Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  Lucas looked about him, noting again the altar, the circle, the simple dwelling "Where is here?"

  "My home, where I choose to be, for now," Margot said as she stood up, letting the robe fall to her sides. "I may return to the living, if I choose. I will someday. I think I may have been waiting for this day before doing so."

  With the altar to her right, standing with the sheathed knife in her belt, he suddenly knew. Lucas thought himself dense, going by some of the stereotypes, some of which Damien seemed to fit. But this was the real thing, and stereotypes didn't apply. "You're a white witch, aren't you?" he said quietly.

  "Yes, I am a witch," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "In the truest sense of the word. But there is no color to magic, as it can be used for both evil and good. Like fire, which can warm you at night, or burn your house down. It must be handled responsibly."

  Lucas stood, and faced her squarely and triumphantly. "I know it has to be my choice, I have to ask. I want to be one too. Will you teach me?"

  She sighed softly, a beautiful, intoxicating sound. "If I could, I would," she said sadly. "Perhaps someday I can. But for now you cannot stay here. You must return to your home, and find the teachers there. It may take a week, it may take a lifetime to find your teacher, but that is the way of things."

  "But how do I find one . . . ?"

  "Your heart will tell you. As will the wind, the flowing river, and the crackling fire, and the wild things in the forest. These five things will tell you, if you listen."

  For the briefest moment, the pentagram on her headpiece flashed, as if sun had reflected from it. But night was already falling on this magical place.

  "But first, this situation, with Wolf, the Chaniwa, the elvenblood. You are standing in the eye of a storm, a storm which is raging about you, its course determined centuries ago when the elvenblood first met the people of the new land. I was one of those people. But you don't yet see the storm, not yet. It will soon catch up with you."

  "Can't you help me?" he pleaded, feeling like he was about to be left to deal with this completely alone . . . and he didn't even know the way home from here. Then he focused on the word elvenblood.

  She must be talking about Wenlann!

  "There are the good and the bad elves. I was held prisoner by the bad ones, along with a girl elf named Wenlann. She helped me get away, but I think they caught her before she could escape. Can you help me go after her?"

  "I may be a witch," Margot said, her arms open in a gesture of apology. "But I have my limits. I may not be able to help you as promptly as you want, but I can summon someone who can. We serve the same master, so to speak. He will come if I call. In fact," she said, her head tilting to one side. "I think he's already embroiled in this divine mess."

  Night never quite fell on Margot's home and circle, which remained illuminated in the dusk from an ambient light, source unknown. Lucas spent what seemed a lifetime, telling her what had been happening to him, how he felt, and where he wanted to go now. It felt good to heap this on her, this mysterious woman who seemed more than willing to listen to him; he had hoped she would have some kind of advice to offer, but the mere act of talking to someone who was listening, for a change, made the problems seem much less significant, and much more manageable.

  Not knowing how long he had sat there talking to her, he was surprised to hear a motor, like a lawn mower or a chain saw, coming from the forest.

  To his quizzical, if somewhat alarmed look she said, "That's my friend, the one who will be helping you back home. I told you he would come if I summoned him."

  He glanced up to see a strange motorcycle, ridden by someone who looked like he flew planes for a living. The bike coasted to a stop, and Lucas became acutely aware the thing didn't have brakes, but it did have a sidecar. Then he saw the logo on the tank, Harley-Davidson, and stood up. An antique Harley! This can't be happening. . . .

  The rider pulled up and got off the bike, then removed the leather helmet.

  "This is Thorn," Margot said, and Lucas was stunned to see he was not much older than himself. "And Thorn, this is the surprise I mentioned."

  "We almost met, before," Thorn said cryptically as they shook hands. "You and a friend, went riding on a Katana. I'm glad we didn't meet then."

  "Why?" Lucas asked, uncertain he wanted to know.

  "Thorn is a guardian angel, of sorts," Margot said, when Thorn didn't reply right away.

  "If we'd met then," Thorn finally said. "It would have been because you had died."

  "Oh," Lucas said, now wanting to change the subject.

  "And you were looking at those bikes in the window, in Albuquerque," Thorn continued, in a friendly sort of way he found disarming. "Good thing you passed up that scooter. Parts are next to impossible to find, and it needed quite a few just to get it legal. This girl," Thorn said proudly, turning to the Harley, "is Valerie. The sidecar isn't exactly stock, but I needed to cobble one up to get us both where we're going."

  And we speak the same language, too. "Can't we use the Gates?" he asked, but he was itching to climb into the sidecar.

  "I can use them, but they're unpredictable for me. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don't. Just lost track of some friends because I forgot that I don't travel like the flesh and blood." He paused, glanced over to Lucas. "You knew I was a ghost, didn't you?"

  "Oh, yeah," Lucas said casually, but his eyes were still on the Harley. "No big deal." Then he went over to Margot and attempted to give her a hug. Instead, he almost fell through her. "Oops," he said, regaining his balance. "Forgot. Thank you, for everything."

  "You're most certainly welcome," she replied warmly, then she turned to Thorn. "Where will you two be going?"

  Thorn started putting his helmet back on, and Lucas took this as a cue to climb into the sidecar.

