Mort fully expected the weapon to turn her into a grease ball, or at the very least dismember her into several separate pieces before blowing a hole in the chamber wall. She wasn't moving, but her physical body remained intact, with no other collateral damage to the room. She must have pulled together an emergency shield, which had absorbed the brunt of the blast. He walked over to examine the remains, and found a blackened Morrigan lying in a twisted pile, not moving, not breathing. He toed the carcass with his foot. She rolled over, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. Shield or not, the levin rifle had clearly gotten the best of her.
There were no life signs. She seemed to be dead.
Mort blew imaginary smoke from the gun's barrel, then returned the rifle to its place behind his throne.
* * *
The evening with Morgan had made him feel dirty; her scent was all over him, and he felt tainted. After trying unsuccessfully to get the attention of the housekeeper he heard pushing a cart on the other side of the door, he gave up and poured the hottest bath he could stand and submerged himself. Here Dobie spent a good part of an hour with a washcloth and a thin amber bar of Neutrogena, scrubbing himself down all over, as if the soap alone would banish Morrigan from his life. Even with his limited knowledge of otherworld beings, he knew it would not be as simple as that. But at least it made him feel a little better.
He was about to add more hot water to the cooling bath when he realized he was no longer alone in the suite. Something bright and luminous had silently entered the room. If he was lucky it would be a UFO full of grays, here to abduct him.
Dobie scrambled out of the tub and toweled himself off. His clothes were in the other room. So be it; the new Dobie was not embarrassed about nudity. He remembered fighting armies without a stitch of clothing, smeared from head to feet with blue woad. Brazenly, he walked out of the bathroom to confront the source of light.
What the hell? he thought, taking in the strange sight.
A tall, white-haired man in a green cloak stood in front of the suite's window, looking his direction. Dobie held a hand up against the brilliance.
"Forgive me," the old man said, and the intensity dropped. He was still luminous, as if lit from inside, but was not as bright. Dobie gazed upon him, knowing who he was, and uncertain how to react. He is the spirit in the vision. The one who healed me. Lugh, Lord of Light.
My father.
"I forget how bright my light is to mortal eyes," Lugh said, with a sparkle in his face that for all the world reminded Dobie of a benevolent Santa Claus, out of costume. The green cloak hung loosely over him, and beneath that was a white robe. He slouched against a staff; inside the transparent tube a miniature thunderstorm churned and spat lightning through its entire length. Dobie, who was starting to think of himself as Cu Chulainn more and more, didn't remember this particular prop from the vision. Then again, he hadn't been standing naked in an expensive hotel suite. Perhaps the staff allowed Lugh to be in this realm.
"Morrigan seems to have taken advantage of you once again," Lugh said, shaking his head sadly. "A mighty warrior you are, a man you are still trying to be."
The comment stung. Embarrassment reddened him from head to toe. He shrugged and started looking around for something to wear.
"You are not the only one she has made fool of," Lugh continued. "And do not think yourself a lesser warrior, either."
"She controls me with magic," Dobie complained. "I don't know how to fight it."
"Indeed you don't," Lugh said, sounding saddened. "I had not the opportunity to train you as I would like. Such is the disadvantage of having human children." Lugh stepped closer to him, his illumination flaring somewhat with each step.
Dobie rummaged through a pile of pants, found a pair he liked, and started ripping the tags off of it. Then, with his eyes brimming with tears, he looked up at his father. He didn't care.
"Get me out of here," Dobie pleaded, with the voice of a child. "Please."
Lugh smiled benevolently. "Securing your escape from this place would only temporarily solve your problem, son," Lugh replied. "She would only bring you back. I know of a way to rid yourself of her."
Dobie looked up hopefully.
"Permanently," Lugh said, his smile turning to something . . . slightly less benevolent.
"How?" Dobie asked desperately.
The staff flared as a swath of lightning flashed through it. Dobie flinched.
