Mort saw one flaw in an otherwise perfect plan. Dobie had not arrived yet, and the elves should be here any time. I must keep Dobie away from them lest they see he's been bespelled. I want my victory to be absolute.
And fair, of course.
At the console Mort brought up the link to his palace and summoned Dubh. He didn't really want to trust the wimpy Foevor, but his staff of competent Unseleighe were now twisted charcoal briquettes strewn across the ruins of old Avalon. Dubh appeared on the screen, his image broken by the crystal facets on the device on his end. His promptness in answering his call pleased Mort. Perhaps Dubh has potential.
"Yes, Master?" Dubh said obediently.
"Have you cleaned up the mess in the chambers yet?" he asked. When he returned home victorious he did not want to be greeted by the rancid odor of flash-fried Morrigan.
The Foevor made a helpless gesture. "She . . . not here, Master. Morrigan gone."
Someone must have cleaned it up already. At the moment, he didn't want to entertain any alternative explanation. His moment of triumph was at hand, and he didn't want to ruin it with needless worry. "Very well, then. Continue patrolling the grounds. If you catch so much as a whiff of Seleighe, sound the alarms. And . . . good work, Dubh. I am very pleased with you."
Dubh's eyeless face bloomed with pleasure before Mort cut the connection and switched over to the local security cams. On the external parking lot view he panned wide, taking in the damned megaliths, which the human police were still guarding. If he were to operate from this location too much longer he would have to get rid of them somehow—and he didn't look forward to diverting his resources to the task.
When this is over, I can level the entire site with the levin cannons. Then the humans can figure out what to do with the pieces!
* * *
"Aedham, there is no way this will be a fair match," Sammi declared angrily, pulling the Caprice up in front of the arena and parking. She turned off the headlights. A single pole light cast dirty shadows on the pavement around them. "Mort is in control of the game. He can handicap us and fix the points any way he pleases. Don't you see that?"
"Of course I see that," Aedham replied from the passenger seat, more angrily than he intended. "I also see two hundred and eighty-seven youths who have no idea what is going on, and will die if we refuse this challenge. I'd rather not have them on my conscience, thank you."
"We still haven't found Dobie," Llan pointed out from the back seat.
"No, we haven't," Sammi said, sadly. On returning from Underhill, King Aedham briefed Sammi on the new challenge. Then they had gone in search of the best player they knew: Dobie. He wasn't home, nor was there any sign he had returned. The Doubletree hotel was a promising lead, but Dobie was nowhere to be found when they had gone to investigate. The hotel staff was remarkably tight-lipped, even when shown an FBI badge. No doubt Morrigan had greased them thoroughly with lots of kenned Underhill cash.
That left the arena, where they had just arrived. The time was 11:30 p.m. on a moonless night. A single cop was sitting in his squad car, observing them casually as they pulled up before going back to his newspaper.
"They close in half an hour," Sammi said. "When was the challenge scheduled?"
"Twelve," Aedham said morosely. "Doesn't look like Dobie . . ."
As soon as he mentioned the boy's name he saw twin headlights appear from the street. A red Corvette pulled up in front of the arena and stopped.
"It's him," Sammi said, and they both got out of the Caprice.
"Dobie!" Sammi shouted as he got out of the driver's side. Morrigan was not with him.
The boy turned around in midstride as the elves hurried to catch up with him.
"Oh, uh, hi," he said nervously.
He had changed somehow since Aedham had last seen him. He looks like he fears us. Aedham peered at him closely, his Mage sight picking up a suspicious aura. He's been bespelled.
"We have a proposition for you," Sammi said brightly. "A chance to make something right."
"We need a player," Aedham said urgently, while probing his aura for the spell. It seemed to be centered on his hand. A ring.
"I've already picked a side," Dobie said, with a mixture of sadness and fear. Something haunts him. A ruby ring. "I know more about what's going on, now," he said, now with a hint of anger. "My father explained it all to me."
"What?" Sammi and Aedham said in unison.
