Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  An unassuming adobe building appeared ahead of them. A black vehicle was parked in front of it, a nasty construct of cold iron the elves went out of their way to avoid. Their clan of five pulled up and parked in front of the cabin as if they owned it, while Mort disappeared temporarily, apparently to alter his appearance.

  A human appeared in the doorway, looking frightened as the bikers dismounted, regarding their surroundings with displeasure.

  Japhet waited for some time, eying the human suspiciously, noting that he didn't seem all that impressive. Has Mort finally erred in selecting a weak partner for us? He reminded himself that their choice was limited by the sparse population of this land.

  After a long moment, during which nothing had happened, Japhet grew impatient. Where is the little devil? he wondered.

  Still, no Mort. The leader was considering taking the matter into his own hands when a cloud of acrid, sulfuric smoke appeared between the elves and the human. From the cloud stepped Mort. The Unseleighe stifled a laugh when he saw that Mort had become a larger, taller version of himself, wearing a black suit. He had even assumed the pointed ears of the Unseleighe. Such a handy little helper Mort is.

  Yet after Japhet had briefly studied the demon's new form, Mort's size surprised him. It was not mere illusion, but an accurate depiction of what he had made himself, which told Japhet that he had gained considerable power. In fact, in this form, and with the power he saw lurking beyond it, Mort could have challenged Ha-Sowa instead of running from her like a coward.

  No time to muse over what this means, Japhet thought, and turned his attention to the exchange between Mort and the pathetic human.

  "M-Master," the human stuttered. "Is this your true image?"

  Mort hazarded a wry look back at Japhet, one which both assured and amused the leader. I know that look. He's going to toy with him.

  "Close enough, for talking purposes," Mort replied, but his voice was deep and amplified, the voice of a god. "These are my demons, my makers of evil. You will afford them the same respect you afford me, always, and absolutely. Do you understand, Damien?"

  "Yes, Master," Damien said solemnly. "I am your servants' servant."

  Mort nodded appreciatively, while Japhet suppressed outright laughter. Ah, so this is the mysterious Damien, Japhet thought, somewhat disappointed. I'd expected more.

  Mort continued, in his grand way, "I have summoned you to do my bidding. Have you the gift I requested?"

  With some irritation Japhet saw that he had not been kept informed of the deals Mort had made with him. What gift?

  "Master, we have not succeeded in fulfilling your request," the human said. "Until we do . . . we have this to offer. Please, come inside."

  Japhet noted with further apprehension that Mort easily decreased his size just enough to fit in the dwelling's doorway. Again, another display of power the Unseleighe didn't think he had.

  So let's see what gift they have for us, Japhet considered.

  The cabin was deeper than it was wide, and much larger inside than he had expected. A stench filled the cabin, which the leader found refreshing.

  "I'm afraid I'm lacking in electricity and water," Damien said, as Mort examined the cabin as if he were a military officer inspecting his soldiers.

  "I am not concerned with such trivial matters," Mort said, in that deep, booming voice. "What do you have for me, my servant?"

  "In here," Damien said quickly, pushing open a door. Inside was a crude table and a soiled mattress, upon which lay a human boy, bound with gray cloth around arms, legs and mouth. The boy was sleeping soundly, and Japhet had the distinct impression he had been drugged into that condition.

  "What's this?" Mort exclaimed in obvious displeasure. "Do you mean to say this child is your gift?"

  "Master, it is what you always wanted. . . ." Damien said, then looked as if he wished he could recall the words. "Of course, if there's someone else, we can of course—"

  "I have already made my request," Mort said, in a low, threatening voice. "What has delayed you in obtaining the human known as Wolf?"

  "But, Master, we must wait for the proper time," Damien replied weakly.

  "The proper time is now," Mort said. "And I can wait no longer. You will obtain that which I desire, or I will find someone worthy of my favor. Do you understand?"

  Damien bowed his head submissively. "Yes, Master, I hear and I obey."

  "Before midnight," Mort said, as Damien made his way for the front door. "Meanwhile my demons will remain in this humble trash heap you call an abode until your return. Then we will decide your worthiness."

  Already Damien was stumbling toward the van. "Yes, yes I will. . . ." he said, the vehicle's wheels kicking sand and gravel as he drove off.

  "Well done, Mort," Japhet replied, with a chuckle. "I don't think I could have done better myself. Perhaps you would do well to stay here."

  Mort turned, changing back to his original appearance before he addressed his leader.

  "You mean here, in this world? What have you in mind? Are you taking the clan elsewhere?"

  Semion and Domnu were listening with interest, as were Ruadan and Nargach, who seemed appropriately surprised and suspicious.

  "It is time to return to Underhill."

  "Is that so," Nargach said. "What has prompted this . . . swift decision?"

  "By no means did I come to this conclusion hastily," Japhet said, returning the mage's hard look with one of his own. "I have a plan. Until now, we have reacted to the Seleighe's defenses."

  "You mean fled?" Nargach said.