"Listen closely," Lugh said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Dobie didn't know why; they were alone in the room. "There is a war going on, between good and evil. We are at the center of it, whether you like it or not."
Dobie sighed in resignation. "Tell me something I don't know."
"What you don't know is this," Lugh said, with a hint of anger. "The elves, the druids, the other humans, and, lest we forget, Morgan, are all against you. They are against the Foevors, the first race of spirits to inhabit the Overworld, the underworld, and everything in between."
Dobie's memory of the distant past was murky, and he had to search diligently for knowledge on the Foevors. When he found it, he replied, "Yes, they were the first race. What has that to do with us?"
Lugh's expression turned proud, and he stood up from his stooped position. His face beamed with brilliance.
"I am Foevorian," Lugh finally said, and looked directly at Dobie. "You, also, are Foevorian!"
Dobie stared at his father, mouth open. "Say what?"
"It was a well kept secret," Lugh replied. "Known only to a few. My father was among the first Foevorians. It was later that he assumed the name of Dagda."
Dobie closed his eyes and shook his head: this went contrary to everything he knew about his lineage. The gods came before the Foevorians, didn't they? He looked into his father's face, and saw only truth.
"Yes, I am sure that it is shock, perhaps even a disappointment," Lugh said, apologetically. "But it makes us no less mighty. We are what we are, and when we win this battle, we will be more. More than you can imagine."
He wished that were true. At least it would solve all of his mundane problems. Godhood would do that, he suspected.
"What of Morgan?" Dobie asked. "How do I rid myself of her?"
Lugh chuckled softly. "My son, haven't you been listening? The gods will summon a warrior from each side. You will volunteer to fight for the Foevorians; Mort is your leader. Do as he says."
"That much I follow," Dobie said. "But Morrigan . . . she has bespelled me."
"Not to worry," Lugh said, reaching into a pouch at his belt. He withdrew a gold ring and gave it to Dobie. "Put that on your left hand."
The ring slipped on perfectly. It held a small red stone, perhaps a ruby, and no other decoration. The moment it was on his hand he felt the ring's magic sweep over him.
"This ring will protect you from anything she can throw at you," Lugh said confidently. "But I doubt she is much of a threat now anyway."
Dobie didn't understand, but chose not to ask any more questions. He had enough to digest as it was.
"At the Lazerwarz arena, you will play for the Foevors. Your brethren. Take Morrigan's chariot to the arena now; it's waiting for you downstairs." Then the god added, with a smirk that was strangely unbecoming, "She won't be needing it anymore, I wager."
Chapter Twelve
It was not so long ago that Aedham and his warriors had chased a party of Unseleighe into the thick cover of the Black Forest. Though hampered by the close proximity of trees and underbrush, Aedham and his army had waged a bloody sword fight, and had emerged victorious; the remaining Unseleighe had fled through a hastily made Gate.
Now, they have no Mage, Aedham knew with certainty. They will not flee, not this time.
The King explored the territory with a squad of fifteen Seleighe warriors, each armed with a levin rifle. Quick studies, all of them; they knew how to operate the weapons, and could in all likelihood take on the entire Unseleighe army themselves. They followed a creek bed for a time
, and through the dense forest wall spotted the enemy, which had set up camp on the ruins of the old Avalon castle. The Unseleighe were even using stones from the ravaged site for fire pits; he didn't want to imagine where their latrine was.
But the wry humor of the situation tempered his anger somewhat. They're still waiting for the Gate to appear. They still think Yuaroh will provide them with levin rifles!
Levin rifles they asked for, levin rifles they shall receive. From the business end.
Crouched beside him, a Seleighe warrior said, "How dare the bastards."
"That's all I need to see," Aedham whispered, and they pulled back into the dark forest. With a stick Aedham drew a map in the dirt. The elven warriors gathered around him.
"This creek bed is a natural entrance to the forest from the ruins," he said, drawing the creek and the border of the forest. "When the Unseleighe bastards run—and they will run—they will come here. This is where they fled before. We will come around the ruins over here, using the hill as cover, so we don't hit each other in the crossfire."
