Warstalker's Track

by Tom Deitz

  Another deep breath, and David joined the voyagers: Aife, Fionchadd, Brock, Aikin, LaWanda, and Big Billy. Fionchadd wore the clothing he’d arrived in: tunic, cloak, hose, and high leather boots that looked vaguely fifteenth century. Aife (who was tall for a mortal woman, though not for one of the Sidhe), wore Elyyoth’s castoffs: armor, weapons, tattered surcoat; all of it. David had the armor and surcoat Fionchadd’s mother had given him all those years back, which blessedly still fit. Good fortune that: deciding that a suit of Faery mail was just too obvious a thing to go flashing around even in a town like Athens. The other four were in serviceable black as far as possible, but Fionchadd had promised more suitable outfits once they were under way. Each carried weapons, too, which Dale and JoAnne had spent half the morning cleaning. As best David could recall, they had at least two guns apiece per mortal combatant: five handguns, notably an heirloom Colt .45 that had belonged to Uncle Dale, a pair of Ruger Blackhawks, and Aikin’s brand-new .40 caliber Glock 22; four shotguns, and (in case they met large nonhuman opposition—like wyverns) a big-bore rifle.

  Fionchadd cleared his throat again and gazed at the sky as though trying to read something unknowable in the angle of the sun and the thickness of the dispersing clouds. “Now,” he said quietly—and reached down to retrieve that which he’d carried in a cardboard box full of Styrofoam peanuts all the way from their last landfall in Athens.

  A toy boat—as Darrell had just blurted out.

  “No,” David whispered. “Watch.”

  Fionchadd held out the object for inspection, looking a tad too resignedly tolerant, David thought. It most closely resembled a standard issue Viking ship—save that it was no more than a foot long. Certainly it had the low, slim build, high carved prow and tail, and central mast of the typical Norse drakkar. But there was also a tiny cabin amidships, and certain other details were not quite the same. And of course every seam, bolt, nail, peg, and rivet was absolutely perfectly made and installed with a precision that would’ve done Rolex proud.

  Without saying a word, the Faery turned and marched with calm deliberation to where the lake whispered against the shore. He squatted there, his cloak a fan of gray around him, and set the vessel in the water. Then, in one deft motion, he extended his right hand. A ring gleamed there: twin serpents twisted around each other, one of silver, one of gold. A stroke to the golden head, and a tiny spark of flame shot from its mouth, just far enough to brush the crimson sail furled around the spars atop that pencil-thin mast. The boat caught fire at once, and there was more than one gasp of protest before those who didn’t know what to expect realized what was occurring.

  For the ship was expanding as it burned, arcane fires tearing atoms from the air and binding them into the vessel’s substance. “It’s like freeze-drying,” David told the awestruck LaWanda. “’Cept they take out the fire—the energy, you could say—instead of water. This just puts it back.”

  “Whatever you say, White Boy,” LaWanda growled, patting the Colt at her hip.

  And then, all at once, the ship loomed higher in the water, and then higher again, and with a final whoosh of green-purple fire reached its full size and stood waiting in the lake, just far enough offshore to prevent its keel scraping bottom.

  “This is it,” David said, because somebody had to. And suddenly the sketchy shoreline was a confusion of hugs, kisses, and an endless series of “Best wishes” and “Take care of yourself” and “I love you” and “See you later, man.” David felt lost in the muddle, but made time for his mother, brother, and uncle, and for Alec and, most especially, for Liz. He hated going without her, but sometimes you had to let logic rule.

  When his crew seemed inclined to linger, Fionchadd uttered a sharp “Enough! Those who would accompany me, board the ship and do not look back.”

  David gave Liz a final kiss and turned. They had to wade through water up to their hips to reach the ladder that hung from the gunwale, but David had warned them about that, and everyone held their weapons and other gear clear. Climbing up was no problem; they were all young, supple, and in excellent condition—save Big Billy, who was huffing, puffing, and red in the face as he heaved himself over the rail. “Too much winter and too much rain,” he gasped. “I ain’t been out enough. Done lost my wind.”

  “Watch it, then,” David cautioned as he helped him find his feet, leaning against the rail, with the line of decorative shields behind him. “Can’t afford to lose you, too.”

  “I ain’t that old!” Big Billy snorted.

  “Yeah, but you’ve smoked for thirty years,” David countered. Not adding that his pa also drank too much beer and would’ve eaten a hockey puck if it was deep-fried.

