Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  Was that you, Master? No answer. Must be the stress, Damien considered, before turning his attention back to his work. No neighbors, no concern, he thought, calculating the amount of sound the gun would make. He pressed the barrels against the center of the old Indian's chest and pulled both triggers.

  "He's meat for sure now," Damien whispered, dropping the gun.

  Now it is time for us to get the hell out of here.

  The van was already running, the lights back on. Damien climbed in, did a three point turn around and drove sedately, as he always did, back to the highway.

  "Uh, Damien?" Marvin said from the rear of the van.

  "Not now," Damien said, miffed he hadn't used his proper title.

  "Ipsissimus?" Edwin's voice ventured from behind him. "There's . . ."

  Now that's better. "There's what?"

  "Well done, my human minion," a voice to his right said. "What do you do for an encore?"

  This one was not a voice he knew. At all. Puzzled, he looked to his right and saw sitting on the passenger's side a short but impressive looking creature with long, pointed ears, wearing a long, satiny red robe, holding a short pitchfork upright between its legs, phalluslike.

  "Holy shit!" Damien blurted, despite himself, and slammed on the brakes. The vehicle skidded to a stop. The engine made a sad, whining sound as it died.

  "What the hell are you?" Damien asked, convinced that whatever it was wasn't human.

  The critter frowned. "What's this 'what' business? Who do you think I am, Damien Szandor?"

  "I, um," Damien stammered. Then he became acutely aware of his followers, all of whom had chosen seats in the back of the van, looking at him. Was this a joke?

  "I am the Master, you fool. You just committed an atrocity in my name, dumbshit."

  "You are?"

  "Yes, I are," Mort said, speaking with Damien's voice. The effect was spooky. "Forgive the stereotype," he added, indicating the pitchfork standing upright as his forked tail flicked back and forth. "But sometimes tradition has its uses. I could appear as a chimpanzee if I wanted to, but somehow I don't think it would have had quite the same effect."

  "Well, I suppose not," Damien said, now starting to regain some of his lost composure. "Please excuse my . . . surprise. You have never appeared to me in this form. In fact, you have never appeared at all." The importance of what was happening began to sink in. "This is a momentous occasion!"

  "You bet your sweet patootie it is. I have a special task for you," said the little Satan. "Now, that man you just killed back there. I mean, that was good . . . really good. But it's his son we're interested in."

  So he was trying to reach me, Damien thought, cringing at the memory. "I should kill the son?"

  "Oh, no. We want him captured. You think you can do that?" Satan winked, and adjusted the red fabric around him.

  "Of course I can," Damien said. "But you didn't ask me to kill him back there, did you?"

  Satan looked momentarily puzzled. "We don't want Wolf dead." He reached over, and touched Damien's right arm. "Just so you know I'm real." He leaned back in the chair, added, "Ciao, baby," and snapped his fingers. In a puff of sulfuric smoke, Satan vanished.

  The followers in the back seemed too stunned to comment, and so was Damien.

  The leader started the van and slowly accelerated west on Highway 60.

  Nargach is becoming a problem, Japhet Dhu decided. No, he's been a problem all along. He's now becoming a bigger one. He assigned himself guard duty that night. It was just as well he was here, at the peak of a barren hill, watching over the ravine from a safe distance; this made a confrontation less likely, and right now he doubted he could defeat the mage in a magical battle. As his doubts continued to nag at him, he wondered if he would ever be powerful enough to defeat him.

  To provide some sort of diversion for his men, who had long since recovered from the exhausting battle Underhill, he and Nargach had kenned a female. Nothing fancy, simple but functional, and with the kenned Persian tents and carpeting to complete the effect, the men were able to forget they were in the middle of a big nowhere.

  At least, for now. Something is going to have to happen, soon. The men are getting restless, and so am I, Japhet thought, regarding the moonlit desert in silence, admiring its bleakness.

  Japhet had thought the Mage had never been to this world before. Now, he wasn't so sure. Nargach's whole attitude changed soon after they'd arrived; began dropping sly comments to the effect that something big was about to transpire, and that maybe Japhet's hold on the group was not as powerful as he would like to think. But he knew that the Unseleighe had a tendency to change alliances as it suited them, and Nargach was maneuvering into a position to take over.

  But then, Mort has yet to return, he realized, and saw the advantage of being where he was: out here, away from the rest, he would be the first to speak with Mort, and find out what, if any, progress he'd made with these thrice damned "Satan Worshipers" before anyone else did.

  His eyes unfocused, and he slipped into spirit mode, one foot on the sand and the other on the ether. Imposed over the gray landscape was the familiar horizon of the spirit world, where he and Nargach had confronted that demon of a motorcycle rider. That was another enigma: How had that little rat escaped from them? Japhet had never seen anything move that fast before, in any world.

  There is something else lurking here, something more powerful than mere human ghosts, Japhet mused. His new fear was that he would encounter one of these super spirits, and he would not be their equal.

  Is this what Nargach knows? he thought, and a new fear came over him. The more he considered this, the more likely it seemed. Getting rid of Nargach altogether might be his only option if this paranoia became reality, and that was not something he was prepared to deal with in this place.