"If there are any left to run," said one of his warriors.
"They know what these weapons are," Aedham said. "As soon as they see it in the hands of the enemy, they will turn tail. That is, the ones who don't fall in the first wave."
"Aie," said another.
"Spread yourselves out a bit, and don't be afraid to use the forest for cover. Just remember, that's what they're trying to do when they run here. Don't let them past you."
The King bid them good luck, and at a fast march set off for the main camp.
* * *
"If I have learned anything from fighting the Unseleighe," Aedham said to Petrus as they rode elvensteeds at a moderate clip, the army thundering behind them, "it's to never take anything for granted."
Petrus nodded in agreement, as well he would. He had seen as much action with the Unseleighe court as the King. "I still think a guerrilla attack is the way to use these weapons."
Aedham shook his head resolutely. "Not enough cover. Guerrilla warfare works because of stealth; there is no way to sneak up on the ruins. That is why the site was selected."
Aedham and his command stopped at the base of a rise which overlooked the ruins. With a strong sense of irony Aedham realized this was the very rise from which Zeldan Dhu and his army launched the initial assault on Avalon.
"Time to spread out," Aedham said, signaling the ranks to disperse themselves; at his command, the army ascended to its peak, revealing themselves to the Unseleighe.
The commotion in the Unseleighe camp was instant and chaotic. An approaching Seleighe army had been furthest from their minds; they hadn't even bothered to post sentries. A call to arms blared through the camp, and the Unseleighe quickly armed themselves and assembled.
"Keep the rifles hidden until I say," Aedham shouted to his soldiers. Then, to Petrus, said, "They will probably form a phalanx or two along the perimeter and attack. That's when I want the rifles to take them out."
"And after that?" Petrus asked.
"By then those still alive will probably head towards the Black Forest. That's the only way out."
"Then they'll discover our surprise," Petrus said, with a slight smile.
"Look sharp," Aedham said, pointing towards the Unseleighe. "We haven't won anything yet."
Indeed, once the commanders appeared on the field they organized their men into not two but three phalanxes, five abreast.
"That must be most of their army." Aedham was surprised.
"All the better for us," Petrus said.
The King saw his levin rifle infantry in position behind the regulars. Shields hid them from the Unseleighe, and he noted with satisfaction all the rifles were powered up.
Just don't pull the trigger before it's time. Friendly fire isn't.
The Seleighe were getting edgy. An absolute silence fell over the area, a sure sign all hell was about to break loose and rain down on them all. Aedham caught himself reaching for the nodes the old fashioned way, and hesitated. He located the power, but left it untapped. They would need it later for gating.
Then at some unheard command, the Unseleighe army charged. A cheer went up from the enemy, and Aedham saw his own men visibly holding themselves back. The urge to rush the enemy was strong among them all; it was how they were trained.
"Not yet," Aedham shouted. The Unseleighe ran down hill at full speed before crossing the dry moat. Regaining their momentum, the phalanx reformed and continued the charge.
"Ready!" Aedham shouted, and the infantry parted to give the riflemen a clear shot.
"Aim!" Thirty muzzles drew on their targets.
"Fire!"
The air filled with blinding light spheres surging toward the enemy; suddenly the three phalanxes were pools of light and smoke. The levin blasts pulverized the Unseleighe mercilessly, and armor and bits of dark elf rocketed into the sky in a gory mess. What remained was a scorched field of writhing, blackened bodies, and shields and armor that had become molten bronze.
Aedham felt it coming first and shouted, "Shock wave!" before he dismounted. The Seleighe dropped to the ground, as drilled. The next second the roar of explosions ripped past them, knocking those off their feet who were still standing. The shock wave blasted past them. Petrus was getting to his feet, but was clearly too stunned to react.