"I'm expected inside," Dobie said, went into the arena.
Aedham stared at the glass door, then to Sammi, said, "What is he talking about? How could he have seen Lugh?"
Sammi shook her head. "Lugh said he couldn't enter the human realm."
"Not without difficulty," Aedham pointed out. "He could do it if he needed to. I mean, he is a god. If he did, why didn't he contact us?"
Sammi looked away, glancing back at the car. Llan was walking towards them.
"We need a player," Sammi asked the King. "How many games did you play in there?"
"Just the one," Aedham said, with a frown. "Not enough to really learn anything."
"Well, Llan here, he played a whole afternoon," Sammi said as the apprentice caught up with them.
"I played three games," Llan said. "Who's going to be our champion?"
Aedham turned to Llan. "You are."
* * *
Aedham insisted on being in the control room during the game, and Mort, surprisingly, agreed. Granted, this was no guarantee the game would go fairly, but at least it afforded him a glimpse at the game equipment. It was a rather mundane collection of file servers and electronic bric-a-brac, with a suggestion of magic working beyond it, but nothing solid enough to object to. Mort sat the console, choosing the form Aedham remembered from Dallas, the spindly black cartoon creature with pointed elflike ears and a long, Zeldan Dhu nose. The King knew this was no accident; it was meant to remind Aedham of the past, and it did. The Mage surreptitiously probed Mort's magical defenses, finding a solid shield surrounding the Foevor. Probing further would not go unnoticed; the King restrained himself, for now. Instead he probed the room's perimeter, looking for magical traps that might deny him access to the Overworld's wild power, and found none. It was there for the taking. If he wanted to pull together the power for a levin bolt and cook Mort where he sat, it looked like he could. The temptation was great. The Seleighe had warred long and hard with the Foevor, and never before had Mort shown the slightest inclination towards honor or fairness.
On the other hand, Mort was trusting him to abide by the rules as well, and the King's sense of honor would not allow him to do otherwise.
Mort continued bringing up the system, mousing his way through the menus like a pro. It was a Compaq dual processor, running Windows NT, but that's where the King's comprehension ended. "Have a seat," Mort said smugly, pointing to a swivel chair against the wall. "Pull it up here, next to me. I don't want you to miss anything."
Aedham did not reply; he was still studying the equipment, looking for something he understood. A row of monitors stared down at them from the wall, each with a camera view of the arena. A large computer screen displayed the game program, a Windows-based interface with lots of fancy graphics. Two names appeared, The Hound and Elvenboy. To the right was a window for their scores, and next to it a clock set to zeros.
"In case you're concerned about me fixing the scores, I can't. Humans designed the software, which I find incomprehensible. I couldn't tweak it to go in my favor even if I wanted to. It will be an absolutely fair game."
"We'll see," Aedham said dryly. "There's a first time for everything."
* * *
As Dobie put the laser vest on he felt empty. His father had told him to fight for the Foevors—that they were Foevors—but his heart was telling him otherwise. He wasn't sure what the outcome of this game would mean, or what they were really fighting for. There was more at stake than who had the high score, but what?
Not a soul was in sight in the arena. Lugh had told hi
m to report to "Mort," who turned out to be a voice on the speakers, greeting him as he entered, instructing him to suit up, get into the arena, and position himself. He questioned the tactics; it was a huge arena for two people. Precious game time would be spent just locating each other. Yet like a good warrior, he accepted the orders without complaint, and entered the maze.
The Hound stopped halfway up the ramp and peered through holes in the wall, where he had a view of the weapons room. Someone else had entered the room and put on a vest.
Llan?
That was ridiculous. The kid, or elf, was a novice. It seemed like an unequal match; perhaps they didn't have time to find someone else. As he considered the unfairness of the situation, the countdown began on his gun. Thirty seconds.
When he looked up, Llan was gone, now somewhere in the maze. As the seconds ticked he felt the now familiar change, the fighting rage that started from his toes and shot through his entire body, sharpened his senses, and turned his heart into a thundering bass drum.
