Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  He'd posted one guard on the floor of his bedchambers, and she snapped to and stood at attention as soon as he was in sight. On his way, he passed the mages' workshop, where Niamh and Odras were conducting a peculiar experiment with crystals and stones; mesmerized by their work, they didn't even look up. Down the hallway to the bedroom, he heard the baby's cries quite clearly.

  Ah, the joys of fatherhood, he thought, meaning every word of it.

  "I'm coming, Traig!" he shouted, opening enormous oak doors to the royal bedchamber. In the far right corner a nursery, furnished with gifts from the other elfhames, had been set up. The gold and silver crib came from Outremer, and the elaborate mobile of wooden Keebler elves which dangled over it was a gift of the Court of Joyeaux Garde. They were real, solid items, not kenned, the proper thing to surround an elvenchild with.

  The moment Aedham's face appeared above the crib the crying ceased.

  "So what is it this time?" Aedham demanded with mock sternness, but he saw right away what it was. Prince Traig had wriggled out of his diapers, and lay there as naked as the day he was born.

  "Young man, this will never do," Aedham said lovingly, picking up his son and giving him a kiss on the forehead. "What will Mommy say if she sees you running around like this, hmm?" He held his baby son up, as if offering him to the gods. Traig's fat little arms and legs wriggled, as did his small pointy ears. Holding the child aloft brought laughter and goo goo sounds; but this time it also brought a stream of wet warmth trickling down the front of the King's robe. Traig laughed, amused at dousing Daddy with the fountain of youth.

  "Oh shit," Aedham said as he gently lay his son back in the crib, and began looking for something to clean up with.

  "No, actually it wasn't that," a thin female voice said from behind him, followed by a sharp giggle. Ethlinn came up behind him, wrapping her arms around him, then, evidently rethinking the move, withdrew. "Peed all over Daddy, did he?"

  "Yep, he sure did," Aedham agreed. "Is this what they mean by the 'royal wee'?" He gave up on the robe and took it off. Underneath he wore cutoff jeans, much to Ethlinn's amusement.

  "What was that about running around improperly? You look more like a beach bum than a king," she said, deftly rediapering the prince, who was already starting to doze off.

  "Well, I had the robe on over it," he protested, but still felt half naked in the skimpy cutoffs. Which, in the bedchamber, was not such a bad thing.

  "I think I'll get cleaned up," he announced. "Join me?"

  "In a moment," Ethlinn replied, her attention focused on the prince. She wore an emerald green dress with ruffles, and a large elvenstone pendant he had given her at their wedding, looking every bit the Queen she was. He regarded his wife and son with nothing short of awe; she was as beautiful today as she had been when he met her in Dallas, when she was Moira, cutting hair at Skary Hairdos, and he was Adam serving coffee at the Yaz. Her glorious hair cascaded over her shoulders with its own wild aura. Tall and thin, she was a leggy girl, which had immediately attracted eighteen-year-old "Adam McDaris."

  We should go back there someday and visit Samantha, he thought. His sister, Lady Samantha, lived among the humans as a homicide detective in Dallas, where his family had hidden him from the Unseleighe. He had grown to manhood as a human, oblivious to his elven heritage. Others of the clan, Moira and Samantha among them, had watched over him until the time came to assume the crown of Avalon. Whether it had been luck or intuition, it was no small relief to the Seleighe of Underhill that he had fallen in love with and married a member of the elvenblood.

  From the rear of the bedchamber he entered their private sanctuary, the grotto. Walking into the misty tropics one easily forgot there was a castle beyond all of it. From the ceiling of the cave a warm waterfall splashed into a pool. Limestone stalactites and stalagmites formed columns, surrounded by a jungle of fern and mosses. The cutoffs dropped to his ankles, and with a nudge of his mage powers he increased the water's temperature a tiny bit. He stood under the waterfall, the warm water washing over him, wishing he weren't alone.

