What? "You can't heal me? You healed me before."
"That was a long time ago," Lugh said. "Are you sure you can't fight? Be all you can be?"
"Can hardly get up. I'm running a fever."
Lugh continued his pep talk, "But it's not just a job. It's an adventure!"
Dobie stared at him. This doesn't sound right. At all. Is he really Lugh? Was he . . . ever?
"The Few. The Proud. The Foevorians!"
Dobie close his eyes, surrendering to the chill that had come over him.
"I'll return later," Lugh said shortly. "Try to get your strength back up. We have a war to fight."
Dobie watched their backs as they walked away. Is this really my father? This isn't the one I remember.
* * *
Dubh followed his leader out of the barracks into the grounds. Mort marveled at the creature's stupidity. He sees a human, The Hound, and assumes he's one of the grunts. Never mind that he's half god. At least he had the presence of mind to tell me about it!
Unfortunately, The Hound was practically useless for battle. Morrigan had made sure of that. His mood was such that he would have liked to divert all his resources in making sure she was destroyed, but with a Seleighe army camped outside the front gate he had a few other priorities to contend with.
The moment Mort had thrown off his Lugh glamorie, another crisis landed in his lap. Cikal Clapperleg, the commander of his army, was waiting for Mort outside the barracks.
"We have a Seleighe army at our doorstep," Cikal commented. "Any thoughts?"
Mort turned angrily on his commander, but the effect was not to his liking; it was difficult to stare down someone three times your height.
"I'm aware of the situation," Mort said. "I had not anticipated a confrontation so soon."
"That much is clear," the Clapper snorted. "We were promised a legion to fight the Seleighe, and were also promised seasoned mercenaries to lead us," Cikal continued. "What have we? Three hundred children who think they're playing a game. And not enough weapons for all of them." The Clapper paused, a full pace in front of Mort; he turned his long, hairy face with the single eye.
"What say you?" the Clapper hissed.
The barrel of the Long turned with him, but Mort noticed with some relief that the weapon was turned off.
Still, the meaning is clear, Mort thought. Now, let's remind him why I'm the leader.
"If you are displeased with my leadership, you may resign as commander, and as a Foevorian soldier, if you are of a mind to," Mort spat. "I am displeased that a few setbacks have demoralized you so."
The Clapper's look wavered, then turned away.
"Perhaps I have made a mistake in trying to bring my people the glory they deserve," the Foevor said, walking on without Cikal. "Perhaps I should rule the gargoyles. Or create my own race. I created all this," Mort said, gesturing over the entire grounds, the palace, the gatehouse in the distance. "I can create a race to inhabit it." Mort smiled pleasantly.
The Clapper followed, awkwardly. "You wish to rule all of Underhill. The elves must be exterminated, like vermin. But why are they such a threat?"
"They have always been a threat," Mort replied simply. He found it difficult to put into words the justification for the hate he felt; these Foevors had not experienced the humiliation at their hands as he had. "And they always will be."
The Clapper glared at him with his one eye, and Mort didn't like what he saw there. Raising his voice, he walked towards the Clapper and stared directly at him from his inferior height. "And if you think you can take me on you are welcome to try!"
The Clapper backed off a pace.
Mort continued, "Let me remind you that I have not been in Dreaming these aeons, I have been living in Underhill in various guises, gaining knowledge, gaining strength." Then he drove the knife in. "I may have assumed too much when I chose to wake you from dreaming."
"I do not . . . I do not question your command," the Clapper stammered, a gratifyingly bizarre sight. "We have had setbacks, to be sure . . ."
"Then quit grumbling about the elves and get back to your men. If there is a Seleighe army out there, why don't you start the attack now?"
"But there are over three hundred of them—"
"From the walls, you fool! Those weapons have a greater range than the Short rifles. Soften up their position and then send the grunts in to wear them down. The Seleighe won't fire on the children, I told you. Do you not believe me?"
"Yes, sire," Cikal placated, and bowed. The effect, however, was to look directly down at Mort. "We will begin the bombardment immediately."
