The King spotted one kid who still had a vest, and it appeared to be operational.
"Petrus, seize that weapon!" Aedham called, but his commander was already on the job, weaving through the crowd of humans who were not much smaller than he was. The crowd parted around a scuffle, and two more of Petrus' soldiers stepped in and separated the kid from the levin rifle vest.
"He's delirious," Petrus called back. "I think he needs healing."
After what they've been through, they all probably need healing, Aedham thought. He kept an eye on the boy, who bore a striking resemblance to his friend from Dallas, Daryl Bendis, before rehab: pale and pasty white skin, with black, stringy hair. With pointed ears he would have looked like an Unseleighe.
The boy turned, glared at Aedham, then moved on with the rest of the refugees. The hostile look sent shivers through Aedham, who had no doubts the kid would have taken him out with a levin rifle if given the chance.
"Sire! Another messenger!" Petrus called out, and Aedham looked up to see another Foevor on a black horse riding towards them.
I hope it's not another challenge. I am weary of this game. I want to be done with it!
The rider pulled up and delivered another note to Aedham. Petrus and a large contingent of his officers looked on as the King read.
Aedham looked up, smiling from ear to elven ear.
"It's a surrender," he said, not quite believing the words. "We've won."
* * *
The acting commander of the Foevor forces, Cikal Clapperleg, seemed sincere in his desire to make peace. His forces, including the race of reptilian Greens and the wraiths, had all lined up outside the gatehouse and had laid down their weapons before them. As a peace offering, the Greens had also turned over the youths imprisoned in the dungeon, and Petrus had them escorted to the camp. A fair number of gargoyles also had enlisted as mercenaries, but they seemed to have sensed the changing winds and had left shortly after the Unseleighe did. The Foevor army, standing proudly at attention, had cooperated fully in all aspects, except one.
They didn't know where Mort was.
"He deserted us," Cikal complained. "In our hour of need, he left us when we needed him the most."
"Let me guess," Aedham said, pacing before him. Standing still in front of the giant made him feel vulnerable; moving around somehow gave him the psychological feeling of safety. "You realized how he misled you, made you promises he never kept."
The one-eyed giant nodded. "And I couldn't remember why we were fighting."
"Aie, indeed," Aedham said, not fully convinced of the story. The situation stank. It smelled of a trap. But the Clappers had no weapons. The Seleighe was fully armed. Where was the catch?
A commotion from his army drew his attention from the Foevors. From the unformed mist a horse and rider appeared, and were heading toward the Foevor gatehouse. Aedham took a closer look and saw that it was the kid who hadn't wanted to give up the levin rifle. He's flipped completely out! Why does he want . . . ?
"Excuse me," he said to Cikal, and went over to one of the officers in charge of the refugee camp. "What happened with that kid who just took off?"
"What happened?" the officer replied, wild-eyed. "He kept sneaking out of the camp looking for a weapon. The levin rifles, in particular."
And the spell of tranquility had no effect on him.
"We were bringing him back when he made a dash for an elvensteed," the officer said. "And it . . . obeyed him. An elvensteed would never let a human ride them."
Perhaps he wasn't a human, Aedham thought. I knew there had to be a reason why he looked like Daryl Bendis.
"Who was that?" Petrus said, riding up to Aedham on Moonremere. "I looked up, and that human kid had already made it back to the gatehouse. On an elvensteed."
"That was Mort," Aedham explained. "Good glamorie, too. Even though he copied someone I knew, I didn't detect it."
"Should we gather up a unit and go after him?"
"Not yet," Aedham ordered. "It could be a trap. He's on his home territory. I want to find out more about the layout before we go in."
Something above them caught his attention; looked up at an eagle circling over them. "I think we have another visitor."
The eagle kited over them, then dove down to land; as the bird touched the ground, it transformed into a robed man with a green cloak. The god stood calmly, unmoved by the anxious army surrounding him.
Lugh stepped forward and bowed, respectfully, before Aedham. The action surprised him. With a god, isn't it supposed to be the other way around?
"Well done, Seleighe King," Lugh said. "You have successfully conquered the enemy, and have liberated a large number of young beings who do not belong to this realm." Lugh paused, and smiled congenially, putting the King at ease. "I trust you will see that they are returned to their homes?"
"Indeed, I will," Aedham replied. "But is the battle really over?"
"Your battle is," Lugh said, with a slight edge to his voice. "As you may have guessed, you had Mort in your midst, and didn't even realize it. He has returned to his palace."
"He's going to escape," Aedham said. "Again. This is not the first time."
"He won't escape," Lugh said. "He will be . . . challenged."
Aedham raised an eyebrow. "By whom?"
Lugh winked at him. "My son. The Hound of Culann."
Dobie?
Lugh continued, "I would not normally meddle in elven affairs, but your actions have displeased me. Since the realms split with the Tuatha's defeat, the various clans have lived in balance." Lugh pointed to a levin rifle held by one of Aedham's men. "The balance has been upset by your invention. As you said shortly after slaughtering the Unseleighe army, this is no honorable way to fight."