  When he stepped down into the pool, his wish was granted. Ethlinn entered the grotto, wearing only a smile and a sultry, hungry look that turned his spine to Jello.

  She eased into the hot water, the steam forming a thin fog on the surface, and drew up behind him, her long arms folding over his chest. If there is a true heaven for an elf, Aedham thought, this is it.

  He lay there, against her soft breasts, watching the waterfall spill down.

  "Would you like it any hotter?" Aedham asked softly.

  "Any hotter than this, my love, and our second child would be on the way in no time," she said, nibbling on his earlobe.

  "No, I mean the water," he said, with a giggle. "I needed to relax."

  "Oh, it's fine, love," she said, pulling him closer. "Are you worried about the Unseleighe?"

  He didn't answer right off, wishing the subject would just go away. "I have to be," he said. "But I've decided to stay here, and send Petrus after Japhet Dhu. I'm not leaving you and Traig."

  Her reply was a tight hug that pulled him closer to her.

  "Are you sure he can handle it?" she asked. "I mean, he's only what, seventeen?"

  "He's old enough," Aedham insisted. "And he is a born leader."

  "But would he ask for help if he needed it?"

  The question hung in the air for what seemed forever. It appeared to be a trait among the Avalon elves, his father King Traigthren included, to stubbornly refuse assistance until it was too late.

  "Yes, I believe he would ask for assistance," he answered. The King regretted appointing his best warrior, Marbann, Ambassador to Outremer—and to all the other clans as well, for the time being. He'd needed someone mature in whom he could trust and Marbann had volunteered for the position. Through him they had brought some of the best from the other elfhames, as much as the tall elf seemed to impress all who came in contact with him. Still, I miss him.

  Aedham continued, "And until Marbann returns from Outremer, Petrus is the highest ranking. Besides, I'm sending Odras along. If anything happens, he can work his magery behind the scenes. That old mage has seen more battles than any in Avalon."

  Far more, he thought, remembering the mage's colored past. Odras had begun his life as an Unseleighe, and had found their ways unacceptable. Once he renounced the Unseleighe court he spent his life trying to make up for the wrongs his brethren had committed by helping wherever he could. He continued on his path even though no Seleighe would associate with him . . . until Aedham had recruited him. It was a delicate fact the King had kept between himself and Ethlinn.

  "I suppose," Ethlinn replied, not sounding entirely convinced. "Where did the vermin go, anyway? I hope not back to Dallas."

  "New Mexico," Aedham said. "Odras got a good reading from that Gate they left open."

  "I wonder why there," she said. Then, "I'm glad you're staying."

  "I am too," he said, turning around and facing her. Ethlinn's legs drew up and encircled his waist.

  "What was that you were saying about a second child?" he whispered playfully into her neck, knowing full well Ethlinn could choose whether or not she conceived.

  Though distant, the baby's wails sounded in the bedchamber.

  "That was a short nap," Ethlinn said, her disappointment obvious.

  "Traig can wait, can't he?" he asked, too late realizing how selfish the words sounded.

  "Yes, he can," Ethlinn whispered. "You obviously can't, my love."

  What at first seemed selfish turned out not to be selfish at all, but practical.

  Brandishing an M60 machine gun, Rambo the Elf stalked the jungle in search of the enemy. He had just risen from the slime of the Amazon river, and after single-handedly breaking the backs of several alligators the Superelf walked silently on the muddy ground, ears pricked and alert for danger. The M60 was like a big cold iron battering ram, its barrel big enough to fit his fist in.

  A snake fell out o
f the tree, wrapping itself around his bare torso, but this was a trifle; despite its size, as big around as his thigh, Rambo the Elf brushed it off casually, as if swatting a fly. Then, a noise. He held his weapon tightly, his trigger finger poised, ready to discharge the bullet hose.

