An hour earlier, Mort had tested the device in an improvised firing range. The target was a three-foot-thick slab of concrete the size of a ping-pong table, turned up on end. One blast had put a three-foot hole in the concrete, and had damaged several walls beyond it. The weapon's recoil was comparable to a .22 handgun. Mort had to remind himself that the device did obey the laws of physics . . . but of a different, magical realm.
With this weapon he would conquer Underhill. The AK-47, the human weapon designed to be fired by peasants, was mass-produced, imprecise, but absolutely reliable in the worst conditions. The USSR, may it rest in peace, had been built and fortified by such arms; Mort would do the same with his weapon.
But what to call it? Mort thought. He needed a name for his creation. It was shorter than a regular rifle, but longer than a handgun.
Two great tastes that taste great together!
Hadn't the Uzi been named after an Israeli commander?
Hell. Let's call it the Mort. The Mort Short.
The phone buzzed. Mort hit the handsfree.
"Yuaroh Dhu on line one," the secretary announced. Mort picked up the phone.
"Have you raided the mines yet?" Mort demanded.
A bit of static garbled the response. The connection to Underhill had always been a bit fuzzy, but after a fashion Yuaroh's voice came through loud and clear. "Aie, commander. As you warned, there was resistance at the amene mines—Elfhame Outremer took exception to our presence—but we seized enough unworked stones to fill your order for this lot."
The news was a blessed relief; it was the last link in the production chain. Now he had the means to manufacture the first few hundred Morts.
"That is good news, Yuaroh. You will receive my highest award, once I decide what it is. Transport the stones to the palace immediately for gating."
He frowned, knowing he was forgetting something. "Oh, yes. Question our prisoner, King Aedham Tuiereann. Claim that you are responsible for his capture, and this entire operation. Negotiate a 'cease fire' of sorts, but try to get whatever information you can from him. I'm particularly interested in the communications network the Seleighe courts have created with their amene crystals. We must find a flaw to exploit, so we can disrupt their early warning system. I want the invasion to be a complete surprise."
"Aie, commander. Consider it done."
"Oh, and Yuaroh?"
"Aie?"
"Don't fuck up."
Mort hung up.
* * *
As soon as Joystik scampered off Aedham heard another set of footsteps coming down the dungeon's hall. It didn't take a Mage to predict that the following conversation would not be as cordial as the one he'd just had.
An Unseleighe Lord flanked by two guards stopped in front of his cell. The Lord had a long, thin mustache, and a human Asian look that made Aedham wonder in what part of Underhill this elf had originated. He held a long, pretentious scepter crowned with a silver gargoyle. Under long, black cloaks all three wore unadorned fur tunics; simple, straightforward, and practical. Their odor suggested they'd just returned from a long journey, and their faces, the leader's in particular, betrayed weariness.
Aedham sensed nothing particularly magical about the Lord, who probably was not the source of the levin bolt which had laid him out. But that didn't mean they weren't a force to contend with; his being on the wrong side of the bars more or less mandated that.
"I was disappointed that you didn't put up more of a fight," said the leader, sneering at him through the bars. "King Aedham Tuiereann, leader of Avalon, the elven prince who grew up as a human, among humans, thinking he was human. Somehow I was hoping that a sidhe who had survived such an ordeal would have more . . . character."
Aedham shrugged impassively. "Happy to disappoint you."
"And those pathetic wards you put on your palace . . . they were simple enough to walk through. There, I would have also expected more."
"You did not dismiss those wards," Aedham said. "I doubt you could even manage a simple Mage spark to start a fire."
The leader threw back his head and laughed raucously. "Of course I didn't. I am Yuaroh Dhu, Lord of the Aoncos clan. I represent the Unseleighe bands you've defeated, as well as those who've never challenged you. I am no Mage, as you have already deduced, but I am a warrior. And I am, of course, an elf. An elf who would like to see the elves remain in power in Underhill."