  Japhet sensed something approaching from the spirit horizon, and with some relief he saw it was Mort. His relief turned to apprehension when he saw that Mort seemed to be fleeing something.

  Mort was virtually flying; as he drew closer the Unseleighe saw what was chasing him. A black, four-legged animal spirit.

  Mort's stuttering voice came into hearing range, and Japhet barely made out his frantic words.

  "Cat! Cat, big cat. Big Big Cat. Big kitty, take cover!"

  Mort flew by in a blur of red satin, the tips of his three pronged pitchfork leaving a tracer as he sailed past, toward the camp. "Big Big BIG CAT!"

  "Mort! Come here and report!" Japhet commanded, but the little demon didn't look like he was about to stop.

  Japhet summoned the energy to bring up some low-level shields. The shields snapped into place a good distance away, but the cat broke right though them. Japhet summoned a little more power, putting up the kind of shield that would stop an elf, but this only slowed the cat down; as if running through water, it continued its steady lope, straight for Japhet.

  Levin-bolt? Japhet wondered. If this creature just walked through those shields, what can it do to . . .

  Then Japhet saw why Mort was making such a spirited escape. The cat was a powerful demon, and he had not the time nor the resources to prepare any effective defense against it.

  Japhet was considering his own escape route when a familiar and irritating voice called from behind him, "Ha-Sowa! I am Nargach, your creator. I order you to stop and await my commands!"

  Japhet whirled. "Nargach, what is this?" he demanded. "One of your little surprises?"

  "Perhaps," Nargach said, with a sardonic grin. The others were coming to investigate as well. Now they were witnesses to this shift in power. I should challenge him right here and now! How dare he humiliate me like this!

  But the cat had obeyed Nargach's command. Did he say he was the demon's creator? Challenging Nargach to a duel right here and right now seemed rather silly.

  "Japhet Dhu, I would like you to meet Ha-Sowa. Ha-Sowa, Japhet Dhu." He omitted Japhet's title.

  "You are . . . the Creator?" Ha-Sowa said, with a di
sembodied growl that came from deep within the cat's chest.

  Its massive black head tilted as it studied Nargach, who reached up with one hand and drew a series of complicated sigils in the air. "Do you remember these, my child?"

  The sigils vanished quickly, but apparently their ghostly image had lingered long enough for the creature to read them.

  "And this?" Nargach said, and with a tiny spark of magic touched the cat's nose.

  "Yes I do, my Master," Ha-Sowa said, and seemed to radiate content, its loud purr sounding like the growl of a motorcycle. "It has been so long. And my purpose remains unfulfilled. Do you wish something else of me? Have I failed you in some way?"

  "No, you have not, my Ha-Sowa," Nargach continued, and turned toward Japhet, expression intense and daring. "This is not my first time to this land, Lord," Nargach said with undisguised scorn. "Or did I neglect to mention that?"

  "Perhaps you did," Japhet replied, feigning nonchalance with great difficulty. "I must have forgotten."

  "The human you call Wolf," Ha-Sowa said to his creator, changing the subject. The creature sat on its haunches like a proud lion, relaxed but attentive, its tail swishing back and forth urgently. "There are others who attempt to subdue him. He is a chakka, and he is mine to kill, is he not? I intercepted and chased one of them here."

  "So you have," Nargach said, glancing back toward the camp, where Mort evidently remained. "It was my way of leading you back to me. You did well to chase him back here, but you are not to harm the demon, or any of these comrades of mine, in any way. We have a purpose designed for you. Listen carefully . . ."

  Japhet had not known he was capable of such hate. Glaring at Nargach, he watched helplessly as the power of the clan began to shift.

  Not if I can help it, Japhet thought, temporarily setting aside his original goals. If he were to gain any ground in this new world, or even remain Lord of the clan, Nargach must die!

  From the brief chaos of the Gate, Petrus led Moonremere into the hot dry desert air, touching down lightly on red sand. The hills of New Mexico, splotched with green shrublike trees, folded in around him. Petrus searched for the power to conceal his party.

  Next came Thorn, who didn't need the Gate, but used it to ensure that they stayed together. He pulled away from the Gate, circled around, and began immersing himself in the trance needed to contact another Rider Guardian.

  Next came Wenlann, then Odras, right behind her. By the time they arrived Petrus had located the energy they needed. Odras took over, following the traces down to the natural Earth to cast the concealing spell about them like a net.

  "Well done, Odras," Petrus complimented. Odras quickly dismissed the gate, lest it attract unwanted attention. No sooner had they arrived than Petrus sensed something amiss. The earth energies felt tainted. He was no mage, but every Avalon elf knew the stench of the Unseleighe. And if their foul odor was here, however faintly, they could not be far off.

  "Easy, girl," Petrus said to Moonremere, who seemed jittery in this new world. He nearly asked Thorn about his progress, but had been warned against distracting him. Odras pulled his 'steed closer to the young leader.

