Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  "Odras will go with you, as will Wenlann." The news brought mixed feelings. While he welcomed the experience and magical expertise of the mage, Wenlann would only get in the way.

  "I know you've had your differences with Wenlann," the King said, as if reading his mind. "But as you are the adult leader I know you are, this will not be an issue." Into the silence, the King amended. "Will it?"

  "No . . . of course not, Sire," Petrus said, stammering despite his efforts not to. I'm just not awake enough for this conversation, he thought, and turned his energy to finding something noteworthy to say. "Wenlann and I . . . well, we're not exactly siblings . . ." Thank the gods. "But we have more or less grown up together. I'll see about reducing the friction."

  Aedham smiled, a sure sign that he had, after all, said the right thing. "I knew you would come through. The most important thing I wanted to tell you is, this is to be a reconnaissance only! Do not engage the Unseleighe."

  "Aie," Petrus said, trying not to let his indignation show. He doesn't need a warrior for this, he needs a spy. I am no spy. But it is as he commands. I will do it, and I will do it well.

  "If I had Marbann at my disposal he would go with you," the King said. "He is in Outremer, and will not be back for some time. Your mission is to Gate to the humans' world, locate Japhet Dhu and his clan, determine what damage if any he has done to the human race—remember what Zeldan did—and as soon as you do this contact me on the Net. The Avalon account on AOL is still active. Send me E-mail. Do handsprings. Sharpen your sword. But do not, under any circumstances engage Japhet Dhu!"

  The inflection he gave on the last of his statement told Petrus what his battered ego wanted to hear. It's not that he doesn't trust me to do the job, he thought. He wants the privilege of beheading the bastard himself! And if anyone deserves the honor, Aedham does.

  "Aie, King!" Petrus said enthusiastically. "When will we depart?"

  "As soon as you feel fit," Aedham said, casting a glance toward his bedchamber. "If you'll excuse me, the prince requests my audience."

  As the King hurried off to tend to his son, the realization of what he was being sent to do came crashing down on him.

  The King is sending me after the Unseleighe.

  Bloody hell!

  Those two elves back there seemed rather persnickety when I mentioned Avalon, Thorn thought. I think I'll try them first.

  Underhill folded in around him, looking like the Irish countryside, without a sun and not much of a sky. Here the light was everywhere. The gently rolling green hills created no shadows in the valley, and neither did he. But a ghost didn't cast much of a shadow anyway.

  The Guardian allowed the sound of his motorbike to flow ahead of him, to let the inhabitants of this place know he was coming. They probably wouldn't appreciate a surprise, he guessed. Valerie seemed a bit wary in this new place, but purred on faithfully anyway.

  It's okay, Valerie, Thorn soothed. These are the good elves. They'll help us. I hope.

  * * *

  The long rest had more than recharged Petrus' batteries, and the prospect of leading an action against the Unseleighe added a nervous spring to his step.

  I'm ready to go now, Petrus had thought. He was in his quarters packing away his IBM ThinkPad when he heard a sound that was most assuredly out of place in Underhill.

  What the hell? Laying his computer on his bed, he went to investigate.

  The sound penetrated the castle. Odras, the King and one of the guards were descending the grand staircase as Petrus came down behind them.

  "Sire, what is it?" Petrus asked. The sound was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

  "It sounds something like a motorcycle," the King said. "But in Underhill?"

  "It seems to be at the gate," added Odras.

  "Petrus, find out what the hell is going on down there," the King said. "Odras, please recheck the security of the castle and nodes."

  "Of course, Sire." Odras dropped into a light trance.

  "Aie," Petrus said, and set off for the gate house at a run. Halfway down he realized he was unarmed.

  "Lower the drawbridge," Petrus ordered.

  Scoriath nodded and gestured to a guard. After some awkward clanks and rattles of the chain and a deafening creak of the massive wooden hinges, the drawbridge settled into place with a dull thwumpp.

  The rider had dismounted and now stood patiently with his hands folded in front of him.

  "Welcome to Avalon," Petrus said brightly, offering his hand. "How may we help you?"

  The man took Petrus' hand, and immediately the elf knew this was no incarnate human, but a ghost. A special ghost, to be able to look the way he does, and find Underhill, much less Avalon!

  "Avalon," the man said, his eyes drifting past Petrus, to the elven community beyond. "I'm glad to see that you are doing as well as you are," he said, returning his attention fully to Petrus. "I recall hearing of the . . . unfortunate fall of your home some time back. I am Thorn, and I am a Rider Guardian. I serve the Lord of the Land of Shadows."

  Petrus' estimation of the stranger rose by several notches. The Guardians, of course, Petrus mused. Odras told us about them. I never thought I would actually meet one. Everything about Thorn, his aura, his composure, his total absence of malice, seemed to confirm his claim.

  "I am honored," Petrus said, slightly humbled in the presence of this spirit. "Please, come with me back to the castle. Our King will want to meet you."