"Provided they are Unseleighe, of course," Aedham said. "How do you think Mort and his merry band of Foevorians would react if their mercenaries turned on them?" Aedham folded his arms, and met the Unseleighe's hard gaze with one of his own.
The Lord did seem taken aback; he must not have known the King of Avalon could figure things out so quickly. "I admire your clear vision. My employer underestimated your ability to see the true nature of things. Yes, the Foevors are moving to take Underhill." Yuaroh stepped away from the bars and paced a short distance down the hall.
"Mort was one of your own minions, was he not?" Aedham asked.
"I never hired him. Those who did are dead. But of course, you know that. You killed them."
"Just Zeldan," Aedham said, with a yawn. "One of my men killed Japhet."
Yuaroh ignored him. "I sought to annex myself to Mort's plan once I saw how powerful he had become. Zeldan, Japhet, and others—they are to blame for Mort's rise to power. Not that I think it would have mattered if they had ignored the sniveling little Foevor." He stopped his pacing in front of the cell's door and looked up. "Mort sent me here to mislead you, King. I was to tell you that I am your captor, and the mastermind behind this plan."
Now it was Aedham's turn to laugh. "I would never have believed that. I think you know that."
"No, you wouldn't. Yet the request did make me consider, does this Foevor really understand us? If he thinks you so dimwitted, what must he think of me? Much worse, I wager."
Aedham was starting to get the drift. This Unseleighe wants to turn against Mort. Would that be stupid? What if the Foevor is underestimating our entire race as dramatically as it seems?
"We stole some important equipment from your palace while we were there. The node generator, with the diaspar, amene and topolomite configuration. Mort has it now. He is mass-producing a weapon capable of using the generator to fire levin bolts. No Mage required." He paused, and motioned to the sleeping youths behind him, in the other cell. "They could wield it most effectively. And how many Seleighe elves would fight human children?"
It was the most unpleasant part of the problem—elves fighting children who are armed with such lethal devices. Even if the kids didn't mow entire elven armies down with the levin rifles, they were entirely expendable so far as their leader was concerned.
"That's not a comfortable thought," Aedham admitted. "So what do you want from me?"
"I would make you an offer. An alliance. Soon Mort will be preoccupied with the coming invasion of Underhill. The mass production of levin rifles has already begun in the Overworld." Yuaroh leaned closer, and said in a near whisper, "How would you like to even the odds?"
Aedham's first thought was, what would be "even" to the Unseleighe? Their sense of fairness had always been, at the very least, warped. Asking is free.
"What did you have in mind?" Aedham asked, trying not to sound too interested.
"Your engineers have developed the weapon. My men have delivered the stones needed for their manufacture. It only follows that we should both benefit from the weapons, don't you think?"
Aedham was starting to see what Yuaroh was steering towards, but remained mute.
The Unseleighe continued, "The weapons will be stored in a part of the palace which is not subject to the spell which prevents node power from entering."
Aedham feigned boredom. "Go on."
"You could construct a Gate. My men are waiting, in another portion of Underhill. We shall steal the rifles!"
"Mort will only make more," Aedham pointed out. Yet the plan had a great deal of merit . . . for t
he Unseleighe, that is. "And I am to trust you to share the plunder, I take it."
"Trust works both ways, King. As a sign of good faith, I let your sister go free when we captured you. And remember, you will have access to node power."
"And what would keep me from nailing your whole tribe with a levin bolt of my own making?"
Yuaroh's expression turned faintly amused. "I am no fool, King. We will escort you to the location. You will have, at all times, three blades to your back, and one at your throat if I feel inclined. If you could summon such a power undetected, and attack us before we run you through, it is unlikely you would be here in Mort's dungeon."
Yeah, right. And what happened to "trust"?
Aedham considered his options. He was absolutely powerless here, there was no debating that. If he had a chance to get out, even on those terms, he knew he had to take it.
