by Tom Deitz
Too many people, too much chaos. Too many stories that had to be told one at a time and debated.
And, if what the Faery had revealed scant seconds before Aife’s arrival was true, quite possibly far too little time.
Somehow, too, he had found himself leader of the band—which was a laugh, given that he was barely twenty-two, not quite five-foot-eight, and was only now on the threshold of his first college degree—though he doubted, at this point, he’d physically graduate.
Twenty-two, and a veteran of nearly six years dealing with Faerie and the World Walls and those strange glowing roads that laced between them that were the Straight Tracks.
And now, he feared, he faced war between his own World—the Lands of Men—and Faerie.
Everyone was looking at him, too, dammit! Even Uncle Dale, who was well past seventy and had fought in more than one war himself. Never mind Aife, who’d been in Lugh’s guard, and this still-unnamed stranger, who—until the last few hours—apparently still was. He had just opened his mouth to ask what their Faery guest’s name might be when he heard the sodden thump of footsteps on what remained of the back porch stoop. He was already glancing frantically around for a makeshift weapon when he caught—muffled by rain and a room’s worth of breathing—someone male grunting, “Oh, fuck! Shit!”
David relaxed even as he caught Alec’s scowl. With Liz at his heels, he bolted for the door. “Pa!” he gasped as Big Billy Sullivan stomped through the kitchen door. Water puddled around his feet like the lake around the mountains, and his thinning red hair was plastered to his skull like a bathing cap. “I had a hat,” he growled as he divested himself of a sodden slicker, “but the wind got hold of it. I—” He broke off, irritation replaced with anger, and then that wistful, disturbing confusion David had come to realize meant an adult had suddenly discovered he was in over his head—or thoroughly outgunned.
“Got company, Bill,” Dale drawled smoothly, joining David and Liz in the tiny room. “And most of it the kind you don’t wanta see.”
Big Billy glared at him. “Right now all I want to see is something dry.”
“What’re you doin’ here, anyway, Pa?” David ventured.
His father’s gaze shifted toward him. “Checkin’ on Dale. Phone didn’t work, and the storm was so bad I got worried—trailers and storms don’t mix. Saw all these cars down here, and lanterns burnin’, and the chimney smokin’, and figured something was goin’ on I oughta know about.”
David handed his father a towel. “Lots goin’ on, Pa,” he acknowledged wearily.
“Well, start at the beginnin’,” Big Billy retorted. “I ain’t got nothin’ but time.”
David took a deep breath and steered his father back into the larger room. “This is my pa,” he explained. “He can figure out who’s who as we go along—easier to keep folks straight that way.” Big Billy looked seriously pissed—and a dozen other emotions all at the same time—but nodded a greeting and flopped down on the floor as close as he could get to Dale. He studiously avoided looking at any of the three Faeries—though his gaze did creep now and then toward Aife. Not that David blamed him.
David accepted a cup of coffee-an’-’shine from Liz (who promptly contrived another for his pa), then cleared his throat. “Okay, Pa,” he began, “you know about the Worlds, right? How there’s more than one…reality occupyin’ the same space at the same time, but with different rules in some of those places than we count on here. And I know you’ve heard me talk about the World Walls—they’re what separate these overlapping places from each other. Are you with me so far?”
Big Billy grunted assent, and David went on.
“Fine, so anyway, you know how a few years ago me—first—and then most of my friends, started runnin’ into situations that took us to some of these other Worlds, to Faerie, mainly, but also to Galunlati, the World of Cherokee myth, if you want to think of it that way. And sometimes we took the Straight Tracks, which connect…everything just about, at some level; and sometimes we just went straight through the World Walls. Well, it turned out that wasn’t good for the World Walls. And what’s worse is that iron—plain old everyday iron and steel that’s everywhere in our World—has different properties in some other places, and one of those differences is that iron in our World can actually eat through the World Walls and into places on the other side, like Faerie, and…basically dissolve ’em away.”