  Thorn walked the bike alongside Petrus. When they reached the gate house, Petrus said, "It's okay. He's a friendly." Scoriath nodded.

  "If I didn't know any better, I would say that motorbike is an elvensteed. She seems to have the spirit of one."

  This was clearly the right thing to say. Thorn beamed, his broad grin like a splash of sunlight. "She's my girl, Valerie. She has her own soul, but she's a bit nervous in Underhill. Unfamiliar territory, and all."

  After meeting Thorn, Aedham seemed completely at ease with the visitor, and afforded him the same respect he would a visiting King.

  After the formal introductions, Thorn spoke respectfully to Aedham. "I have encountered elves in the world of sun and body. They intruded on my domain by assuming the form of motorbike riders. They seek to subdue one of my charges, a man named Wolf who is in great danger."

  "Elves?" Aedham said, his ears pricking noticeably. "What did they look like?"

  As Thorn described the two in detail, the King's face darkened. "One of them was named Nargach, but he was not the leader. I take it you know of them?"

  "It's Japhet Dhu," the king said. "The son of the Unseleighe who destroyed Avalon." Aedham turned and faced the valley beyond the moat, his expression betraying deep, grim thoughts. When the King bathed himself with darkness like this, Petrus got nervous. Everyone remained silent.

  Odras stepped forward, curious about the motorcycle. "May I?" he asked before approaching Valerie.

  "Certainly," Thorn replied.

  Odras examined the bike. "What is this called?" he asked.

  "The front fork," Petrus provided.

  Odras looked up from the bike, his face on fire with a new idea. "Petrus, imagine, if you will, amene and topolomite crystals located on the 'front forks.' "

  Of course. "And an elvenstone on the wheel."

  "No, several elvenstones," Odras said. "This could get rather exciting."

  Thorn looked confused, but didn't ask for clarification.

  The king spoke, drawing their attention away from the bike. "I would like to offer an alliance," he said to Thorn. "With you, if it is within your domain."

  "I was going to suggest the same," Thorn said, smiling shyly. "But I didn't feel bold enough. I don't know what help I would be, as I am no warrior, and my powers are limited. I am not a violent spirit."

  "That's all right, we'll make up for it!" Petrus blurted without thinking. Odras flinched, then grinned, a eerie sight on an old elven mage. The King visibly suppressed a laugh. Petrus shrugged, as if
he had only stated the obvious.

  "Petrus speaks for us all," the King said, "And I must tell you up front, I intend to kill this clan of Unseleighe."

  "I have no problem with that," Thorn said. "They are a threat to Wolf, and it is my duty to protect him." He extended his hand. Aedham gripped it.

  "Done," King Aedham said.

  Lucas woke with images haunting him from the night before, feeling a little sick and nervous. As he stared at his bedroom ceiling he wanted to feel the same elation he'd experienced the night before at having been admitted into the secret, mysterious cult. Instead he felt tainted, an unnerving feeling after having pledged himself to this thing.

  Yet, he felt stuck in it. They threatened to kill me. For what? Turning them in? What would they do that would . . .

  His thoughts trailed off into fear as he recalled the blood he'd drunk during the little ritual. It'd had a strange taste to it, but what was he saying? He didn't know what blood tasted like, except for what he might have had in a rare steak, or . . .

  From my own cuts. When I was shaving, and whacked myself good on my upper lip. He'd tasted blood then.

  He started feeling nauseous, and got up to go to the bathroom in case he had to puke. But once he got there the feeling went away. Still, he felt dirty, and got into the shower, where he washed himself until the hot water ran out.

  Afterwards he decided to do something about this, instead of just feeling scared. The next logical step was, get out of this thing. How much of a hold do they really have on me?

  Chapter Ten

  The Creator roused Ha-Sowa from a long , fitful sleep, and said: Another Chaniwa medicine man has come of age. A Chaniwa chakka.

  It had been the reason for his being, Ha-Sowa recalled in the deep, misty recesses of his memory. The creator, Nargak, had summoned him from a mire of other demons, some formed, some not. The creator had pulled him from the chaos and given him a purpose. First, to kill the chakka. Second, to harass and torment the Chaniwa. Ha-Sowa had learned from the world of matter, and the strange beings who lurked there. He, like other spirits, had been attracted to this desert land of pinyon and juniper; the veil between the worlds was thin here.

  Ha-Sowa felt other stirrings. Nargak, the creator, was near.

  The demon stood in a typical feline stance, tail flicking, eyes narrowed.

  The hibernation was over.

  Ha-Sowa was fully awake, and restless.

  Damien kept a black Ford van, circa 1977, in a rented warehouse near downtown Albuquerque. He used the van for special errands only, when Satan's work promised to be dirty. Tonight promised to be dirty indeed, and he didn't want anything traced back to the Temple of Satan.

  "Keep it down," Damien said irritably as he drove the van down darkened streets, toward Highway 60. Heather was trying to snort a line of heroin straight out of a one-zip baggie using a soda straw, in plain sight of the sparse traffic around them.