"If I refuse?"
The Lord was unmoved. "We'll kill you trying to 'escape.' Mort wouldn't mind."
Aedham shook his head in amazement. "And this is how you seek alliances? At sword's point?"
Yuaroh shrugged most unapologetically. "It's all we know." The three started to leave. "When it is time, we will return."
When it is time, Aedham thought, as he heard the Unseleighe walk down what had to be an extremely long hallway. Then, moving silently, like a wraith, Joystik popped into view.
"I thought you had left," Aedham said.
"I just went around the corner to listen in," the boy replied. "So this gate thing, you can make one?"
"Outside this dungeon I think I can. If there are no surprises. Foevors handle magic differently, and in some ways better than I. Blocking it from me is easy for them."
Joystik nodded thoughtfully. "I get the feeling you don't trust them."
Aedham fought back the anger rising in the back of his throat. "They killed my family. I will never trust them."
Chapter Eight
"You can see it from here," Sammi said as she pulled the carriage to a stop. "That large, white building, near the circle of stones. Just go on in like you own the place."
Llan was still getting over the ride in the carriage, which had just hurtled them through the Overworld kingdom of Tulsa at a dizzying speed. Elvensteeds traveled far faster, granted, but Llan had never ridden one, and now he wasn't certain he wanted to.
"Why are we stopping here?" Llan asked. They were still quite a distance from the arena, in a clearing covered with smooth, black stone painted with white lines.
"The arena has special scrying eyes that can see us," Sammi said, pushing something down with her left foot, making a ratcheting sound. She was dressed like a human, in a "suit" which had something to do with "checking in with the office." Llan sensed the weapon she kept beneath the suit, a nasty tool of cold iron surrounded by some other substance that allowed her to carry it. "We have to keep our distance from it. They may recognize me, as I was with Aedham when he vanished." Of course she had mentioned this before, but there were so many rules to remember about this strange world: Try not to stare too much at the sky, which seemed endless compared to the high ceiling of mist in Underhill. Use the gloved hand to touch iron, which was to be found everywhere; he flexed his right hand in the thin leather glove. When he asked why Sammi didn't wear a glove, she replied that she and Aedham had gotten accustomed to handling cold iron when they couldn't avoid it altogether, having spent a good amount of time here. It had something to do with turning off the pain when they came into contact, though extended contact still left marks on their skin. Until he had the glove, Sammi had to open the carriage door for him, which had made him feel less than masculine; he'd looked furtively about to see if any humans were watching.
The most important rule was never use magic. Ever. For any reason. If the humans saw him use it, they would know he wasn't human, and would seize him and strap him to a table and cut him open and examine his entrails. He was not going to let that happen. His entrails were private, and he would keep them to himself.
"Remember to come back here when the medallion on your wrist starts making noises," Sammi said, and Llan glanced at the non-iron item in question, which was strapped around his arm. It flashed numbers when you squeezed it a certain way. The King had taught him the rudiments of human numbers and writing, and he could read, though with difficulty. "I will be right here."
"Aie, Lady Sam—"
"No, call me Sammi. Do not use my title. The humans wouldn't . . . understand."
So many rules! But it was for his King, and he would put up with far rules more if it would rescue him from his captors.
"Now," Sammi said sternly. "Where are you from?"
"England," Llan replied. "In Britain."
"And what is your name?"
"Colin Downy."
"Good. Do you have your ID?"
Llan pulled out the thin leather pouch which contained all his documents. The humans, he had learned, placed much importance on these strange little cards.
"That's your driver's license. Now give me . . . sixteen dollars."
Llan counted out three of the sheafs of paper in his pouch with the number five, and one with the number one. The humans depicted on both notes looked the same.
Sammi seemed satisfied and gave the money back. "That will do. Don't worry if you get confused. Just tell them you're from England if they seem suspicious. But if you get into some serious trouble, and you think you are in real danger, push the button on the device." Llan touched the small black box in his pocket, making sure he still had it. "It will tell me, and I will come in the carriage and we will leave."