  Aha! So this is where the munitions plant is! he thought, elated that finally he had found his objective. He peered through the leaves of a giant banana plant. Sure enough, the munitions plant, cleverly disguised as a cookie and cracker factory, was operating at peak production. The cartoon elves in little white chef's hats tended the assembly line carefully, oblivious to the firestorm about to descend around their pointed ears.

  Look at them, Rambo thought acidly to himself. If they only knew what fate awaited them! White creme filling squirted from animated nozzles, landing on slabs of chocolate wafer as they chugged through the works on a conveyor. But Rambo knew this was no ordinary creme filling, it was plastique, a high explosive that could be molded into any shape. Rambo was about to foil a plot to destroy Avalon; the chocolate cookies were to be offered as a present to King Aedham, but spies within the enemy's ranks had leaked the information before any harm could come to the elfhame. And King Aedham had sent Rambo in to do away with the enemy, "any way he saw fit."

  If that's not carte blanche for a slaughter, I don't know what is, Rambo thought, leveling the M60 at the factory.

  With a war cry that would have made the Tuatha De Danaan proud, Rambo leaped forward, discharging his own special form of carnage. The elves jerked and spasmed as he spat fire at them, their bodies riddled with armor-piercing ordnance.

  Ah, the joys of battle! Rambo thought, at home in his element.

  "Aaarrgh!" Petrus shouted as he leaped out of bed. Gradually he realized something was amiss with his weapon; he wasn't clutching the solid stock of an M60. It was something soft, and spongy.

  He opened his eyes and saw not the factory but the wall of his bedroom, papered with Rambo posters. In his arms he clutched not an army issue M60, but a green and red stuffed dragon, with eyes that jiggled.

  Wow, Petrus thought, tossing the dragon on the unmade bed. He had actually worked up sweat during that dream. That was weird.

  The long hot bath he had taken just before catching some much needed rest had knocked him out but good. Lying over a heavy oak chair was a tunic that looked clean, and he slid it on, wondering where in the castle he could find something to eat. I could even eat one of those alligators I killed. His stomach roared loudly at the thought.

  But he had no need of alligators; on a stand by the door was a large plate of bread, cheese and slices of beef.

  Petrus finished all but a large handful, which he took with him to the mage's workshop. Ensconced oil lamps lit themselves as he approached, and extinguished themselves after he had passed. At the end of the hallway the guard snapped to attention, her eyes wandering ever so slightly to Petrus' developed torso. Though not as large and muscled as the King, he had put on substantial lean weight, and was still enjoying the reactions he got from both the female and male members of the young elfhame. The females vied for his attention, and the males, most of them anyway, found his new bulk somewhat threatening. When he wasn't blasting away at cartoon elves with stuffed dragons, Petrus could wield the heaviest broadsword in the elfhame, though with some effort.

  Now all I need is a little experience. . . . he thought, savoring the prospect of the coming campaign. King Aedham had planned to lead it, emphasizing the importance of ridding the worlds of the Zeldan clan once and for all. Petrus loved serving under Aedham, and even if he had served under no other king he knew intuitively that none would be as fair and noble as his king had been.

  As expected, Odras and Niamh were hard at work, and seemed excited by what they were doing. During their recon of the old palace grounds, Odras had unearthed some topolomite, a crystal used in magical workings. The old mage had mentioned something about some unique qualities in the combination of certain stones.

  "Aie, Petrus," Niamh said brightly, looking up. He was easily the shortest adult Petrus had ever seen, as well as the ugliest, with an enormous round spudlike nose and teeth like a rat's. But Niamh was a brilliant engineer, adept at blending elven and human technology, which is what he and Odras appeared to be doing.

  "You're in time to see a little demonstration," Odras said, leaning over a long wooden rail, inclined at a slight angle to the table. On the rail was a small wooden cart that could fit in his palm, with crude wheels that didn't look quite round enough to work. In the cart was a huge piece of elvenstone, and at the bottom of the ramp were two other stones, one the topolomite Odras had collected.

