Aedham turned grim. "What would that be?"
That is where Llan's comprehension of matters ended. Samantha began a long description of a type of sport the humans indulged in, but it was not played with a ball or mallet but those most mysterious of all human inventions, lasers. Niamh had demonstrated one in his workshop, and the apprentice was astonished to learn that it employed no node power to generate a hot, tight beam, intense enough to burn wood and even iron. The game sounded dangerous, until she explained to Llan directly, evidently sensing his misunderstanding, that the lasers were not high-powered, and were used as a means of direction. Another magical beam of "you vee" did the actual scoring . . . or something. It was a game that humans paid coin to play, and there were no spectators. The game took place in an arena of mazes, where it was honorable to hide, but not honorable to strike or touch other players. Once he got past this confusing point he began to understand. It was a game of stealth and skill, not brute force, like the kind Llan was familiar with.
It sounded like great fun, even after she mentioned the Unseleighe Court.
"I would not come to you with this unless I was certain," she explained, and Aedham listened intently, visibly disturbed at the mention of the court that had conquered his kingdom and murdered his family. "And the children. They are disappearing with increasing regularity, but besides the kids' parents, the humans don't seem to be bothered much. It's why I took this particular job on, you see. I thought it was a matter of human indifference, which I wanted to do something about."
"What evidence of the Unseleighe court have you found?" Aedham asked.
"Well, a few things. At one of these arenas was a darkness, an undeniable force that felt much like Japhet's work. Something that draws on fear and hate."
"That just about describes all Unseleighe workings," the King replied.
"True, but this instance, it had a particular flavor to it. Like one we had encountered before. The house, for instance, where Daryl Bendis nearly died. It was very much like that."
"You are certain," the King asked, but it did not really come across as a question. Yes, she is certain, Llan thought.
Niamh stood and approached the scream, as if to get a better view. A stone circle had appeared on the device, which the Engineer took an extreme interest in. Llan knew that the humans used many of these stone circles in an attempt to reach Underhill, but most ended up being simply concentrated pockets of human-raised magical energy.
Aedham continued, "Granted, if Unseleighe forces are prowling the Earth once again, and even though we eliminated Japhet Dhu and his father, I don't doubt this could happen." Aedham shifted in his chair, and Llan sensed a vulnerability in the King he'd never seen before. Then again, he'd never heard him discuss the Unseleighe in such straightforward terms. "But my duty, as always, is to the elfhame."
"And as you have said before," Samantha pointed out, "the Unseleighe, at least this particular clan, would never have penetrated the human realm if they hadn't been searching for you."
Aedham sighed, an indication that his sister might be winning the argument after all. "I agree, we have some responsibility to protect the humans from this disease, but let me point out that we are not responsible for the evil in their world. Most is of their own doing."
"Most, but not all," Sammi replied, undeterred. "Humans do not have the capability to transport an archeological site from one continent to another overnight, through mundane means." She glanced at the big scream. "Much less through the largest Gate I have ever seen or, in this case, felt."
"What?" Aedham followed her gaze the images on the scream. "Niamh, turn that up, would you?"
With a small surge of magic, Niamh urged the scream to be louder. The human's voice boomed from small black boxes on the walls and floor.
". . . was discovered early this morning by commuters after an evening of violent thunderstorms. Local officials have no explanation for the sudden appearance of several dozen stone megaliths, each weighing up to thirty tons . . ."
"Bloody hell!" the King exclaimed. "That's Stonehenge!"
"Indeed, it is," she said, smugly. "And what's more, it has appeared, of all places, in the parking lot of the next Lazerwarz arena." She explained her voyage in a rocking airship, the contact with a human she would be working with, and her settling in at an inn. She described the blast of energy that ripped through the world and deposited something nearby. She went to investigate, and found this stone circle where it simply should not have been.
"And you sensed Unseleighe forces here," Aedham said reluctantly.