He paused for a swig of coffee, then went on. “Another thing, though, is that as best I can tell”—he looked at Fionchadd for confirmation—“our World’s the primary one that holds the others together, and Bloody Bald exists, in a way, in both Worlds. We see it as a mountain in a lake; you’ve seen how it looks in Faerie, ’cause I showed it to you. Lugh’s king there, and any Faery king is joined to his realm by an almost physical bond, and the place that holds that bonding—the heart and center of Lugh’s Kingdom—is also Bloody Bald.”
Big Billy coughed impatiently. “Most of which I knew. You think you could get to the new stuff?”
David drowned a retort about how little his father actually knew in another slug of coffee. “Okay, fine. So, do you know about the real estate developers?”
Big Billy’s face flushed red—if that was possible, given his already ruddy complexion. “Hell!” he snapped. “They been after me for weeks, but I didn’t say nothin’ to you ’cause I figured you’d blow sky-high—when they wasn’t nothin’ we could do anyway, ’cause we can’t deny ’em access and we don’t own the Cove no more.”
David fought down anger of his own—at his father for giving up so easily, and for limiting his options, and for a thousand thousand other things besides. “So you know about the resort?”
“Know they’re plannin’ to build some stuff down at the Cove and a lodge in the mountain itself. If it ever stops rainin’,” he added with a snort.
“You better hope that’s no time soon,” David growled. “That rain’s savin’ our asses fight now.”
Big Billy’s eyes narrowed; he glared at Dale accusingly. “You’re not sayin’ this—that you guys made this rain.”
“Helped,” Calvin and LaWanda grinned as one.
“Anyway,” David went on, “the bottom line is that Lugh got word of the developers’ intent and…basically found his back up against the wall. Any construction that close to the center of his realm, with the iron beams and all it entails, would cause major damage to Tir-Nan-Og—and he’s not gonna put up with it. Add to that the fact that the little folks there are all emigrating, and that the place is full of young hotheads who don’t like mortals anyway, though they’re cool to bop in here any time they feel like it and raise hell…and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.”
“Gettin’ ahead of yourself, ain’t you?” Uncle Dale inserted.
David sighed. “So anyway, short form: ’bout a week ago Lugh invited what I presume to be every mortal he could get his hands on who’s ever had dealings with the Sidhe to this grand council meeting in Tir-Nan-Og. And what he tells us is that if the resort is built—actually, the first time any iron bites into Bloody Bald—they’re gonna flood this whole area. He gave us two weeks to come up with a solution, and we’ve still got a little time left, but not much. Anyway, we were attacked in the palace, fled here—and decided to go see what we could do solo.”
Another pause for a drink, then: “Basically, we decided to split into three teams. One would go to another Faery realm and try to enlist the aid of some folks there who have come in and slapped Lugh’s hand before—they’re called the Powersmiths and Finno’s kin to them. I was with that group, and to make a long story short, we ran into trouble on the way and got turned back at the border of the country we had to cross to get where we were going.
“Meanwhile, Aik and Sandy tried to find out what they could about all this stuff on the Internet—Aik also, uh, squirreled around with their computers, you might say. And a third group stayed here and made it rain.” He eyed the ceiling dubiously.
“And t
hen on top of it,” Alec put in, “we’d just got back to Athens from our fools’ errand in Faerie when we heard from Aikin that all hell had broke loose up here. So we hopped in our cars and here we are. Awful trip—got here in the middle of this storm—and right at the worst, this guy”—he indicated the despondent-looking Faery warrior—“came runnin’ out of nowhere and tells us that Lugh’s been deposed and that the Sons of Ailill are in control.”
“One other thing, too,” Scott chimed in with his soft Tennessee accent. “Somewhere in there I got offered a job doing survey work for the developers—Mystic Mountain Properties. I needed a job,” he continued defensively. “They offered me one, and good money, and a chance to be outside a lot. I’d forgotten about Bloody Bald—it kinda does that to you. And then these folks showed up outta nowhere and told me I was workin’ for the bad guys. Still am,” he added. “Covert operations, I guess: stall as long as I can before they figure out that I am stalling.”