"Attack!" Aedham commanded, and his warriors rose from the ground and formed a line; Aedham mounted his elvensteed and led the charge, sword drawn. The Seleighe forces swarmed over the charcoaled remains of the Unseleighe phalanx, putting the sword to those unfortunate enough to have survived the levin bolts. The remaining Unseleighe had turned to flee—as predicted, towards the Black Forest.
"This way, this way!" Aedham commanded, leading his forces around the castle, away from the line of fire from his men in the forest. A moment later, another flash filled the sky; the resultant shock wave was not as strong, but still a force to contend with. Once it was past, Aedham found himself in the center of the Unseleighe camp, a tangle of tents and armor amid the jagged walls of his former home. The Black Forest spread majestically beneath him. Between the line of trees and the moat, the remaining Unseleighe lay in a scorched pile of bodies. None appeared to have survived the blast.
Then it was all over. If any Unseleighe had escaped, it would have been a miracle. Aedham dispatched his men to search the entire area, ruins and all, for any who might be hiding.
Petrus rode up on Moonremere, evidently recovered enough from the blast. Aedham motioned him to follow down to the Black Forest.
There he found the men he had positioned in the forest among the dead Unseleighe. Aedham and Petrus' steeds gaited up to one charcoal pit.
"It's over?" Petrus said softly.
"For now," Aedham said, gazing at the carnage. "Two volleys, and the fight was over." He turned to Petrus. "Why don't I feel victorious?"
"It wasn't much of a fight," Petrus said. "They didn't have a chance."
Neither would we! Aedham wanted to shout, but he felt empty, as if he'd won a game of poker by cheating. His warriors sensed his bitter mood, and a lull had fallen over the scene.
"This was no honorable way to fight," he announced to his warriors. "No one deserves to die like this."
Nods of agreement among all of them; they all knew about Zeldan Dhu and his son, how they would have gladly slaughtered the Seleighe in the same manner. They all knew Mort would have done this to them had Aedham not stolen this deadly, horrible weapon from them. The Seleighe had wanted to live in peace, always; the Unseleighe, without exception, had forced war upon Underhill.
But none of that would have altered the situation. War in Underhill had changed, therefore Underhill had changed. The King wasn't sure how he felt about being the instrument of that change. I must take some credit. My people developed this hellish weapon at my request.
"Sire," one of his men said, gratefully shattering the morose quiet that was smothering them. "Messenger."
; Indeed, two Seleighe cavalry were escorting another, darker being, riding a black horse. A Foevor. The messenger walked his horse up the king's and waited for a Seleighe to pass a written note to Aedham. He opened it and read:
* *
To His Majesty, King Aedham Tuiereann, ruler of Avalon,
I hereby challenge your kingdom to a contest of single combat, to be carried out in the arena of Lazerwarz in Tulsa, Oklahoma, at twelve midnight, tonight in the human's realm, under the stipulation that no magic be used, and the victor of said Lazerwarz game be determined by a superior number of points only. NO physical contact will be permitted.
In the event that the kingdom of the Foevorians lose the match, I will without condition release the 287 human youths I have imprisoned. Remember them? They are also my guarantee that you will abide by these rules. Their lives depend on it. See you soon at Lazerwarz with the champion of your choice.
Have a nice day,
Mort
P.S. Perhaps this will teach you to not take that which is not yours, asshole.
* * *
"The bastard!" Aedham said, passing the message to Petrus. "Now he's going to play by the rules!"
"He has nothing to lose," Petrus said, reading the note.
"We have everything to win," Aedham reminded him. "Including the lives of those humans. We must win."
* * *
Stupid, foolish human boy! Mort thought as he returned to his palace chambers, rather pleased with himself that he was able to imitate a god with so much success. The simplest of glamories, some stock footage of a wizened old man, with lots of light and especial effects. Spielberg would have been proud. Mort wouldn't trifle with Lugh under most circumstances, but the situation had called for extreme action. And so far the ruse had worked: Dobie was now on his side, and seemed to have accepted everything Mort had told him, without question. And if Dobie did question the instructions, the ruby ring Mort had given him was set to squelch any doubts.
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