Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  With whoever was in charge, with whoever was winning, Japhet thought wryly. Mort had also been with Zeldan while he was among the humans. Mort knows this place! he realized with relief. He was here before and operated in it, manipulated the humans, took advantage of their weaknesses. Mort had also been one of the few to escape to Underhill when Aedham defeated Zeldan, which in itself was either suspicious behavior, or a redeeming quality. It would be a matter of time before he determined which it was. This explained the little demon's smugness when they had been discussing possible flight to the humans' world.

  Japhet rejoined the others, who were still mounted on their 'steeds, barely visible in the darkness. The leader's own 'steed had remained where she was, though she looked like she might be nosing around the ground for grass to eat. None was to be found on this patch of earth, a rocky, dusty land.

  "Sire, look!" Rochad said, pointing to something behind him. Japhet reached for his sword as he turned around. On the horizon, creeping up from behind a range of mountains, was a deep orange sphere, spotted with pockmarks.

  "Is it the sun?" Domnu inquired. Japhet's eyes remained fixed on the disk, a fascinating sight. Its size and apparent distance revealed more of the land's vastness. Though this world was chaotic, and absent of the magic Japhet was accustomed to, its size was staggering.

  "It is not the sun," Mort said. "It's the moon, and it will rise and make more light for us."

  Japhet returned his attention to the little demon, who was standing casually off to the side. Indeed, the moon was already making it easier to see. The demon was a small creature, with thin arms and legs. Dark and green of skin, and bearing a close resemblance to the gargoyles of Underhill, Mort had the long, pointed ears of elves. Perhaps this was why he chose this particular form, if choice were involved. He wore no armor, as he did not fight, instead assuming the court dress of a high ranking servant.

  "The moon is not as bright as the sun," Mort continued, sounding confident, knowledgeable. He folded his arms with the ease and grace of an insect folding its wings, cupping his elbows in either palm. "The sun's arrival will be slow enough. It won't blind us."

  "You've been to the humans' world before," Nargach observed.

  "Once or twice," Mort said, casting a sly, knowing look toward Japhet, then looking away. "The humans can be . . . great sport, as it were."

  "What he means to say," Japhet interjected, "is that the humans are easily manipulated. I learned as much from my father."

  Mort looked ready to reply, when something else distracted him.

  Two beams of light appeared at the far end of the black path, grew in size, and started growling like an animal.

  "It's only a car," Mort said, moving to Japhet's side. "Probably some pathetic young humans, by the sound of their carriage and the hour of the evening. Carousing." The demon sniffed at the air as the car came closer, slowing as it seemed to find the end of the path. "Hmmm, and a very nice carriage, at that," Mort exclaimed as the car passed them and came to a stop. "A Camaro unless I'm mistaken."

  Japhet saw his men dampening their steeds' fear with spells of calming, and did the same to his own mount as this strange carriage pulled to a stop, belching foul-smelling smoke.

  "This might be fun," Mort said. "Allow me to indulge myself, Sire?"

  Japhet cautiously nodded his permission.

  A door on one side of the Camaro swung open. A light from within revealed a young male human in black leather. The youth leaned out and began retching his guts out on the pavement. Mort was careful to stay clear of what the human had been drinking that night; it made a sizable puddle.

  "My my my, what a mess," Mort said amiably as he walked over and stood on the other side of the open door, leaned his elbows on it and peered down with a feral, gargoyle expression. Japhet noted with amusement that his minion had made his eyes fiery red. "Tsk tsk. You boys haven't been drinking the devil's brew this evening, have you?"

  Indeed, there were two inside. The other didn't seem to be that coherent, but then again neither did the first, who appeared to be the one driving the vehicle. He stared at Mort, unblinking, uncomprehending.

  "What the hell?" the boy mumbled, apparently recovering from his illness.

  "What the fuck is that?" said the other, stirring a bit on his side, leaning over to get a better look at Mort. He looked like he regretted the move.

  Mort, however, appeared to be enjoying himself. If the two humans saw the other elves in the darkness, they made no comment on them; transfixed by the demon, they looked completely confused. They were not yet afraid.

  Mort meant to change that.

  "You ever hear of Satan?" Mort asked jovially, breaking into a low rumble of laughter. Flame appeared in a halo around his head, and two long horns grew suddenly from the demon's forehead. Behind him, flicking back and forth was a long forked tail Mort had summoned. The illusion was convincing, and Japhet had to admit admiration for the demon's ability to invoke illusions. And this was clearly the proper illusion for the "fun" he'd had in mind. The humans were terrified.

  "I don't know, maaan," one of the humans said. "I'm freakin' out, man. It's the Underwood Deviled Ham dude or something. What was in that joint, anyway?"

  "That's not the Underwood dude," the driver said, pulling his door shut. The halo of flame turned to burning snakes, writhing toward the driver's face. "That's Satan! That's the devil! Our shit's gone, man!"