  "I sense them too," Odras said. "They are here. But I know not where, yet," he said, regarding the horizon. Then he saw movement; a distant figure approached them swiftly.

  "That's our man," Wenlann said. "Looks like he's on a beemer."

  "Boxer," Petrus corrected, though both terms were applicable to this BMW motorbike. The rider wore a full white Bieffe helmet with visor, a black leather jacket and chaps. The white, red and black racing boots seemed more appropriate to a sport bike, which this was not, but still provided maximum protection.

  "There's Hans," Thorn said. "What do you think?"

  Hans came to a stop in front of them, pulled the bike up on a center stand, and dismounted. After taking the helmet off and hanging it on the handlebar, he walked over to Thorn, and the two exchanged hugs.

  "Not much cold iron at all," Odras commented, who had been probing the machine for its constitution. "Most appropriate."

  The two riders came over to the elves, Thorn's arm around Hans' shoulder. "Hans, these are the elves I told you about. This is their leader, Petrus."

  He immediately dismounted and walked over to them, bowing slightly as he extended his hand. "Thank you for coming, Hans."

  "My pleasure, Petrus. Good to make your acquaintance," Hans said in a German accent, and shook Petrus' hand.

  "We needed a very special bike to emulate, and while we don't pretend to be true riders, we wanted to consult the best," the elf said, hoping he wasn't laying it on too thick.

  "Well, you won't be the first to make copies of this bike," Hans said good-naturedly. "This is Nina. Will she do for your purposes?"

  "Oh, yes indeed," Petrus said. Nina was a beautiful bike, though looking older than he had expected.

  "Nina is a 1976 R75/6 touring bike. 750cc. Continental tires. Air cooled," Hans said proudly. As well protected as Hans appeared to be, Petrus was curious about what kind of accident could have possibly killed him. Thorn had warned him against asking such questions, though he had filled him in about his own demise with some pride. With other Rider Guardians this was considered bad manners.

  Petrus admired the beemer, nicknamed a boxer because the small working parts of the engine were contained in a cast aluminum, aerodynamic box; on other bikes one saw the generator, wires, everything, exposed to the elements. Even though cast wheels were coming into their own in the seventies, BMW stayed with the wire-spoked wheels, along with the fiberglass fenders and handmade, black teardrop gas tank. All told, it was a style that had been in use by BMW since the thirties.

  "She can top out at two hundred twenty," Hans provided.

  Petrus stared at him. That was fast, even for a motorbike.

  "Two twenty kilometers per hour," Thorn said, visibly cringing at having to temper the specifications with the correct measuring system. "That's about one thirty miles per hour."

  "That's still fast," Petrus said, still pleased with the bike's performance. "But as elvensteeds, we could go considerably faster."

  "You could," Thorn said. "But touring bikes, they usually stay within the speed limit. They're not in much of a hurry to get there. It's the slower, continuous ride they're after," he added.

  "I see," Petrus said. Perhaps, when all this is done, I can come back and grab onto a really fast bike, a real one. Like maybe a Ducati or a Triumph. Or a Katana or a Ninja or a K . . . The elf didn't realize he had so much trivial bike information in his head. Guess it comes from watching too much Speed Vision.

  "I think I have absorbed all I can. I will begin now," Odras said, climbing off his 'steed. "The BMW will make a most suitable conveyance."

  Within seconds, the three elvensteeds morphed into BMW motorbikes, each identical copies of Nina, sitting upright on their center stands.

  "And now us," Wenlann said. "We can be a little more creative, can't we? How 'bout something in blue leather?"

  "Of course, milady," Odras said, and with what looked like a little more difficulty, gave Petrus pretty much a carbon copy of Hans' attire, which writhed into place around him as if alive. He was glad his sword remained in place, shrouded in concealing glamorie, and completely functional. Wenlann wore a different sort of gear altogether, a blue and white touring suit with matching helmet and boots.

  Where did Odras get the idea for that riding outfit? Petrus wondered, casting an inquisitive eye in the Mage's direction.

  "I watch Speed Vision," Odras replied to his questioning look. Then he focused on himself, and ended up with a full black leather touring suit with the BMW logo on the shoulder.

  "Hey, spiffy," Petrus said, considering asking for more stylish change to his own gear, then opting to take care of this later. The scent of Unseleighe in the air had left him feeling anxious about getting under way.

  The riding bags they had brought became, without much alteration, luggage for the motorcycles. Petr
us checked to make sure the laptop was still there. It was, along with what looked like a comfortable change of human clothing.

  "Most remarkable," Hans said as he admired Japhet's handiwork. He climbed back onto his bike. "I must go now, Thorn. Good luck, to you all." Before slipping the helmet on, he added, "And have a good ride."

  "Will do," Petrus replied, sitting on Moonremere, who seemed quite content to be a motorcycle for the time being.

  "I must be off too," Thorn said, and rode off in the opposite direction.

  Petrus moved to put his helmet on, but immediately found a problem with their disguise.

  "Uh, Odras?" Petrus inquired.

  "Yes, Petrus?"

  "Did you forget something?"