David took a deep breath and looked at his father. “That’s the very short form. The long one would probably take all morning. The folks here didn’t know until just now that our embassy to the Powersmiths failed. I know a little about what’s gone on up here ’cause Aik told us on the way up, but there’s still plenty we don’t know.”
“One thing we have decided,” Myra inserted, “is that we’ve got to put Lugh back on his throne.”
“But to do that, we have to know what happened in Tir-Nan-Og after we left—what was it? A week ago?” David wondered.
“By your time,” the nameless Faery warrior volunteered. “Little time at all in our World, for time flows oddly between the two just now.”
“Oddly indeed,” Fionchadd agreed. “I was ordered from that fight a week gone by—in this World—yet you seem to have but lately come from there.”
“Yes,” Aife echoed from the corner. “It would seem, then, that we should have your story next, if we are to learn anything at all.”
“Yeah,” David acknowledged. “And I know it’s rude to ask, but a name would be good, too, if you trust us enough to tell us yours.”
The Faery regarded him curiously. “You are astute, for a mortal, so perhaps what I have heard of you is true. Too, you have trusted me with your names; therefore I will tell you mine. I am Elyyoth, of the house of Angus, of the first corners to Faerie out of the High Air, and I am a guardsman to Lugh Samildinach.”
David gnawed his lip from impatience, though he knew that such an introduction—the full panoply—carried the force of ritual, which was a thing Faeries respected beyond almost everything.
“Former guardsman, I should say,” Elyyoth amended. “For surely a man cannot claim that status when he has failed in his assigned task.”
“You were sent here, as I recall,” Fionchadd countered. “If you fled, obeying orders, you are no failure.”
The Faery’s face was grim. “Yet I failed.”
David cleared his throat, impatience—and fatigue—having gotten the best of him. “The story…”
“Oh, aye. Very well, first of all, you should know that those who bear blame for this are many. Some—most—were the Sons of Ailill”—he paused to look at Dale and Big Billy—“a faction among the Sidhe who think your kind have encroached too closely on our World, whether in knowledge or in ignorance does not matter, and who decry what they claim is Lugh’s too-tolerant attitude toward mortals.
“In any event, during the time since David here first learned of Tir-Nan-Og, this faction, plus most of the other disaffected in that land, made secret cabal with certain powerful folk in Erenn and Annwyn and even among the Powersmiths, and so they began to plot against the High King, with an eye toward deposing him and substituting one of their own thinking. This was no easy task, for Lugh is the most Powerful man in Tir-Nan-Og, and possibly in Erenn or Annwyn as well. There was much plotting, and—”
“How do you know this?” Scott broke in roughly. “Seems to me a refugee like you knows a little too much for me to feel good about this.”
“A reasonable concern,” Elyyoth replied amiably, “and one which shall be addressed anon. Now, as I was saying, Lugh, for all his knowledge, skill, and interest in mortal kind, does not truly know as much about how mortals think as he might. Or rather, he knows the minds of but one sort of mortal: the sort he brought to his council—the best and brightest. Mortals of the baser kind—the ignorant, the rough, the infirm, the violent or mad—he ignores. The Sons of Ailill did not ignore them. They were younger, rasher, more eager for excitement, and they took themselves into the Lands of Men—often. And there they learned much of the darker side of mortality—and used it to advantage. We have a saying among us—the guardsmen do—that a mortal who deserves our attention at all deserves our respect. The Sons took another tack. They saw mortals as resources to be exploited, not respected; and to make a long tale short, they assumed control over a number of mortal men.”
“Why?” Alec wondered aloud, even as a very likely answer occurred to David.
“Iron!” Elyyoth spat. “Mortals can wield iron; Faeries cannot. Nor can a Faery assume the substance of the Mortal World while in Tir-Nan-Og, and thus wield it that way.”