  "The Land of Shadows," he said, once the goggles were in place. "It's a direct path to the land of the living, at least for me."

  "You may find that your plans are changed, once you get there," Margot said. "This is not business as usual."

  "Well, if they're changed, that's the way of it," he said, and signaled to Valerie to start herself up.

  Odras led them through the Gate to yet another world which had the look and feel of an Underhill moor. The thick scent of burning wood and leaves filled the air, though its source was nowhere in sight. The grass that was visible through the fading mist was darker than usual, and in the distance rose a jagged and snow-capped mountain peak. If they were in Underhill, it was a place well beyond elfhame Joyeux Garde and even Outremer. Petrus recognized none of it.

  "Ahead," Odras said, as his 'steed gaited briefly in place. He pointed toward a land of gently rolling, grassy hills, with a suggestion of forest beyond. "I sense two Unseleighe. No Wenlann, but she could well be concealed by other means."

  At the mention of Wenlann, Petrus focused on their task; the moor had an eerie feel to it, as if he'd been here before. But no, it just resembled the one of Avalon, with a little less light and, he found as he took in a deep breath, a bit higher in altitude.

  "This place," Odras said, halting his 'steed. "It reminds me of . . . but it can't be," he said, and pushed on. They came across the remains of a burned forest, the ground blackened by fire, the trees mere charred skeletons reaching for the dusky sky. Odras stopped again, this time clearly uncertain of where to go next. Then his eyes fell on the distant mountain, apparently for the first time since they arrived. His entire demeanor changed.

  "I lost their trail," he said, uncertainly. "The two Unseleighe I sensed, I think they belonged to another clan." He looked directly at Petrus, and when their eyes locked, said, "I made a grave mistake by bringing us here."

  "This isn't where Japhet ended up?" Petrus said, but already he knew something else was wrong, something Odras wasn't sharing.

  "We should leave this place," he said, turning his 'steed around.

  "And go where?"

  "Anywhere," Odras said harshly. "W
e want to be anywhere but here. Trust me when I say this."

  The old mage was more rattled than Petrus had ever seen him. What would frighten Odras so? Something so powerful that he doesn't even say its name?

  Saying nothing more, Odras urged his 'steed back the way they came, between the hills they had just passed. Then, around the next bend, a party of four elves on elvensteeds blocked their way.

  Unseleighe elves, Petrus saw right away, though he didn't recognize their clothing, or the banner. This was a different tribe, one he had never encountered, or even heard of. These Unseleighe wore bronze helmets, and their weapon of choice seemed to be the spear, not the sword. Their clothing was more animal skin than cloth, with crude fur breeches, moccasin boots and fur lined tunics. Tied to their 'steeds were more furs, either cloaks or bedrolls, or both. They seemed to be geared for living in the mountain that loomed in the distance.

  "We must escape them at all costs . . ." Odras said, turning around once. But coming up behind them were six more of the same, with the unmistakable protrusion of bow staves and quivers behind their backs. Odras halted his 'steed. From the new group advanced their leader, his tunic and helmet more ornate than the rest. Behind him was a red banner, of a design Petrus didn't recognize.

  "Put your sword away," Odras hissed. "These men are archers as well. We must talk our way out of this one, if we are to get out at all."

  Petrus gradually returned his sword to its scabbard and tried to assume a neutral expression. "Odras, who are they? Unseleighe?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  "Aie, Unseleighe. Barbarians. Of a clan I thought I would never see again." He gave Petrus an odd look. "Pretend I'm your leader. If we live, ask me later why."

  Petrus felt no need to question this, and the mage didn't wait for a reply. The leader of the group had come to a halt some paces away, and Odras raised his hand, hailing.

  The Unseleighe didn't respond; he seemed intent on sizing the two up, as if they were to be butchered for their meat. Odras dropped his hand, and both stood regarding each other for a time.

  Petrus studied the Unseleighe, who under other circumstances might have passed for Outremer elves; they did not have the pointed face, the blunt, ugly features, the hideous grin that were characteristic of Japhet's clan. But other features, along with their demeanor, told him they were not friends, either. They were tall, with long matted hair. They would even resemble Odras, if they were cleaned up and groomed, and renounced their Unseleighe ways. . . .

  The thought left Petrus feeling cold. The facial features, the height, Odras' resoundingly negative reaction to them, began to point to an unpalatable secret, one he didn't even want to consider.

  Finally the leader spoke, in a dialect Petrus had difficulty understanding; what stood out clearly, however, was the betrayal the Unseleighe evidently felt.

  "It has been a long, long time, my old friend Odraskonfor, son of Helias Dhu," the Unseleighe said, folding his arms across his chest and sneering at them both. "Why have you disgraced us with your presence?"

  Odras bowed submissively, and spoke in his usual somber, humble tone. "I come bearing information for our clan leader, Tekran de Ahnn," he said quietly. "If I have intruded upon your lands . . ."

  "You have intruded on no one's land," the leader said. "What you have intruded upon is our honor. De Ahnn is no longer our leader. He made the Great Way some years ago."

  "Who then, is our new leader?"