* * *
"I don't like the looks of this," Petrus said, putting down the binoculars. The Bausch and Lombs were a cherished human-made tool, second only to the razor-sharp ceramic hunting knife he kept in his belt. They had set up a observation post at the edge of the mist; the army set up camp a bit deeper into the gloom.
He turned to Aedham, "The Clappers are on the walls. They're armed with the levin rifles."
"Spread your men out," Aedham said. "Now." Petrus went into action, shouting orders along the line. "I think they're—"
The King never finished the sentence. The first blast hit, some distance ahead of them, plowing a large crater into the unformed soil. The impact still threw the King backwards, and robbed him of his hearing for a few moments.
The King realized he may have misjudged the range of these weapons; he had thought they would be well out of reach of the rifles. As his hearing returned he became aware of his men making tracks further into the mist.
Time for a shield, Aedham thought, and reached for the power he would need. The air sparked with the energy; the enemy was preparing to fire again.
Node power . . . Now.
Another node blast struck the ground, closer this time, sending a shower of dirt over them. Aedham's concentration shattered. The node power slipped away.
The King rejoined his army, which had mobilized further back into the mist.
He caught up with Petrus, "Space your men out, Petrus. One blast from that weapon and we lose a third of our army!"
Petrus rode forward, leading the line of Seleighe parallel to the palace. Aedham caught a ride on a wagon, which followed the troops in a broad circle around Mort's palace. Another blast pulverized the ground again, throwing Aedham off the wagon; he got back on his feet and surveyed the damage.
They're shooting in the dark, he saw with satisfaction. They can't see so few men in mist this thick!
He opened up his Mage sight and surveyed the situation, seeing roughly fifteen Clappers with Long levin rifles, lined up along the top of an outer wall.
"Give me one of those!" he shouted at the weapons master, who handed him a levin rifle.
"But sire, you'll give away our position!"
"Keep moving!" Aedham shouted, and move ahead, towards the palace.
Levin blasts continued to pound the earth around them randomly; Aedham advanced towards the palace and took refuge in one of the craters; he was now well within range of the Longs. He took aim at the Clappers on the wall. As the weapon spun up to full power, he reached again for the nodes, and focused it on his target. The rifle's aim was no good at this distance; perhaps augmenting the blast's trajectory might make it more accurate.
He pulled the trigger to find out.
The rifle spat a ball of light at the wall; the shot arced slightly before homing in on the target, a lone Clapper positioned over the gatehouse, then drove home. A direct hit; the parapet disintegrated, and the blast vaporized the Clapper.
Aedham's assault had given away his position, and he scrambled out of the hole, zigzagging back to his men. A node blast hit his position moments later.
Their range is just too great! he thought, going over his options. Either nullify the blasts . . . or divert them. It was a technique his father had shown him, and which had to some effect been used in the defense of the original Avalon palace.
Time now to put it to p
ractice. Seize the power, he told himself, drawing again from the pools of energy. From this he made the strongest shield he could, then pulled it between the palace and his men. It was like pulling loose fabric, separating the weave; the shield became a net, spread along the front.
It wouldn't stop a blast. It could redirect it. Good enough for talking purposes.
The next blast struck the net, then went up and over, bouncing harmlessly away. A cheer rose from the Seleighe army, now scattered thinly across the perimeter. The Clappers fired again. The projectile made a sharp detour into the ground.
Their levin rifles are useless now, the Mage thought, his feelings mixed. It would force the Foevor's next hand: sending the kids in. From the wagon he retrieved his special ruby rifle and powered it up.
I just hope this thing works, Aedham thought frantically, aware now that all their options were expended.
* * *
"What do you mean, the aim is off?" Mort screeched at Cikal, just outside the gatehouse. "We tested these things."
"Not against a Mage," Cikal pointed out. "The King of Avalon has constructed something. I cannot see it in its entirety."
"He's thrown up a shield," Mort replied, impatiently. His neck was getting sore from looking up at the Clapper. Increase my size so that I can communicate with my own men? It seemed like a waste of node power, all of which he needed for his Lugh impersonation for The Hound.