  Fionchadd, meanwhile, had made a beeline for the bow, where the intricately carved curves, whorls, and spirals that marked the dragon prow loomed above their heads. David saw him there, busy with a scrap of fabric.

  “What—” David began as he joined his friend in the vee behind the prow. But then he saw: torn white velvet stained with blood. “So that’s how we’re gettin’ there,” he murmured for Fionchadd’s ear alone.

  The Faery nodded. “I would prefer the secret of navigating this vessel did not become common knowledge, but alas, there is only one way to accomplish this.”

  David indicated the fabric. “Lugh’s blood?”

  Fionchadd shook his head. “Nuada’s. I thought it wise to seek him first. He—”

  David grabbed his arm. “What do you mean? I thought this was all decided—and here you go changin’ the rules again! Whose side are you on, anyway? I haven’t forgotten what your friend said back in Annwyn about you havin’ tangled alliances everywhere.”

  “I am your friend,” the Faery replied simply. “If I wanted to work harm to you or your kin, I could have done it ere now. As for my change in plans, it came to me while we were mustering our gear. I was telling Elyyoth that it would be useful to have something of Lugh’s to use as a focus for a scrying, and he said that while he had nothing that belonged to him, Nuada might, and Nuada’s blood was splattered along with that of many others on his surcoat. And Nuada, as you know, would be a valuable ally. Still,” he went on acidly, “if it looks as though a side-quest to seek the second most powerful man in Faerie will lead us too far afield, I will abort that mission and seek the Iron Dungeon at once.”

  “Whatever,” David spat, and strode away. God knew he had friends on board to whom all this was new and amazing, and those people needed him now. Still, he couldn’t resist watching as Fionchadd uttered a certain word, whereupon the drakkar’s carved neck curved around—and kept on turning until the vast wooden beak was barely above the Faery’s head. Whereupon Fionchadd deftly inserted the strip of bloodstained fabric into the right-hand nostril. The head seemed to inhale, then slowly, with much creaking and groaning, returned to its former position.

  Abruptly, they were moving. Big Billy staggered back a half step, but caught himself on the rail. Brock giggled at him—then had the tables turned as a lurch to the right upset the boy’s perilous balance and set him on his backside. He scrambled to his feet at once, rubbing his butt dramatically.

  And then they were moving in truth: out of the sunlit cove and into the light mist of fog that drifted like ghosts upon the larger body of the lake. Already David could feel his eyes tingling, as Power awoke. A Power that manifested an instant later as a glitter of golden reflections on the water. And then more gold, and the reflections rose above that surface, and his friends joined him as they pondered the way ahead. The sun was behind them, yet no true shadow lay before, and then the fog began to thicken, and the mountains to dim, and all at once they were surrounded by thick clammy white, save where an indistinct light in the sky wove pink highlights through it.

  David held his breath—they all did. And in that sudden silence, they heard, faint but clear, voices from the shore calling out farewells. And James Morrison Murphy, who loved music and hated Faerie, playing on his new Uilleann pipes that had been made in that s
trange land a rousing chorus of “Brian Boru’s March.”

  “Well,” David whispered to nobody, “looks like we’re on our way.”

  *

  If David had thought this latest of his seemingly endless forays into Faerie would proceed without incident, he was mistaken. Barely had his companions taken their bearings when Aikin, of all people, cleared his throat and called everyone to join him in the stern. His face was grim—as serious as David had ever seen him. He stood close to the cabin and had spread a cloak on the planking of the deck. A round shield was propped up on a box just clear of the dragon tail at the aft end of the vessel; two feet across, its thick dark wood was carved in the semblance of a human figure in a style between traditional Viking zoomorphs and more realistic later styles.

  “Okay,” Aikin began. “This is your party, Dave, but we both know who the gun ace is, so if you don’t mind, I’m gonna act on that suggestion you made earlier and give these folks a quickie tour through Shootin’ Irons 101.” He glanced at David for confirmation, then continued. “First thing, then, is for everybody to put whatever artillery you’ve got on this cloak so I can see what we’re workin’ with here. After that, I’ve got a few things to say, but mostly I just want us all on a level playin’ field. We’re gonna have to watch each others’ backs, so we need to know our strengths and weaknesses.”

  A deep breath and he surveyed the group. They were all present, David noted with satisfaction. Even his father—taciturn, granted, but there. David caught his eye and mouthed a silent “Thanks” as Big Billy laid his trusty Stevens shotgun beside the other weapons. Good soldier, David conceded. Knows when he’s in over his head and how to take orders—for now, anyway.