"Thick enough to scoop up in cauldrons, bucko," Sammi said. "But I wonder if the Unseleighe can even manage this degree of power."
"They have surprised us before," Aedham said.
"But not quite like this. It's obviously Stonehenge. But look how they're carefully avoiding using the name."
"Perhaps they don't know yet," Aedham said. "I mean, this just happened. It's not even the same time of day in Britain.
Niamh, change the channels to BBC, would you?"
The Engineer reached over to the cluster of crystals. "Changing channels" appeared to be more involved than just nudging the device with magic. The scream flickered, then settled on another image.
The scene British television presented was similar to the local one, only instead of the circle of trilithons there stood a circle of black asphalt, in stark contrast with the green countryside. A small crowd had developed, and a human voice spoke, ". . . not certain if this is related to the crop circle phenomenon or not, but this certainly calls into question the possibility of forces beyond our comprehension . . ."
"It looks like they swapped both features spontaneously," the King observed, still sounding mystified. "I wonder if . . . have they made the connection yet?"
"It doesn't look that way. But they will." Sammi sounded resigned. Llan knew little about the work elves did with humans, but even he could see this was more than Lady Samantha had bargained for. "It makes no sense that they would intentionally attract attention to this place, if they are kidnapping children through these arenas."
"The Unseleighe motives have never been reasonable. Perhaps they are simply trying to hide in plain sight."
"Perhaps." Sammi paused, then added, "You were saying about evidence of Unseleighe activity?"
* * *
In a niche carved out of Underhill's land of the Unformed, in the palace he had created for himself and his new kingdom, in the audience chamber where he sat on a massive bronze throne, Mort fumed.
Stonehenge?
Mort viewed the fragmented image in the crystal with disbelief, convinced now that the gods themselves were capable of unlimited stupidity.
Stone . . . henge?
It had to be a joke. Morrigan would find such a prank amusing, particularly if she saw him now, he was certain. She had transported across the globe one of the most famous human archeological sites and dropped it at his very doorstep, where he least wanted to attract attention. Just wonderful. His amazement centered not on the fact she could pull such a stunt off, but that she would do it, right here, a week before his arena was about to open.
It was no joke. With a wave, he dismissed the image, and the crystal blinked into darkness.
He wanted to kill her, and would do so if she could be killed, or at least berate her for the sheer stupidity of the situation. Yet, he could not.
Why? Because he had asked her to do it.
Not in so many words, of course, but his challenge was vague enough that any fool might have made anything of it they wanted. Evidently, Morrigan was any fool, and had done the one thing that would cause the most irritation, with the least possibility for retribution.
"She will be calling on me any moment now," he muttered to the empty audience chamber, aware of the gentle susurrations his words made on the stone surfaces around him. He'd built the chamber with acoustics in mind so as to make his physical voice loud, booming and frightening, to impress upon his hum
an captives his omnipotence. It didn't matter that he could extinguish their life with a thought, they wouldn't know that yet, and if he demonstrated his ability he would be out a potentially useful human slave. His few attempts at torture were fruitless; he couldn't find the happy medium between not enough pain and too much, and ended up with a handful of psychotic, blathering youths with mush for brains. So he made do with the voice, a trick he'd learned while working for Zeldan, back when they were trying to find the cowardly Avalon High Court.
But that was so much history now. The search for King Aedham had been a learning period, a series of exploratory forays into the world of the Unseleighe and Seleighe courts, their intrigues and hatreds and foibles, not to mention some valuable experience with the humans and their confusing, contradictory land. The experience was paying off. Mort had an army now, and he was the commander in chief, with several thousands of years of experience to guide him.
With his long, spindly arms, he reached for the servant's tray on the column next to him, where he had left his mug of used motor oil. He had acquired a taste for the thick, black sludge while working in the human world above, savoring the spice of minute particles of cold iron suspended in it. The elves would have found it deadly, but Mort found it tasty and a bit intoxicating. Mildly appalled, his human slaves had watched him drink the stuff, their expressions muted through his spell of control.