The lad might yet come around.
"I can see the shield from my chambers," Mort pointed out. A thin, wispy shield that couldn't protect the Seleighe from harsh language, much less a levin hit. "It's not enough to stop anything!"
"I tell you, it's diverting the blasts. Not stopping them."
"Then tell your men to cease fire until further notice," Mort said with a frustrated snarl. These Clapperlegs have no backbone whatsoever. And to think they were once warriors!
Mort was still tempted to wait until The Hound could lead their unit of human soldiers into the fray. The situation had become a standoff—they had all the time they needed.
Or maybe not. While they delayed sending in the ground troops the Seleighe army was digging in. The humans were expendable, always had been. Why not send them in now when they can exact the most damage?
"I'm sending in the human infantry," Mort said. In a way, he was relieved. Keeping the kids under the ruby spell had taken its toll on his power supply; without them, he might be able to construct an effective countermeasure to Aedham's net.
"They're going in now."
* * *
Dobie no longer felt his arm. At some point during his delirium he decided that the wolf had poisoned fangs, and had injected his arm with venom, and the worst of the effects were still to come.
He had fallen off the hay mattress and was on the cold, hard floor, which felt good with his fever. That he might die here was not much of a concern.
When his father appeared above him again, he thought it was over. Lugh's ability to heal seemed to have gone by the wayside, so the only reason his father would be here would be to claim him for the land of the dead. It made sense. Nothing else really did.
Death did not seem to be in the cards, though; Lugh held a hand over the swollen arm, and from his palm a rich blue light flowed, bathing the nasty wound with warmth.
Pain ended, and sleep came.
* * *
"There, by the gatehouse," Petrus pointed out. "They're shooting at their own fortress?"
"The portcullis is damaged," Aedham explained, feeling the node blasts chip away at the palace entrance. "They're just clearing the way." He rechecked the charge of the ruby based levin rifle he was wearing; it looked good. "They're sending the kids in, I bet. Go. Tell your men to hold their fire."
Aedham thumbed the rifle on, and looked up. The portcullis was clear now, and humans in black pajamas were scampering over terrain made rough by node blasts.
Here goes, Aedham thought, aiming at the youths. So far Mort had only sent out ten, but they all had levin rifles. The Mage pulled the trigger and held it down. The rifle spat a red beam at the human squad, pinning them in the light. With an extra push of node power, Aedham felt the rubyhead spell shatter.
The ten warriors looked confused.
"Hold your fire!" Petrus shouted, but the Seleighe army was already standing down. "Sire, we should go get them!"
"Yes, but get those packs away from them as soon as you can. They look like toys!" Aedham replied. Gods help us if they decided to start playing with them! Petrus and a handful of men moved forward, without packs or drawn swords, waving at the humans as they approached.
What must this look like to them? Aedham wondered, as he watched his men approach the humans. Without much discussion the elves carefully took the packs from them and led them over the churned-up ground to safety behind Seleighe lines. It didn't look so much like the taking of war prisoners as it did a Boy Scout outing. Apparently the kids were too stunned and confused to react to the weirdness of the situation.
Which is how it should be. They don't know what's going on. And it's our duty to keep it that way.
On the wall over the gatehouse, a Clapper leveled a Long rifle at Petrus, his men and the kids, and fired.
* * *
From the gatehouse rampart Mort stared in disbelief as the ten human foot soldiers shook free of his spell. The rubies fell from their heads, then they dropped their weapons like they didn't know what they were anymore. Whatever illusion Mort's magics had created were gone now.
Aedham did this . . . but how? This was not something a Mage could do, so quickly . . . and with all the node power flying around, the interference alone should have made the task impossible. Yet there they were, free of their spells. And the Seleighe were leading them back to their lines.
"Take them out!" Mort shouted to the nearest Clapper, who aimed and fired a Long; the node blast made a direct path for the Seleighe and the humans, but at the end made a sharp turn into the sky, bounced off into the unformed mist, and left the target unscathed.
"These weapons are useless!" Cikal moaned, from Mort's left. "The shield is deflecting our weapons, I tell you! We must take out that Mage."