  A broad smile creased the Unseleighe's features, then he said, "Your father, Helias. He leads our clan. And if you hadn't shamed yourself you would be the prince!" He gave Petrus an acid look. "Not only do you associate with Seleighe, you babysit their children!" He shook his head sadly, expressively. "How the mighty have fallen, Odraskonfor. Tell me, did you ever pursue your mage craft? Don't tell me this fell by the wayside, along with your honor."

  While the two were impolitely bantering back and forth, Petrus felt a subtle shifting in the energies around them. Odras is up to something, he thought, keeping his own demeanor as humble and neutral as the mage's.

  Odras shrugged, a decidedly defeated gesture. "I fear so. Leaving our clan has been disastrous for me. I never pursued the teachings, and the few abilities I had, I've lost."

  The leader stared at him a long time, as if gauging his answer. "How pathetic," he responded, at length. "You don't even have the courage to fabricate falsehood." He addressed his men, before and behind him. "Kleasach! Hadderach! Pinat peturat . . ."

  The words of ancient Elvish sounded like a command, and like a well-oiled military unit the remaining nine drew and nocked their bows in one motion.

  Amid the display of crisp military training, Petrus sensed something released from Odras' general area, and caught a glimpse of it as it passed over the soldiers' heads, distorting the horizon briefly before it.

  "No, I never did become a mage," Odras lied casually, catching the leader's attention when it appeared he would return to the company of his men. "When Outremer, Avalon and Joyeux Garde decided to combine their armies in one large fighting force, their goal was to rid Underhill of these pockets of Unseleighe vermin, such as yourselves. And when the army advanced to this region, well, the obvious choice for a scout was someone who knew this land. That, old friend, is what I've been doing with myself."

  The leader looked momentarily confused, then one of his men called out; alarm spread through the ranks. Petrus looked up, and fought hard to hide his amusement. From one end of the horizon to the other, a Seleighe army larger than any that ever existed had formed a solid line of mounted elves, foot soldiers, and wagons armed with enormous crossbows.

  Odras, you clever mage, you. Did our army really have to be this big?

  "I have come to send a message to . . . my father, as it turns out," Odras said. "We wish to discuss terms."

  The leader looked uncertain, then after a few quick glances to the massive army beyond, he barked a few short orders, and the men lowered their arrows.

  "You will die for this, Odraskonfor," the leader seethed, though he didn't seem willing to make true the prediction right then. "We will tell your father what his son has done," the Unseleighe said, then pulled his 'steed around and led his men away.

  They had retreated a fair distance before Odras and Petrus exchanged looks.

  "I will explain it all later," Odras said, looking away.

  "I think I already understand. I admire you," Petrus said, hoping to meet his gaze. "I didn't know such bravery existed."

  Odras seemed unwilling to bathe in the compliments. "Now we need to get out of here immediately."

  Chapter Seventeen

  "You may find that your plans are changed, once you get there," Margot's words echoed in Thorn's mind. It's just like her not to mention the rest of it.

  Thorn instructed his new charge to keep his head as low as possible in the sidecar; he had never tried transporting a flesh and blood through the realms this way, and the transition from Margot's realm was tricky at best. A forest of oak shifted around him, and the Shadowland came into sharp focus. Valerie's front wheel touched down on the surface, like an airplane's landing gear kissing a runway.

  "First stop," Thorn shouted over Valerie's roar. Lucas had obeyed his instructions to the letter; he was scrunched so far down in the sidecar it looked like he had fallen out.

  If the Lord wants to give me further instructions, now is the time, he thought, feeling just bold enough to wonder what grand scheme the gods of the realms might have. Two other Guardians rode toward them through the trees, and pulled to a stop in a clearing.

  "Greetings, Hans and Lawrence," Thorn said, getting off Valerie. "I take it the game's afoot."

  "And you're probably wondering what the game is," Lawrence said, in his rich English accent. His shiny, nickel plated Brough Superior sparkled beneath him. Today he had chosen to wear a pinstriped suit of a style fashionable in Thorn's time. "Is your passenger with you or did he leap out during your journey?"

&
nbsp; Lucas had crept down to the lower recesses of the sidecar, and gradually emerged, like a turtle from his shell. When his eyes cleared the edge of the car, Lawrence and Hans both laughed.

  "Not the sort of ride you were expecting," Lawrence said, leaning over to look in the car.

  But Lucas' eyes had fixed on Lawrence's motorbike. He sucked in his breath violently. "Holy shit," he said. "Is that an old Brough?" His initial shyness completely forgotten, Lucas practically flew out of the sidecar and was at the side of the motorbike in a flash.

  "No," Lawrence replied stiffly. "It is a new Brough."

  "That's a . . . that's an Alpine," Lucas stammered. "You know, Lawrence of Arabia died riding one of these. Got up to a hunnert 'n twenty."

  Lawrence rolled his eyes, as if debating on how much to correct the young man. "Actually," the rider said, clearly suppressing a grin. "Sir Lawrence owned a number of them. This one has a top speed of one hundred five miles by the hour. Out here, of course," Lawrence said, regarding the Shadowland, "such measures don't really apply."