It's showtime.
There, he heard him, somewhere down below. The unmistakable squeak of shoe rubber on concrete. Llan was on the first level. The Hound moved up the ramp to the second level, peering through the wire mesh screening to the floor below. There, movement. The seconds ticked down to zero, the guns bleeped to life, and the packs came up. Llan was a cluster of targets.
The Hound was a cluster of targets, too. The instant the game started Llan aimed and pegged The Hound in the ten point chest target, then ducked out of sight.
Stupid! The Hound thought, no longer feeling sorry for the elves. Llan knows where I am. I'd better move. A distant memory from his previous life surfaced: The elves' senses are sharper than a human's. I wonder if he can hear me breathe!
There were two ways Llan could come up the stairs; at one the ramp had a good ambush at the top where it entered the level. Dobie silently moved to the ambush, covering his gun's speaker as it bleeped back to life. There was Llan, and The Hound tagged him, and backed away.
Even score now; the elf looked up, saw his opponent, and moved on up the ramp, moving behind a minimaze. The Hound considered taking him face to face, but he was rather enjoying this cat and mouse stuff.
Above the maze where Llan had sought refuge hung a long metal mirror, and the elves' lights reflected perfectly in it.
The Hound bounced his beam off the mirror, blotting out the pack, and thumped him again as soon as his pack was alive. In the mirror Llan looked around in confusion. He must not know the mirror trick. Then he saw The Hound in the reflection, and moved out of sight.
The Hound moved, then decided to go deeper into the upper level, and when he thought it was safe turned his back to do just that. Mistake!
Llan nailed him from ahead . . . in that short time the elf had moved through the entire back of the level and ambushed him.
If he was breaking the rules by running, The Hound didn't hear it, and he had long ago quit making an issue about other players breaking the rules. Turning in cheaters did not add to his score, and burned up precious time.
Somewhere back there, Llan was waiting.
The gloves are coming off. One on one. The way Father wanted it.
His pack up, The Hound went directly to where Llan had been, and found him, moving behind a wall; the elf was not moving fast enough, The Hound tagged him, and stood his ground, counting the seconds before his opponent's pack returned.
The score was too close for comfort. Thumping time.
A short span of maze, Llan at one end, The Hound at the other. While Llan's pack was down The Hound moved around to the other side, thumped the valuable back target, turned around and repeated the cycle four times. The elf must have caught on: when The Hound went around to thump him again, he wasn't there. The Hound had lost his momentum. Where is he?
He listened for Llan's pack; apparently he'd learned the speaker covering trick. No sound, no elf. But he's back there somewhere.
* * *
The urge to use magic was strong; forfeiting the game if he did so kept Llan from it. Once the game began and he knew where his opponent was, Llan went after him bravely, using the warrior tactics common to his folk. But it was like walking into an army; Dobie was just too good.
Llan backed out of the minimaze the way he had come, and found the ramp completely open. Knowing there was a fair amount of distance between them now, he let his presence be known by "accidentally" hitting one of the walls, and then walking loudly down the ramp.
From a hole in the wall poured mist, and Llan thought for a moment that this was Mort's treacherous attempt to cheat. But the fog was part of the arena, he remembered. It pooled on the floor, and fogged up the entire area.
Let's use it for cover. . . .
Llan waited for The Hound to come down the ramp, but was met instead by his opponent's laser beam striking his shoulder target. He looked up and saw The Hound looking down through a grate from the second level.
Llan dashed out of the way, aware of Dobie following him on the second level, catching occasional glimpses of him through more grates. The human must have the place memorized! By the time his pack was up, though, no Dobie was to be found. Llan saw another second level, across from this one. If I get up there I can hit him from across the arena, he reasoned.
Indeed, it seemed to be what the builders of this place expected. Once he got over there Llan discovered a useful parapet, which legally concealed his shoulder targets. And he had perfect shot of the other level.
The Hound walked into view.