  "When diaspar, commonly known as elvenstone, is held close to certain other stones, a brief spark of node energy erupts," Odras said. Any elven child knew this, however, and the resultant spark was weak but dazzling. Then he saw what they were up to.

  "That's topolomite and amene," Petrus observed, studying the two jewels at the bottom of the ramp closely. They were in holders on either side of the wooden rail, about level with the diaspar in the cart.

  "I think you should stand back, you should," Niamh said, and Petrus put a little distance between himself and the table.

  Niamh released the little cart which, despite its slightly lopsided wheels, rolled down the ramp. When it passed between the other two stones, a large blue sphere flashed for an instant, making a pffffft and buzzzz as it flared and faded. Petrus jumped back, startled. This was hundreds of times brighter than what he'd expected.

  "Whoa," Petrus said, blinking his eyes. The light had left blue ghosts dancing in his vision.

  "It's more than just light, too," Odras said. "It's the same energy stored in the nodes. Only here it's not stored, it's generated. We may have just discovered the secret of the nodes."

  Now Petrus understood why they were so excited. The nodes, large collections of naturally occurring power deep in the earth of Underhill, were the source of the elfhame's power. But they were like stored pools or wells, and didn't seem to be renewable.

  This was altogether different. If we can make node energy, instead of just dipping into stores of it . . .

  His thoughts were interrupted by the King, who had just appeared in the doorway.

  "Aie, King!" Niamh said. He was already putting the wooden cart at the top of the rail. Then, "Watch this."

  The cart rolled down to the stones, with the same result.

  "Whoa," the King said. "That's node energy."

  "That's correct," Odras said.

  Aedham walked up to the worktable and picked up the diaspar stone. "That means . . ."

  "That means," Odras continued, "that with this combination of stones we can generate that which has never been generated before. At least, by elven hands."

  "Do it again," Aedham said, grinning from ear to ear.

  The blue sphere flared predictably, this time with Aedham visibly concentrating on the resultant power. The sphere contorted to an egg shape before it dissipated, a sure indication the King had touched it somehow. Yet Aedham looked disappointed.

  "It's wild energy," the King said. "I mean, the node energy is, well, tame. Easily controlled. Perhaps it is a quality it assumes when it ages, or something. This stuff, it's impressive, but I don't know how I could use it, short of a flashy fireworks display." He turned to Niamh, "That doesn't mean we can't use it. Keep working on it, Niamh. Odras, experiment with it. You have a great deal more experience with these energies than I have."

  "Aie," Niamh said, and Odras bowed respectfully.

  "Petrus, I wish to discuss something rather important with you," the King said. "You can finish your sandwich while I talk."

  Embarrassed, Petrus realized he was still holding the last sandwich. But he was still hungry; with his ear turned to the King, he wolfed down the remainder of it.

  Aedham led him to the spacious hallway, which was more of an informal gallery, where several examples of kenned human art hung; Warhol, Max, Haring and Ernst
on one side, and Rembrandt, Manet, Renoir and da Vinci on the other. At the end of the hallway was the King's bedchambers, from where Petrus heard the faintest cry of Prince Traigthren.

  "I'm not going to be chasing Unseleighe with you on this quest, much as I would like to," the King began, getting right to the point.

  If Petrus hadn't already devoured his meal he would have choked on it at this news. Aedham's casual delivery of the information also stunned him.

  "But, Sire, who will lead us to Japhet Dhu?" Petrus asked, but he already had an uneasy premonition of who that someone would be.

  "Your performance on this latest expedition impresses me," Aedham continued. "And it also convinces me. I feel you are more than capable to lead. Don't you agree?"

  Petrus didn't know what to say. Less than half a candlemark ago he had been trying to bore holes in his wall with a stuffed dragon; now the King wanted him to lead a military action against the most hated Unseleighe enemy of Avalon, and of most of Underhill.