In the presence of Lugh, Aedham had difficulty arguing his defense. "So you have intervened."
"As gods have been known to do."
"For what purpose? What do you intend to accomplish?"
"To even the playing field," Lugh said. "Two warriors. Two levin rifles. One large arena. Mort's palace."
"A duel?"
Lugh shook his head slowly. "Single combat. Your people are familiar with this concept, I trust."
"Mort is no warrior!" Aedham objected. "He will win any way he can."
"I have made the contest equal in every way," Lugh countered.
Aedham believed him. "What will the outcome determine?"
"The winner, of course," Lugh replied. "One will die. One will live."
"And if Mort lives?"
"He will remain the leader of the Foevors. That is," Lugh said, glancing at the giant Clapperlegs, "if they will have him."
At this point it doesn't look like Mort is the leader of anything, Aedham thought. His men have surrendered, and they believe Mort has deserted them. Yet the King didn't like the possibilities. He would escape. He would be out there, consolidating another empire, perhaps even by someday convincing the Foevors again he was worthy of their loyalty.
Yet it was clear to Aedham that Lugh's mind was made up, that no amount of gentle persuasion would change matters.
"Then may the best warrior win," Aedham said, forcing a smile.
Chapter Fourteen
Sammi was sleeping in her car when she felt the power reach through the realms; she sat up groggily, sensing the Gate's point of entry somewhere inside the arena. Her clock read 4:00 a.m. Monday morning.
The media covering the megaliths had long since packed up and gone on to less stale news. The lone cop at the megaliths looked up as she got out of the car, then returned to his newspaper, disinterested. Sammi had introduced herself to him earlier that night after sending Llan to notify Petrus of the change in war plans. Creating the Gate, even with Llan's help, was exhausting. Sitting watching unmoving rocks was all she was up to, afterwards. So far as the locals were concerned, she was a new FBI recruit given the tedious task of a round-the-clock watch on a business. Dull work for any cop.
All that was about to change.<
br />
In the arena she saw the Gate form in its usual spot against the wall. Once it was up a familiar face came through it.
"Are you ready for your new arrivals?" Petrus asked. He was dirty and bruised from battle, but grinning from ear to ear.
"Yes, send them through," Sammi said. "So what's going on down there?"
"Oh, we won. Sort of," Petrus said. "The Hound and Mort are having it out in single combat."
That didn't sound like the Seleighe had won just yet, she thought, before returning her concentration to the problem at hand. "How many are there?"
Petrus looked exhausted; it took a moment for him to respond. "All of them."
"Even the ones in the dungeon?"
"Them, too." He looked around the darkened arena. "No witnesses?"
"None. It's early morning here. What do they think happened?"
"A UFO cult kidnapped them from the arenas. The story is rather detailed; they should be able to tell you all about it."
UFO cult? Sammi groaned. What better way to stir up an already psychotic situation. "Send them through."
Petrus went back into the Gate, and a moment later a small army of human kids started filing through. Strangely enough, they were all wearing loose black clothing. Something Mort cooked up, I guess.
She punched in Hawk's number on the Nokia, roused him from a sound sleep, and told him to get his tail down to the arena. While she waited for him to show up, she needed to come up with an explanation that would correspond with the kid's implanted memories.
Meanwhile, as the former hostages arrived, congestion developed around the Gate, and Sammi had to usher them away to let the rest come through. Soon the arrivals started to come out of their stupor, and started babbling. Sammi took a few aside and drilled them on what had happened.
"Nothing really," one kid said, a tall blond boy who still looked half asleep. "Oh, now I remember. It was these UFO crazy people. They thought aliens was going to take them away, and they kidnapped us to diversify their DNA pool or some weird shit like that . . ."
That was the story she was waiting to hear. Aedham's cover story will work quite well, I think. Especially with those black clothes . . . She remembered a case of mass suicide in California that had similar trappings. Fortunately, this story had a happier ending.
As soon as they were all through, the Gate blipped out of existence. She hoped there would never be another one there again.
"Time to call in the cavalry," she said to herself as she dialed the FBI office to report the discovery of a few hundred kidnapped youths in the Lazerwarz arena. The FBI promptly contacted local law enforcement, who summoned an entire squad of crisis counselors. Moments later fifteen police cars pulled up in the Lazerwarz parking lot, lights spinning. The media wasn't far behind.
A happy ending, she thought, trying to focus on what was happening here, instead of the war in Underhill. I like happy endings. Maybe Avalon will soon have one too.
* * *
It was all over. The kingdom he had carefully crafted from the leftovers of their former glory had collapsed; his people were cowards, all of them.
They don't deserve me, Mort fumed as he dismounted the elvensteed, flung off the disgusting human glamorie, and rushed into the palace. They never did. At the first sign of trouble they give up. How dare they, after all I have done for them: roused them from long-term Dreaming, gave them the most powerful weapons ever to exist in Underhill, and returned them, however briefly, to their former glory.
And they repay me with surrender!
Mort took the massive set of stairs to the upper levels, where his chambers lay. He was not fleeing unarmed. There was one levin rifle left, stashed behind his throne, the one he used to blast Morrigan. For that reason alone it had substantial sentimental value.
