluctuated between C's and B's, and his fascination with mental illness continued. Once he screwed up the courage to make an appointment with the school counselor, Mr. Burden. Lucas carefully explained that he was insane, and needed psychiatric help, if not anti-psychotic drugs. At first the counselor seemed genuinely concerned, but after a few questions about his family and sleeping habits, Lucas realized that Mr. Burden was suppressing a smirk.

  "There's really nothing wrong with you," the counselor said, looking out the window. "You're an adolescent. These changes in your body are normal, your feelings are normal. This is the way it is." Lucas returned Schizophrenia to the library, feeling empty, like a hole had been bored through him.

  The hole widened, threatening to consume him. Other students avoided him, and he didn't know why. He took to wearing a pentagram, an ankh and a Star of David, sometimes all three on the same day, but that seemed to make matters worse. He heard about the Axe, a juice bar that occasionally got raided for serving alcohol, while in his freshman year. The kids who frequented the Axe looked like they had just walked off the set of a horror movie. They wore black clothes, probably black underwear too, and favored pale makeup that made them look ill. Their attitude spooked him right away, and he didn't see how he could adapt to their mold even if he wanted to.

  It became a chore to get up in the morning, and an even greater chore to go to sleep at night. His mother made him chamomile tea with spearmint, but was otherwise unconcerned. Instead of being awake and anxious, he was awake and relaxed. He became an avid reader, favoring Anne Rice, Poppy Z. Brite and William S. Burroughs novels.

  In the second semester of his sophomore year his grades began to dip, the C's becoming more frequent as the B's became less so. He walked the halls feeling like an alien sent to study earth with only r
udimentary knowledge of how things worked.

  Then on a rainy, stormy night in April, Lucas had a dream that changed his life forever. They had told him about wet dreams in sex ed, and that they would be normal and a regular part of growing up. The teacher didn't go into too much detail, and Lucas had the impression there was something vaguely naughty about having one.

  On this particular night Lucas had finally managed to fall asleep sometime around two or three in the morning. In the dream, he was in a dark, dank castle, with a raging storm outside, walking through the keep wearing a long, black robe with nothing underneath. He was being followed by something, perhaps an animal, but definitely not a human. In a corridor where tall mirrors filled the walls, a gust of wind poured in through one of the wind holes, whistling a sad, eerie note. Something had joined him in the hallway, something which didn't walk, but flew.

  It landed behind him, wrapping long pallid arms around his chest. As it breathed in his ear, he saw it in the mirror; neither male nor female, it had long, scraggly hair, wings like a bat and two long fangs, which had disappeared into the flesh of his bare shoulder.