They must think I'm a God, Mort had thought. Well. I am, or will be very soon. So long a road to travel, and I am the only one on it, the only one left to reap the rewards.
My people will inherit the Earth, above and below, once again. We will rule it and milk it and rape it until it screams for forgiveness, and once it does, we will do the same for the inhabitants, just to remind them who is in charge.
This is going to be fun.
His education was over. Mort's time in the Unseleighe Court merely fed an insidious, festering desire to conquer all. Zeldan Dhu, and then later his son, Japhet Dhu, had thought him an obedient minion, and to a certain degree he was, but while in their employ he had been . . . learning. Perhaps he should give Zeldan more credit than that, as he was the elf who had found him in Dreaming, an inert and dormant, utterly mindless Mort, and had then breathed new life into him. If Zeldan had granted him life only to be his servant, then so be it; his long Dreaming was over.
The more Zeldan had reminded him of his place as his minion, the more Mort fixated on rising above it. In private, of course. His inability to express his desires only intensified them.
For Mort was a Foevorian, one of an ancient race, the first race and therefore the first rulers, of Underhill, of the human's world, and of everything in between. The distinctions between the two realms did not really exist then; the polarity of spirit and matter developed later. Mort's earliest memories were of the sea, and of the civilization that dwelled there. The humans had vague historical references to a realm called Atlantis, but it was far too complex to be considered a single domain.
Other races might have called this heaven or utopia, and would have been satisfied with it, never to evolve to some higher level. Not Mort—then called Morca—or his people, who were leaders with no followers. They rose from the sea to find a race of subjects. Yet they were quickly disappointed.
They found instead a massive sheet of ice, reaching across half the globe, with nothing to speak of living there. They returned to the sea, awaiting a better time.
When the better time came they found a mighty island that would later be known as Eire, linked to the greater continent by a mass of ice retreating over a narrow bridge of land. The land was populated with four-legged creatures and, in small numbers, two-legged ones, who hunted with stones and fed on the four-legged creatures. It was a simple matter to rule the two-leggeds; the Foevors became their gods.
As the two-leggeds ruled the four-leggeds, it seemed a natural progression that a one-legged creature rule the two; thus the Foevors assumed their first physical state, that of the Clapperlegs, to rule in proximity to their minions. Yet they were a graceful race, despite their lack of symmetry. The form of one leg, one arm, one eye suited their purposes, as it frightened the two-leggeds into submission. They made themselves twice the size of the two-leggeds, with twice the strength and, of course, already had twice the wisdom.
As time passed, the ice melted and the land bridge vanished, and the Foevors lost track of what was going on in the larger continent. Then more two-leggeds arrived on ships, and they were better warriors, with weapons of metal. Their large numbers made them formidable, but the Foevors still had the advantage of physical size, and had sharpened their magical abilities. They drew power from the ground and the sea, whipping up great storms to sink the invaders' ships. The balance of power usually favored the Foevors, and following the few times it didn't the Foevors reconquered their land, and slew the enemy into extinction. During one such invasion the enemy had killed their King, Conan, and in retaliation Morca had successfully led a great armada of warships; as a victorious leader he had his first taste of glory. And Morca decided he wanted more of it.
He might have become the Foevorian King. His popularity was enormous, his leadership abilities were unquestionable; what other Foevor could conquer the two-leggeds with their own devices? Amid his newfound fame he changed his name to Morta, and began seeking ways to consolidate his power, to fill the void left by King Conan.
Morta would have become ruler, if not for the elves.
The Tuatha De Danaan, the people of the goddess of Danaa, weren't so much formidable as they were annoying. They came at the worst possible time, in the middle of the night, when most of the Foevorian horde had nodded off from too much drink and revelry. The Tuatha took up residence on another part of Eire without so much as a raised voice. Right away, Morta was blamed for the "invasion," and new leaders, the loudest voices of dissent, took his place.