  Marvin and Edwin sat rather quietly in the back, a quiet he decided to savor. Satanic Panic was not going to be with them tonight, for which he was grateful. Damien had never seen anyone ramble non stop, for hours, and end up saying absolutely nothing.

  Damien had ordered street clothes, rather than robes, in case they did get pulled over. Heather passed the bag of heroin back to Marvin, who did his share and passed it to Edwin. Damien no longer needed the drug to do the work.

  That kid had better still be gone, Damien thought, not looking forward to canceling tonight if the son had decided to show up. During a brief drive-by at sundown Damien had seen that the bike was not there. On this trip he had brought a small but costly infrared scope. A half hour later they were parked on the highway down from the old Indian's trailer. Damien looked through the IR and saw that the Harley was still gone. He checked his tools; ritual blade sheathed at his belt, the baseball bat on the floor between the seats, the Ruger in the cross draw shoulder harness, should things go awry. His last precaution was to put on surgical rubber gloves, and then to watch over the others to make sure they got theirs on.

  Looking good, he thought, driving the van up the short dirt drive. In the trailer was a single dim light, perhaps a TV. He pulled the van up and stopped, letting it idle, and put on the brights. Experience had shown him that it helped when the sacrifice was somewhat blinded before the first blow.

  Ah, but he is a frail old man, Damien thought. Must be careful not to kill him right away.

  It bothered him that Satan was not in his head this evening, but such was often the case in times of the Sacrifice. The first few times the Master'd had to coach him through the routine, but now he knew what to do. That the others were watching, letting him do the work, gratified him to no end. I am, after all, the Ipsissimus. The leader. It's my job.

  For a time nothing happened as they sat in the van, the headlights illuminating the dingy little trailer perfectly. Damien had started to wonder if anyone was home when the trailer door opened up, and the old Indian stood framed in the doorway, wearing some kind of robe, holding a double barreled shotgun and aiming it toward them at waist level.

  "Shit!" Marvin exclaimed. "Let's get out of here."

  "Just hold on," Damien said, feeling bold. He turned the engine off, but left the brights on. Then he got out, but remained behind the van's open driver door.

  "Uh . . . excuse me. We're lost," Damien said, projecting as much innocence as he could. "Sorry to bother you, but do you know where Mountainaire is?"

  The Indian stood there momentarily, then lay the shotgun down and stepped down from the trailer. Slowly, as if he'd just wakened, he walked toward the van, holding his hand up against the light.

  "Now," Damien told his group, reaching for the ball bat. "Look sharp."

  "You go . . . up the highway. About twenty miles . . ." the old Indian began so say, but the baseball bat slugging him in the stomach prevented any more words. He doubled over, groaning, and fell to his knees. Damien smacked him in the back of the head. The Indian collapsed on the ground.

  "Oh, hell," Damien said, disappointed. I hope I didn't kill him.

  Damien turned him over. His mouth was hanging open, but he breathed ever so shallowly.

  "The ritual has begun!" Damien shouted to the rest, the signal to begin unloading the few odds and ends they had brought to add atmosphere to the ritual. What ensued became a bit of a blur, but strangely organized as they methodically set up thirteen black candles in a circle around their sacrifice. Heather giggled hysterically.

  The candles were lit, and Damien reached in and turned the van's lights off. The group was standing around, waiting, expecting. Edwin handed him the goblet, reminding him what he had to do next.

  "In the name of Satan our master, I do sacrifice thee!" Damien intoned.

  Without really thinking, or feeling, he unsheathed his knife and cut the old Indian's throat, deep into the artery. A fountain of blood spewed momentarily, caught in the light of a candle flame. Damien caught it in the goblet. When the goblet was half full he stood to his full height, holding it aloft.

  "From this we drink our reward from the great one," Damien said, trying to remember the ritual he had prepared for this event. It was to be a condensed version of what they normally did; they had almost been caught last time. Oh, to hell with it, he thought. We've done what we came here to do.

  "Here, in the fourth hour of darkness, we have made our sacrifice. We have served the Master!" He drank and passed the goblet to Edwin.

  "We have served the Master . . ." Edwin said.

  "We have served the Master . . ." Heather said, and giggled.

  Damien waited until Marvin had drunk. "Okay, we're finished. Get everything back in the van. Marvin, help me move him inside the trailer," he said, grabbing the Indian's arms. Marvin obediently opened the trailer door and took up the feet, and without much effort they moved the body inside. Leaving him out in the open, with the black candles still burning, was tempting; it was always a thrill to see his handiwork splashed across the front
page of a newspaper, with captions including such hysterical phrases as "Devil Worshipers" or "Satanic Crime." But the sensible thing to do was to conceal the body somewhat, to delay discovery a bit.

  The shotgun caught his eye as the flickering gray light of a black and white television passed over it. The sight made his blood boil; the weapon had been intended for him.

  Marvin eased out of the trailer as Damien picked up the weapon.

  Wait. Kill the son, too, a voice in his head said, faint like a whisper . . . then it was gone.