"Aie . . . I mean, okay, Sammi. I will not fail you."
"I know you won't. Just remember, it's not the humans we are fighting. Something from Underhill has seized the King. Find out what you can, and return when your medallion says so. Now scoot."
Llan got out, careful to handle the door with his gloved hand. He started off towards the arena, past a grove of trees growing up through the smooth black stone, and towards several rows of the different human carriages. His glamorie hung discreetly and invisibly about his head, making his pointed ears appear short and human, and gave his eyes rounded pupils instead of the slitted ones of the Fey. The smells were so strange, and the heat of their summer day was heavy and oppressive. The clothes they had given him were strange as well, but fit him like the glove on his hand; the jeans and T-shirt had belonged to Aedham when he was Llan's age. He also wore the King's strange ny kees, and now that he had them on he knew why Aedham cherished them so. They were the most comfortable boots he'd ever worn, and gave spring to his step. Though he was glad that his long golden hair could remain as it was, he would have surely shaved it off if it would help get the King back.
If I can get the King back.
The doubt came unbidden and unexpectedly, and Llan quickly shoved it aside.
I will get the King back.
He found himself in front of the arena, past the horde of humans who were gazing at the circle of stones. Sammi had told him to avoid going to the Henge—it was not important to the mission, and might attract unnecessary attention. The frame of cold metal that was the door stood forebodingly. Two humans burst through it, talking excitedly.
While the door was open, Llan walked in to the darkened, cold interior, and looked around. Lots of humans here, with more colors of clothing the elf had thought possible.
Now, where is . . . there it is, Llan thought, finding the line of humans at the counter. When it was his turn Llan stepped up with his leather pouch in hand, as instructed.
"Code name?"
Llan hesitated.
"Don't got one? Here, look at this list."
Llan fumbled with the piece of paper, suddenly afraid for his cover. They forgot to tell me about this! his mind raced, but the words came into focus, and the hours the King had once spent teaching him reading paid off. There were sacred names like Zeus and Mercury . . . how could they be so brazen with the gods?
&nbs
p; Llan had no qualms about his selection. "Elvenmage."
"Sorry, someone already has that. Try another."
Curious that humans would select such a name. Llan made something up. "Elven . . . boy."
The human did something behind a glowing screen; this must be what the humans called a computer. "Elvenboy it is. Your game will be up soon. Six dollars."
Llan gave him a one and a five, for which he received a bright green tag. He inadvertently touched the metal button with his left hand, but hid his pain, and managed not to drop it.
He moved towards the big door on the right. Sammi had gone over the layout of the place on the chalkboard in Niamh's workshop, and what he saw in here was, fortunately, no surprise. The door was right where it should be. The place had the feel of a great hall, in a lesser palace, with no manners; these humans talked loudly among themselves, with no hierarchy visible among them. Sammi had warned him about the metal piercing their flesh, but the phenomenon was still disturbing, particularly close up. The young ladies here were attractive, he noted before reining his thoughts back in.
I am here to find the King!
"I'll bet you get your ass kicked in there," said a voice behind him.
Llan whirled around defensively, forming a half-dozen retorts, all of which only another elf would understand.
"It is my first game," Llan replied. "I doubt that I will win."
The boy was tall and menacing, but thin as a rail, with black clothing from head to toe. At first glance he had an Unseleighe look about him, but he was most assuredly human, with no magical traces about him. And he had an odor. And no hair. When he spoke, Llan saw a metal stud in the middle of his tongue.
"You sound kind of funny," the kid said, his face wrinkling suspiciously. "Where you from, anyway?"
"England," Llan replied glibly. "In Britain."
The kid rolled his eyes, an exaggerated move which felt patronizing. "I know where England is. So you never played before?"
Llan gazed at him evenly. At least he knew when he was being made fun of.
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