The Tuatha were no ordinary two-leggeds. They were magical, and it was rumored they came from the spirit world, or were descended from gods, or both. Were the Foevors too quick to proclaim their sole right to these magical origins?
It seemed so. When the Foevors declared war on the trespassers, the war turned to magic, and the Tuatha were superior in these skills. The ensuing war rent the universe into two distinct realms, one physical and one of the spirit. During the long, tortuous battles many Foevors began to seek refuge in the spirit world. In the shadow of a victorious Tuatha, Mort sought safety in this as yet unnamed spirit realm, and made himself as invisible as possible, fearing an unjust retribution from his own people. The Foevors were a defeated and divided race, and took up residence in isolated, far-reaching pockets in the new realm.
It was with no small pleasure that Mort later watched the Tuatha's defeat, by yet another tribe of two-leggeds called the Milesians. They banished the Tuatha to the nether world regions through a door under a hill, thus the name, Underhill. But with no power base Mort saw no way to take advantage of the circumstance. As above, so below, the factions lived in uneasy peace. In time, dissent split the Tuatha into smaller groups; the polarity reached a breaking point, and they divided into the Seleighe and their nemesis, the Unseleighe courts. The former remained benevolent to the humans, accepting their defeat with honor, while the latter blamed the humans for their fall from grace and took great pleasure in tormenting them regularly.
Mort studied the Seleighe and Unseleighe, pretending to be interested in Zeldan's and then later, Japhet's objective: the elimination of Avalon from Underhill. Meanwhile he gained power and knowledge, while planning for the day he and his people would again rise up and take the victory that was their right. With Mort at the helm, of course.
He drained off the last of the oil and set the mug down with a loud clang. The sound summoned one of his servants, a mousy little boy named Alan, who had been harvested from the Baltimore arena. Alan wore a tunic of dirty canvas, and moved about numbly, in a daze. The red carranite crystal embedded in his temple made sure of that; through th
e crystal Mort controlled Alan and the rest of the multitude of slaves he'd acquired through his Lazerwarz arenas.
As Alan poured the sludge from a pitcher, Mort's viewing crystal came to life with the fragmented image of a sour Unseleighe warrior. "Master, you have a visitor," said Yuaroh Dhu, a wizened elf with a severe, chiseled face. Mort had hired Yuaroh and his Unseleighe clan as mercenaries for his ambitious endeavor. So far there had been no battle to speak of, and Yuaroh had turned out to be a capable receptionist. And a perceptive one; he knew the Morrigan was not one to be turned away.
"Of course I do," Mort sighed, and began rubbing away the beginnings of a massive headache. "Send the bitch in." The crystal winked out, and a moment later a shrill peal of laughter further confirmed her presence.
"Mort Mort Mort, my dear Mort!" Morrigan shrieked cheerfully, entering the chambers with a flourish. This was not the Morrigan Mort remembered. What had once been a round, dumpy woman figure with a hooked nose was now a slim, svelte attractive goddess in a sassy red evening dress. Her red hair was all that remained the same, though now it was in a big style, flowing around her like blazing aura. She was dressed, and morphed, to kill. Who that would be remained to be seen.
Mort pretended not to notice, and reminded himself this elegant creature had just dropped Stonehenge on his parking lot. I don't have to be nice.
"You don't seem happy, Mort," Morrigan prodded, daring to come within arm's reach of his throne. She was in constant motion, posing for a second here, holding her well rounded hips there, as if she were modeling on a catwalk. If it was meant to distract him, it was working. Her new appearance was arousing, but he wasn't about to let her know that.
"I am not happy, Morrigan," Mort replied, waving the crystal back on, with the fragmented picture of Stonehenge standing amid asphalt. "What, may I ask, is the meaning of this?"
"Oh, Mort," she replied flippantly, with a loud, rude expulsion of air from her lips. At least some things, don't change, Mort noted. "You know. The challenge. Don't tell me you've already forgotten."
Lazerwarz Page 4