If such were possible, Mort thought. I would take the Mage out myself.
But was it impossible? Aedham was behind his lines, somewhere back there, well hidden in the mist. The Seleighe had taken to guerrilla tactics this round, hiding behind the mounds his Longs had dug in the ground. The only thing able to penetrate the Seleighe's lines were the damned children and they weren't staying bespelled.
Children . . .
Mort had an idea.
* * *
Dobie sat up from dreamless sleep, bathed in sweat; the fever that had wracked his body with chills was gone now. At least he was alive.
"It seems the Morrigan has bested you once again," said a familiar voice; Dobie turned to see his father with his green cloak, sitting on a bench, a pace or two away. "I've seen to your wounds. How does your arm feel?"
Arm? He'd forgotten all about the attack. His right arm, though covered with fresh, pink scar tissue from elbow to wrist, was completely healed. He flexed his hand stiffly, but it worked, and obeyed.
"Why didn't you heal me before?" Dobie asked, remembering the encounter. "All you wanted me to do was fight."
"You have been tricked yet again," Lugh said gently. "It was not I, but someone, a Foevor shape shifter, pretending to be me."
The news came as a relief. "We are not Foevors? You didn't save me from the hotel room, from Morgan . . ."
"You saved yourself," Lugh informed him.
"Then who is—"
"Think for yourself," Lugh said. "Who would stand to gain the most from denying the Seleighe their champion?"
The answer is quite simple, Dobie had to admit. "None other than the Foevors. Their leader. Mort." He got to his feet, shaking off the last of the malaise. The healing his father had performed was absolute; he felt not just good, but terrific. He took off the gol
d ring "Lugh" had given him and flung it across the barracks. It exploded against the wall in a tiny flash of fire and smoke.
It occurred to Dobie that he might have slept through the fight. "What has gone on? Has the war begun?"
"Indeed it has," Lugh assured him, sitting back on the bench and regarding his son with an appraising look. "It has certainly begun. In fact it is a bit of stalemate right now."
"You must take me to it!" Dobie demanded. "If there is still time—"
"Be patient," Lugh said calmly. "The fight will be in your court soon enough."
On the bench next to Lugh was a levin rifle vest. The Lord of Light glanced down at the weapon, then addressed his son. "I will broker one more fight. Prepare yourself for it."
* * *
"Looks like he's sending out the rest of them," Petrus said dismally, pointing towards the gatehouse. "All of them."
"Indeed he is," Aedham said, taking up his ruby rifle again. As the small army of human infantry scrambled to take up positions just outside the wall, the Mage reinforced the safety net, and moved it a little further out, to include this next wave. There were a few hundred, swarming like ants. Aedham's blood boiled; it was a senseless sacrifice. "Okay, you know the drill. I'll knock out the spell and you go gather them up. Get them back here as soon as you can."
Aedham had established a refugee camp some distance into the mist, and had put several of his men on it, to make sure no one bolted. The tranquility spell Aedham had put on the first ten seemed to work well, but with node power flying everywhere he didn't trust his ability to maintain it. In case the spell slipped, he didn't want to have to go look for lost youths in the fog.
When it appeared the last of the kids had moved within range of the ruby rifle, Aedham hosed them all down with the liberating red light. Through Petrus' binoculars he saw the rubies dropping from their temples, followed by the expected baffled stares. When the entire line appeared to have been despelled, Petrus led his soldiers out to gather them up. The Foevors opened fire from the gatehouse parapets, but their Mage blasts were going everywhere but into the Seleighe line, deflecting off Aedham's net like stones skipping across a pond.
It didn't take long to herd the kids back behind their lines, although the node blasts were a bit of a distraction. The kids didn't seem to know the blasts were intended for them, which was fortunate. That might have caused a panic, which they didn't have the numbers to handle. Instead there was an orderly escort of the two hundred or so kids filing past Aedham. Petrus walked along side the assembly, and Aedham spread a blanket of tranquility over them as they filed past. It taxed every thing he had, but the spell seemed to be working. The humans were as docile as cattle.
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