  " 'Tactical retreat' is the phrase I would choose. You may call it whatever you like. This time, however, we have an advantage. We have an opportunity now to take hostages, starting with that child in the cabin."

  "The Seleighe have arrived," said Nargach. "Taking a hostage will only give them a reason to intensify their chase. What strategy is that?"

  "You're not afraid of these lesser elves, are you, my dear Nargach?" Japhet chided mockingly.

  "I do not fear the Seleighe. They are all children compared to us. I simply question whether we should lie low in this land, consolidate our power as originally planned, and then act."

  You mean, Japhet thought, you wish to remain here so that you can consolidate your forces, using Ha-Sowa as a foundation!

  "Your father did quite well here," Nargach continued. "Why do you question your own abilities to do the same?"

  No, Nargach, you will not shift the topic that easily. "If it is your precious demon you are concerned about, she is more than welcome to accompany us to Underhill."

  The mage replied with stony, hostile silence.

  "That is, if she can go with us. You created her. You did allow for contingencies like this, did you not?"

  "Ha-Sowa is tied to this land. If we return to our rightful home in Underhill, she will remain here."

  "I see," Japhet said. "So it is not an issue."

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen," Mort said smoothly. "Forgive me, but I have neglected to mention, there are only three Avalon Seleighe. I have been so preoccupied with handling this human cretin Damien that it completely slipped my mind."

  Japhet stared at him, going to no trouble to conceal his irritation. This is not like Mort. Is he becoming more independent than is comfortable for us? "Why didn't you tell us before?"

  Mort said, submissively, "As I have said, I was busy dealing with these silly humans. That blast of energy you felt, it attracted my attention as well. I went to investigate, and keeping a safe distance I spied three Seleighe elves I recognized from Avalon. Two young elves, and a mage. Odras, I believe his name is."

  "Odras?" Nargach exclaimed. "But he's . . ."

  "He's what?" Japhet asked. He sounds like he knows this Seleighe.

  "He's in the employ of Avalon," Nargach continued, but Japhet suspected this was not his original thought. Something to pursue later, perhaps. "I'm not very impressed with his talents. If he had stumbled across som
ething powerful, which apparently he has, he probably doesn't have the skill to make use of it. I would call what we felt an anomaly, and something we shouldn't concern ourselves with."

  "I know where they are," Mort said smugly.

  Japhet considered this carefully, but quickly. Only three Seleighe, and one is a mage. We outnumber them. If we attack, their mage will likely attack Nargach first, and perhaps kill him, which would solve one problem for me. And it would avenge me, for the time being. This last consideration seemed the most gratifying, and it would reassert his power in his little clan. Leading victorious battles had a way of doing that.

  Japhet smiled broadly, an unfamiliar contortion on his Unseleighe features. "Show us, my little servant," he said to Mort, barely able to restrain his elation.

  The clan was clearly pleased at this turn of events; at last, it was something to do. Kill Seleighe. Before they left, however, Japhet suggested a few arrangements should the campaign go as badly as the last one had. Even Nargach agreed it was best to leave a magical escape route, which had saved their hides in their recent defeat in Avalon.

  First he instructed Nargach to set a trap of imprisonment on the cabin, should the Seleighe come and try to rescue the little human fungus in there. The spell was carefully laid and tuned to freeze any Seleighe in their tracks should they come near the cabin. Then, a short distance down the dirt road, Nargach drew up the power to create a Gate.

  It had started out as a simple job of organizing the contents of the shed a little more efficiently, so that he didn't bump into the old Indian motorcycle every time he moved; he didn't want to risk dinging it up any more than it already was under the inch-thick layer of dust. When he removed the cover, he stood in absolute awe of what he found underneath.

  What he remembered as an old, dirty and neglected non-running machine was now an immaculate 1946 Indian Chief, with whitewall tires that were actually white! Its fire engine red paint shone even in the shed's dim light, as bright and glossy as the day it rolled off the factory floor. When he pressed the front tire, he expected the rubber to collapse under his hand, but the tire was firm and fully inflated. The skirted fenders curved gracefully around the top half of the wheels. Hadn't the first one been removed, and sitting in the corner? He checked the oil, full and recently changed. The tank was also full of gas, when before it had been drained. And this smell. New oil, new paint, new rubber. New motorcycle? But how can this be?

  Then he remembered Grampa's parting words: You will also have a gift, a red Indian gift. The message made no sense then. It made perfect sense now.

  "But do you run?" he said to the beautiful beast.

  Wolf eased it carefully out of the shed, flinching every time it came close to touching something unclean. In the shed it was a gorgeous machine, but in full sunlight it was a dazzling work of art.

  And it started right up.

  "Monkakchi!" he muttered. "Goddamn."

  In a daze, he slipped out of the awkward konsainta and found jeans and his old boots. In the pile of stuff he had salvaged was an old t-shirt, and a thick jean jacket. He also found a pair of old riding goggles. Once everything was on, he turned to regard the two-wheeled miracle. The Indian purred as it idled, with hardly a vibration through its leather saddle seat as Wolf parked his bony posterior on it.