  Amid the brouhaha Japhet sensed a black power from these humans, a force associated with their fear. The same force my father harnessed! he realized gleefully, remembering the system of energy transmission Zeldan and Morrigan had set up. Fear, terror. The very force the Unseleighe thrive on. Using a drug synthesized by Morrigan, Zeldan had induced horrible images for the unwitting humans, tapping the resultant power for his own use, and trading the rest to Morrigan for more of the drug. Mort's raising the same power with his antics, or very nearly so. . . . But does he really know what he's doing, short of scaring the life out of some human kids?

  "Rise! And be healed! And feeel the presence of God!" Mort's halo became less fiery, and the court dress shifted to black, with a thick, white collar around his neck. But the horns and gargoyle face remained intact. "I shall cast the demons from your soul!" Mort continued, walking after the Camaro as it sped away in a shower of gravel. It moved away from them at such speed that Japhet thought they might have an elvensteed; but no, this was just human technology, which had its limits.

  Mort was clearly pleased with himself, laughing heartily at the results of his work. They both stared after the twin red dots, until they were gone.

  "I'd almost forgot what fun humans can be," Mort said. "It has been so long. Far too long."

  Japhet's thoughts were on other things. "Tell me, Mort. What is this Satan that invokes such terror?"

  "Just one of their myths," Mort said casually, but already he was considering ways Satan might aid them. "Many things scare these primitives. Many, many things."

  Mort was pleased to see this fear of Satan had remained intact over the centuries; but the demon knew this was only one of many methods with which he might harvest terror, the nectar of the Unseleighe.

  The fear is the same, Mort thought as he watched the Camaro's taillights fade from view. Hallelujah!

  "We must see where we are," Japhet announced, sounding as if he were simply trying to assert his authority. Mort knew Japhet probably felt lost in this place. Even so, the demon knew it would be a challenge to stay ahead of the elves, in spite of his head start in assimilating the human's strange world.

  Japhet remounted and led the rest down the road. The uneasiness seemed to have left the Unseleighe, Mort sensed. Riding behind Japhet was something they were accustomed to doing, and they fell into its familiarity.

  Mort walked alongside, easily keeping up, as he was not truly walking; as a demon he was more spirit than matter, and ghosted alongside them as a matter of respect, staying a few paces behind Japhet's 'steed.


  They must think I am still their pawn, the demon thought giddily, sending his thoughts ahead, to see what might await them. Reaching through this atmosphere was like wading through a churning river, with currents and eddies shooting off in all directions. The magic here was powerful, but disorganized, no surprise given the lack of magical abilities of most humans. In a place like Underhill, where most of its inhabitants wielded magical power to some degree, the force was carefully parceled out and guarded in natural and manufactured pools the elves called nodes. Here the power was wild and untapped and, alas, mostly useless, at least for their party. The white noise of the free-flowing power drowned out whatever vibrations natural nodes might have emitted here.

  The Seleighe would thrive on this sort of power, Mort thought forlornly. No wonder they have developed a liking for these useless humans, and their primitive world!

  Once his mental probe cut through the noise of raw magic, Mort fixed on one location, a place where many humans had gathered. From this distance it appeared only as a flickering neon light accompanied by faint music of unknown type, but Mort knew there was amusement to be had here. It was a place called a bar, and inside there were many drunken humans. No doubt this was where their welcoming party in the Camaro had originated. Had they returned, and warned the others? Somehow Mort believed such an account would be met with ridicule.

  "Sire," Semion ventured. "Tavern ahead."

  "I can see that, you fool," Japhet hissed. The music was louder now, and the demon made out the distinctive pounding of rock 'n' roll.

  "But our appearance . . ." said Domnu.

  "It matters not what we look like to these vermin," Japhet spat. "When needed, we can change our appearance."

  If we know what to change our appearance to, Mort thought, not knowing where and when they had arrived. The brief glance at the Camaro and its occupants gave important clues, along with the bar's music, but it was not enough to fabricate convincing disguises for them all, if it came to that.

  Once they drew closer to the bar, Mort made out the vague outlines of something in the dark, just outside the building. Too small to be automobiles. The Camaro was nowhere in sight.

  "What manner of beast . . ." Japhet began, as he took in the strange sight before them.

  A row of about twenty of the vehicles, lined up as if they were 'steeds, stood at the edge of a gravel parking lot. A variety of smells came from the beasts: gasoline, motor oil, warm and burning rubber, a lingering human sweat. It was a strong smell, but not one that would come from anything living.

  "They call them motorcycles," Mort informed Japhet, who got down from his 'steed and walked over for a closer look.

  Mort knew the make of bike would lend important clues to the rider, and whether or not they should be worried about the occupants of this bar. He scanned the line of bikes briefly, noting the elements they had in common: High handlebars, low seats, bars to lean back against, foot rests. Some looked new, some looked ancient, with everything from spoked to cast wheels, fat tires, flat tires, thin tires. Some looked to be pieced together from several different bikes, the pieces not quite fitting perfectly, but enough to make the thing go. But most of them were Harley Davidson motorbikes, or tried to be. Then Mort had an idea.