Fionchadd nodded his agreement “I should have thought as much. Still, Lugh is strong—”
“Lugh was distracted, and the attack came from unexpected quarters, for the Sons were wily indeed. First, they divided themselves into groups. One—in effect a suicide team, though you know that death is no final thing among the Sidhe—attacked you mortals who were guesting in Lugh’s palace after his council. Nuada was able to forestall much of that attack, and with the help of certain others, spirited most of you away.” He looked at David. “Nuada says to tell you that your friend John Devlin is well.”
David exhaled his relief. “Go on.”
A deep breath. “Aye… Well, it turned out that the attack was mostly a ploy. Yet it had the desired effect. Lugh was enraged—one of his flaws, I must say; for though he is slow to anger, when it does awake within him, he does not always think like the wise man he is. In any event, Lugh dispatched a third part of his guard to capture those who had had the temerity to attack his guests, and he sent a part of his Power with them, so that he might more quickly know how events transpired.
“Then, while Lugh was thus distracted, one of the Sons, who had infected even our own ranks and who had obtained a potent poison from the Lands of Men, took that poison and gave it to Lugh in a goblet of wine while he lay at ease in his bath.”
“Poison!” Aikin blurted. “But I thought—”
“Some from your World act with amazing speed,” Fionchadd informed him. “Most of those we make are slow to work. And while your bodies are not as our bodies, still, some things are the same. Thus, while a poison might not kill Lugh, its healing could easily consume an enormous amount of Power.”
“Which is exactly what it did,” Elyyoth confirmed. “The poison was timed precisely. It took the High King from consciousness, and—we think—he went inside his mind so as to heal himself. And at that moment of vulnerability, the Sons of Ailill acted. They were already inside the palace. But they had ensorcelled men from this World and laid glamours on them so that they looked like familiar men of the Sidhe. They had also shifted their own shapes to small things, so that they might ride with those men and not be noted. Then, careful to avoid any of the more Powerful among Lugh’s comrades, many of whom were still abroad seeking the decoy attackers, these traitors split into two groups.”
Another pause for a sip of coffee, and the Faery went on. “Now keep in mind that mortal men are able to wield iron weapons, both in this World and in Faerie, and you see what valuable allies they might be. And as soon as Lugh’s consciousness failed—not a hard thing to know, when one speaks from mind to mind—one group of bespelled mortals bearing…guns, I think they are called, attacked the Throne Room while the other assailed Lugh’s chambers, intent on capturing him while he was unconscious. The throne was but lightly guarded—
most of these Lugh sent away were among those normally stationed there. The mortals used these guns, and shot Lugh’s guards where they stood—not killing them, but wounding them nonetheless, for a shattered limb or a blind eye cannot be repaired immediately, and pain is pain regardless. That achieved, they entered the throne room and erected a cage of iron around the throne—”
Fionchadd’s gasp cut him off. “The King is the Land!” the young Faery hissed. “The Land is the King. Lugh had put much of his Power into that throne; a shield of iron would cut him off from the bulk of his strength!”
Elyyoth nodded grimly. “And another portion of his Power was afield with the guardsmen chasing decoys.”
“While the rest he used to heal himself of poison!” Fionchadd groaned.
Again Elyyoth nodded. “While the remainder of the englamoured mortals attacked Lugh’s quarters, incapacitated most of my fellow guardsmen, and took the High King captive. Cowards’ weapons,” he added, wiping his mouth as though he had tasted something foul. “Guns…that wreak havoc from afar.”
“Like the Spear of Lugh,” Fionchadd chided him. “Like the Horn of Annwyn.”
“Weapons of war,” Elyyoth countered. “Not for close combat.”
Fionchadd looked very sad. “No, my friend, it is war. It was already going to be war with the Mortal World if this resort is built. Now it is war…everywhere.”
David was about to explode from impatience. “So basically what you’re saying is that a bunch of Faery traitors set it up so Lugh stretched his Power too thin and then contrived events so he’d have to divide it further, caught him at his weakest, and zapped him where he wasn’t looking.”