Llan tagged him, and ducked back. Let him wonder where it came from. On impulse he moved to another part of the level, and looked out. Nothing at first . . . then came the cautious appearance of the gun barrel target creeping up over the edge of a wall; Llan fired, burning up two of his rapid fire bursts to tag him.
Moments later, The Hound returned fire to precisely where he had been—but now Llan was at the other end, where he'd begun. The Hound must have seen what he was doing. As soon as Llan presented himself The Hound tagged him again.
The strategy worked, but not as well as he would have liked.
His gun told him he was still in second place, with eight hundred points. He moved to the back of the level, where he discovered a useful view of the ramp leading up to where he was. Llan positioned himself there, and waited.
The Hound took the bait. A minute later, walked up the ramp, passing directly under him. Llan let loose his beam and nailed the back target. The Hound shrugged it off and proceeded up the ramp, and Llan looked for better cover.
* * *
The Hound reached the second level and looked around for Llan; the elf had hidden himself again.
He prepared to go after him when he became aware of a presence behind him . . . and it wasn't Llan.
In a shadow, two red eyes peered at him.
Its voice blasted through his head like a blast of lightning.
You are a child, warrior. Without me, you are nothing. I said that you would one day pay for insulting me . . . today is the day!
From the shadows a black wolf leaped at him; The Hound held his right arm up instinctively, dropping the gun. The wolf's teeth sank into his flesh, clamped down like a vise, and held. The Hound let out a scream as he fell back. Although he was a mighty warrior in the past, in this life he was still, physically, a skinny teenager . . . and the wolf felt like it was as big as a bear.
The Hound hit the floor in a fury of growls, fur, and the unmistakable tang of blood . . . his blood.
* * *
Mort's equipment tracked the game through the monitors, and Aedham watched with one eye on the screen, one on Mort. The Foevor sat back vainly, watching the game with his hands clasped behind his neck and his knobby elbows jutting out, a singularly haughty pose.
At first The Hound seemed to be toying with Llan, then when the elf followed him up to the second level, the fireworks began. Llan got a few good hits in, Aedham noted with satisfaction, but when T
he Hound went into what had to be his fighting fury, hitting Llan repeatedly, not giving him much of a chance to fire back, it was clear who was going to stay in the lead. Llan had 810 points, The Hound, 1002.
"Why doesn't your champion just stay in one place and fight?" Mort said. "He looks like he's afraid to stand his ground."
Aedham let the comment pass. The monitors switched views, and now it was Llan tagging The Hound as he was coming up a ramp. Mort growled in response.
"Why doesn't your champion know he's been led to a trap?"
Then the weirdness began. As the camera tracked The Hound, a dark thing lunged from the shadows and attacked him. The two shadows wrestled back and forth in the shadow, The Hound's target lights clearly visible.
Mort stared at the screen, then checked something on the console. "You champion isn't playing by the rules," Mort said, with a mixture of triumph and anger. "Do you care to concede defeat now, or must I make it a larger issue?"
Aedham was unmoved. "Llan isn't attacking, Mort. Look, on that monitor. He's over there." He pointed to the monitor on the end. "I don't know what that thing is."
Evidently unconvinced, Mort leaped to his feet. "Seleighe treachery!" the Foevor shouted, pointing a long accusing finger at Aedham. "You break the rules, you forfeit!"
The King reached for the node power on impulse, but did not seize it. Instead he waited to see what the Foevor would do. But beyond the walls, Aedham felt a Gate powering up. Somewhere on this floor something is getting ready to arrive from Underhill. He remembered the single-legged Clapper with the enormous Long levin rifle on its shoulder, and didn't like the idea of facing one without a weapon. All the electronic gear made the task difficult, but not impossible: despite the interference he had the power lined up for a levin bolt, just in case.
"You foolish sidhe," Mort said, with a smirk. The Foevor's image flickered, as if he was some sort of a projection.
That can't be. The image was shielded!
Mort had become a mannequin, standing in a conceited pose, with his hands on his hips. Aedham reached out and pushed the statue. It fell backwards, smashing on the floor as if it were made of black porcelain.
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