The rifle was where he had left it behind the throne. Mort took a long look at his chambers, and was seized with a sudden grief which turned quickly to anger.
I will return. And I will not be denied again.
The King of the Foevors reached for the node power needed for a Gate . . . and frowned. It's there, he thought. The node power is there. Why can't I reach it?
There was a barrier around the nodes. Subtle, nearly imperceptible, but there, and in the way. Did Aedham construct a shield around the nodes? Mort wondered, but whatever the reason he had nothing with which to make a Gate.
In his haste he hadn't noticed the note tacked onto the back of his throne. Now he pulled the piece of parchment down and read.
* * *
To His Majesty, King Mort, ruler of the Foevors,
You have been hereby challenged to a contest of single combat, to be carried out in this palace and its grounds, starting immediately, under the stipulation that no magic be used except the node power generated by the levin rifles. There will be no points. Physical contact is encouraged.
Have a nice day,
Lugh, Lord of Light
P.S. Perhaps this will teach you to not toy with the son of a god, you buffoon.
* * *
After reading the note he calmly wadded it up, dropped it on the floor, then switched on the levin rifle.
Curiously, the screen on the gun came to life. The levin versions didn't use the screens, they were only an interface for the game arenas—but there it was. Lugh must be manipulating it. The color Lazerwarz logo and timer popped up.
The countdown began at thirty seconds.
Who could be my opponent? he wondered, before the sickening realization of who that would be took hold.
* * *
The Hound of Culann stayed close to the wall as he surveyed the great arch leading out of the sector. He had made good use of his time exploring the palace, and he was beginning to understand the enormity of it; the place was made up of sectors, each the size of a large enclosed shopping mall, with empty rooms of different sizes. Some had two or three levels, with catwalks and ramps connecting the floors. In the first sector he explored, light didn't seem to come from any one source; it was everywhere at once, and nowhere was it completely dark. The Hound had no shadow in this place.
Evidently "lighting" hadn't been installed in the second sector yet; wooden torches lined the halls and primary passages, but not the small rooms. He took one of the torches down and explored a few small rooms. They were the same as the others, empty, with a homogeneous surface that looked like spray-on granite.
Dobie nearly jumped out of his skin when his levin rifle's screen came to life, and started beeping a countdown. With sweaty palms he pulled it out of the holster. The game had begun.
As the prospect of battle neared, The Hound felt his senses sharpen, and his vision narrowed just the slightest bit. Something out here is trying to kill me, his body told him. I'd better kill it first.
He peered around the arch, to the enormous courtyard beyond. He'd seen pictures of Tianamen Square; this looked like about five of them, laid end to end. The great outer wall rose up on the left, extending into the horizon, and on the right, the palace. The Hound was tempted to explore the gatehouse, off in the distance, but that was where the game boundary ended, his father had said. Besides, there was no cover. Anyone from the palace could take him out.
Where to go from here? Before him was a wide expanse of wall, then a wide stairwell going up about five stories, to the top of the wall.
"Nowhere to go but up," The Hound muttered, and started for the stairs.
* * *
This sucks, Mort thought as he traversed the long hall to the armory. While his gun was up and running, he still didn't like the thirty second downtime between blasts, and was seeking to compensate for this by finding a second rig. Whether that would work as he hoped was still in doubt, but at least it would give him an edge. He might know the palace inside and out, but his soul raged for more advantage; he didn't like the equality of the game. It made the outcome too iffy.
Alas, the armory had been cleaned out by Aedham, damn him. Why isn't he my opponent! Mort's mind scre
amed. I wasn't trying to kill your son, Lugh. I was trying to make him a champion! My champion! He thought that maybe the cowardly Clappers might have stashed a bazooka-sized Long here—wouldn't that have made things interesting—but no, the place was empty. Shit.
Not knowing where The Hound was bothered him. He needed a vantage point, but no one place gave him a view of everything.
Think think think! Where was he? In the barracks, of course! Which would mean . . .
Mort had no reason to think that was where The Hound had begun the game, but it was a start. He rushed back out into the hall, which led to a walkway overlooking the courtyard.
Nothing, at first. Across the way, at a bit of an angle, was the part of the palace that would have become the peasant's village, which adjoined the barracks. A large arch opened to it, and a broad stairwell from the second major level led down to it.
Where is . . . he wondered, then saw movement.
The Hound of Culann had emerged from the arch, regarded the area cautiously, the approached the stairs.
"I don't believe this," Mort said to his weapon. Lugh had said it would be fair, and until now Mort didn't believe him. But here was a perfect shot, all lined up for him.
He's going up the stairs . . . even better! At the top of the stairs was the drill yard, yet another area with very little cover.
The Hound hesitated; Mort poised the gun on the parapet, and aimed. Then his target started up the expansive stairs.
Mort tracked his opponent with the gun's sight, waiting for him to reach the midpoint on the stairs. It seemed to take forever, but Mort forced himself to be patient. At the midpoint it would take him longer to find cover, if he missed.
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