  A sound from behind them distracted his planning, at least for the moment. A low drone at first, the sound bloomed into the full blown roar of a Harley Hog, a loud, rude two cylinder steed, blam blam blamming in the dark. Its headlight pinned them as it turned toward them.

  "Easy, now," Japhet muttered to his men, who had all reached for, but hadn't yet drawn, their weapons. "Let's see what this human has to say. Then we shall do as we please."

  Mort watched Japhet and Nargach's reaction to the newcomer; they weren't as confused as most Unseleighe would have been when confronted with human technology. The mage's probes reached forward, thin yellow wisps invisible to humans, and studied the motorcycle and its rider in intimate detail. It was the sort of scrutiny necessary for kenning, or recreating objects magically from some sort of original. It looked as if Nargach were preparing to ken a motorcycle, a singularly surprising notion given the technophobic reaction most Unseleighes had to any and all man-made machines. The bike rolled to a stop several paces away. Headlight and engine ceased together, and its human rider dismounted.

  "So what are you assholes doing around those bikes?" the rider shouted. He was big, even by human standards, and wore leather from head to toe. Steel studs in the jacket twinkled in the light of the neon, as did the blade he held in his right hand. As he took in the horses, his brisk stride slowed. He didn't look like he knew quite what he was getting into.

  Nargach continued to study the human, his energies swirling around the biker like a whirlpool, taking special note of the cold iron knife he wielded, along with the full face of hair that made him look vaguely doglike. Even the man's scent did not escape scrutiny. Mort was impressed with the mage's thoroughness. He's better at this than I thought.

  "Who the hell are you guys?" the biker said, now suspicious. "SCA or some shit?"

  Japhet didn't reply. Instead he nodded subtly toward the rest, the signal to prepare for battle. Semion and Domnu drew their swords, long polished bronze weapons that reflected the neon light. Rochad remained mounted, and nocked an arrow in his bow. Nargach also remained on his 'steed. If the mage were preparing any magical defense Mort didn't sense it. The biker saw the bow, the arrow and the swords, and stepped back a pace, his knife hand falling to his side.

  Three men came out of the bar, walking unsteadily, one taking an occasional swig from a large brown bottle.

  "Hey, Rat," the first biker said. "These guys are messin' with the bikes. Your bike. Ain't that softail yours?"

  Rat was a round man, bigger than the first biker. He did not look pleased. He smashed the bottle against the side of the building and took a step toward Japhet.

  Mort stood nearby, keeping an ear turned to the bar. He wondered what kind of fight this would be. A straightforward, physical fight had its advantages, since only the elves had swords. But the biker's blade was made of cold iron, and even a nick from such a weapon might be fatal.

  The breaking glass must have been a signal. Seven or eight more bikers came out of the bar, in varying degrees of intoxication, most of them wielding cold iron of one sort or another.

  Now what, Japhet? Mort thought, not liking the odds.

  But the leader seemed unperturbed. He looked back at Nargach and said, "Our presence has been graced by new friends. Alas, the light from this dim lamp is not enough to see by. Nargach, I think we should shed more light on this area." His voice lowered, "Much more light."

  A grin spread across Mort's face. The demon knew what was coming, and could not resist: a good simulacrum of mirrored Ray Bans blipped into place over his face.

  "Of course, Sire," Nargach said regally, before he dismounted. Ignoring the crowd of pissed humans assembled before him, the mage stepped forward, holding his hand out, palm up. A sphere of light the size of a clenched fist appeared, floating just over it. It had a brassy, yellowish hue, but was bright enough to cast shadows. Murmurs of alarm rippled among the humans. Mort tried not to giggle.

  "What the hail is that thang?" someone said. The sphere had everyone entranced.

  "Look deep into it," Nargach said, in his deep, magical voice. "You will see treasures beyond your wildest imaginings. . . . Just look, look into the light. . . ."

  And indeed, it appeared everyone was doing just that.

  The next second the sphere exploded silently, its yellow igniting to a white hot light that swept the entire parking lot, and a good deal of the territory beyond. It was a tool Japhet used when dealing with lesser creatures of Underhill. The light blinded the humans instantly, scorching their corneas like a branding iron. Some screamed and stepped back, holding their hands to their face.

  "Wha'd you do!" one of them screamed helplessly. "I can't see, I can't—"

  "Well done, Sire," Mort said, care
ful to compliment Japhet as well as their mage. "I might suggest a hasty retreat, however. That bright light will not go unnoticed in this city."

  "Indeed," Japhet said, glancing about him. His eyes settled on the mage. "Nargach, I have a plan."

  One of the bikers stumbled against one of the Harleys, knocking it over. A chain reaction sent three to the ground, and the other bikers moved around a little more urgently now, their hands in front of them, feeling for obstructions they could no longer see.

  Japhet and Nargach conferred privately, but Mort had an idea of what they talked about. To blend with the humans it might be a good idea to masquerade as outsiders, violent ones at that, so as to discourage humans from contacting them. Zeldan had done a similar thing among the street people, living among them with their shopping carts and aluminum cans, before putting together his final plan.