  Though he had never ridden an Indian before, he knew the shift pattern, the brakes, everything about it. But I'm still an injured rider, he reminded himself. Nothing fancy, now.

  He eased the clutch out and rolled down the dirt road, then eased to a careful stop at the highway. In spite of his recent wreck, the asphalt beckoned once more.

  Just a short ride, he thought eagerly as he rode out onto the highway.

  He rode perhaps a mile down the highway, shifting through its four speeds as if it were his old Harley. It was a bit wider and longer than what he was accustomed to, so it was a challenge to make a slow, wide U-turn on the highway, using part of the desert to accomplish the feat. But he brought the Indian back home in one piece, after riding maybe two miles on it, and reaching the phenomenal speed of 48 miles per hour.

  He parked it alongside his mattress in the shed, half tempted to lay her down on the mattress beside him so he could sleep with her. Then he remembered Wenlann, and her promise to come see him.

  I'm in no shape to entertain ladies. I've got to rest up, heal up, and get better. I've got a motorcycle, and a real potential girlfriend, all on the same day. Life is good.

  He drifted off listening to the cooling Indian engine go tic tic tic, a lullaby that sang him to sleep.

  Danger, Thorn sensed, at the edge of his domain. Wolf is in danger. The screaming warning brought the image of a black van driven by a very dangerous person.

  Thorn set off in haste, pushing Valerie to her limits, but when the distance to Wolf shortened, a fog of haze and confusion greeted him; it was like trying to ride through a snowstorm, against a sharp wind, with no clear road ahead.

  Then he remembered the pain Wolf was in. Pain did this, made this storm happen. Yet the impending danger, no, doom, that was about to befall Wolf kept him going. He had to find him, it was his duty. Through the storm Thorn caught the outline of the shed, and of another vehicle. The black van. They were going after Wolf.

  Wolf, wake up! Thorn shouted against the storm, but could not penetrate it enough to reach his charge. He tried riding Valerie past the dangerous people who were now carrying Wolf into the van, but was simply not skilled enough to reach through the levels without Wolf to lock in on. These are the people who killed his grandfather. They must be considering the same with Wolf.

  He was helpless to do much except observe the van's progress. Then up ahead, a cabin. The dark power of the Unseleighe lurked in this dwelling.

  Contact the Seleighe. He turned Valerie around and rode downwind instead of against it. As his speed increased, the storm receded behind him.

  Petrus had gone out of his way to show how angry he wasn't by lying back on the bed and turning on the TV. Maybe there was some local news about the Satanic group. Wenlann lay down on the bed next to him, not saying a word, and promptly went to sleep. Her deep breathing not only made his heart ache for her even more, he felt the beginnings of his own fatigue coming on. He was ready to doze off, sitting up in the bed, when Odras rolled past the window and parked his beemer 'steed, then entered the room with a flourish.

  "It works," he announced proudly. "We can Gate when and wherever we want to without tapping into stored Node reserves."

  "No foolin'," Petrus replied, too tired to say more. Odras sat cross-legged on the floor in the corner of the motel room, closed his eyes, and became absolutely still. This was a routine Petrus had observed many times before. He's meditating.

  Petrus had been dozing for half a candlemark or so when the roar of a motorcycle just outside their open window jolted him awake. Still groggy, he grabbed his sword, and was at the door before someone knocked.

  Odras came awake also, and peered out the window. "I don't recognize this rider, but he appears to be unarmed."

  "Appears" isn't good enough, thought Petrus, holding the sword behind the door as he opened it.

  "Good afternoon, hon," greeted the rider, clad in a one-piece leather riding suit similar to Odras'. Petrus didn't recognize her immediately because her bluish white hair was pulled back, a style suitable for wearing helmets.

  "Mattie?" Petrus asked.

  "I just thought I would drop these off before I left," she said, balancing a Tupperware container on a red Shoei helmet.

  "How sweet of you," Wenlann said, joining Petrus at the door and accepting the gift.

  "Please, come in," Petrus offered, once he had regained composure.

  "No thank you, sweet," Mattie said, returning to an idling sport bike, a sienna red BMW R1100RT. "I was just on my way out for a little spin, then it's off to the quilting bee at the church. If you need anything, just call the front desk."

  Petrus watched, thunderstruck, as sh
e tucked away a bungee net, then put on the helmet. She mounted the sleek machine and pulled out of the parking lot, hunched over the cycle like a nineteen-year-old kid. But when the bike hit asphalt she was gone in an instant. The roar of the 1100 dopplered away like a receding bullet.

  Petrus stood at the door for some time, stunned. Wenlann's laughter shook him from his trance.

  "Here. Have some oatmeal cookies," she said, offering the opened gift. "They're still warm." He bit into the gooiness with pleasure, as Wenlann remarked, "The look on your face."

  "Humans," he said, around a mouthful of cookie. "Never a dull moment."