  Aikin studied the array of armament with keen curiosity. “Looks good,” he acknowledged. “Okay, first off: any questions?”

  “One thing,” LaWanda replied immediately. “What, exactly, can a gun do to a Faery? I know what Elyyoth said about the attack, but I’m lookin’ for specifics here. Also, can’t they, like, ward against it?”

  Aikin raised a sheepish brow at David. “Uh, this one’s yours, I guess.”

  David chuckled wryly and assumed his lecture tone. “A bullet can inconvenience anybody. A shattered joint or fucked-up eye’s the same in the short term whether or not its owner can heal. Pain’s pain, like somebody said earlier. As for this situation: if they aren’t expectin’ it, they’ll be unlikely to ward against it.” He glanced at Fionchadd. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Finno, but it takes a little warnin’ to ward or cast a glamour, right?”

  The Faery nodded curtly, in spite of his earlier suggestion, clearly ill at ease at the presence of so many steel-based weapons. “More or less. The more Powerful you are, the faster you can accomplish that sort of thing, but like any mental discipline, it requires concentration to activate properly. That applies to glamour, warding, or healing. It is difficult to concentrate while in pain,” he added.

  David nodded in turn. “And on that score, we’ve got an ace in the hole.” He turned to Aikin, who was loading a clip for the Glock. “It was your idea, Aik; let ’em have it.”

  Aikin grinned self-consciously. “Y’all heard what Dave said earlier about the Sidhe and their, shall we say, allergy to iron. Well, it just so happens that Uncle Sam gave us a hand there—for a change.” His grin expanded, all reticence vanished. “You folks know that most bullets, shot, or whatever are made out of lead, which might be fine for damage but still has certain limitations. Happily for us, however, it seems that waterfowl tend to mistake shotgun pellets for munchies. The feds therefore banned the use of lead shot for duck hunting, so when I’m floating the Oconee, I have to use some substitute—the cheapest of which is”—he paused for effect—“steel shot.”

  Both Sidhe promptly paled to their hairlines, their faces slack with horror and disgust, but Aikin continued obliviously. “And, boys and girls,” he enthused, “it just so happens that I’ve got a couple boxes left over from last season.”

  Big Billy nodded sagely, favoring first Fionchadd, then Aife, with long appraising stares. “Shit, boy, you may make a soldier yet.” But then his face clouded with thought that gave way to a scowl of realization. He looked at David and Aikin again. “You know, you boys are older’n I was when I went to ’Nam. My sergeant then was the same age you fellers are. Got us back alive, too, so I reckon I can count on you gettin’ me back as well.”

  David slapped him on the back, and even Aikin beamed. “Fine,” Aikin breathed eventually. “Any other questions?”

  *

  “Okay,” David said a short while later as he eased up to stand beside Brock, who was studying the array of weapons with wary interest, “let me get this straight: you’ve never shot a pistol before? Right?”

  Brock shook his head sheepishly.

  “Guess we’ll have to show you, then,” David yawned. “I defer to Aik.”

  “Just as well,” Big Billy mumbled through a smirk. “He can outshoot you anyway.”

  David spared his father a glare and wandered back to the cabin to watch. Aikin motioned the boy over to the weapon-covered cloak. “All right, let’s get you started,” he sighed. Brock promptly reached for the wicked-looking matte black Glock.

  Aikin slapped his hand away. “Uh, uh,” he chuckled. “You’re startin’ off with a revolver. You wanta throw lead, you use the automatic. You wanta hit what you’re shootin’ at, you start with the Blackhawk.”

  He picked up the large revolver. With a barrel that alone was over seven inches long, it was a lot more weapon than what David suspected the kid had seen in the old cop films that likely comprised his firearms database. The stainless steel gleamed in the eerie light; the grip was smooth, deep reddish-brown hardwood.

  Aikin eased up beside the boy. “This is a Ruger Blackhawk. Fires six forty-five long rounds. It’s a single action, which means you have to pull the hammer back before you shoot. You can’t just pull the trigger. Got it?”

  Brock nodded. Aikin turned away for a moment, and David caught the clink of rounds slipped, one by one, into the cylinder.

  “Now, I’m assumin’,” Aikin went on, when he’d turned back around, “that you know to treat this thing like it’s loaded even if you know it’s empty. That means makin’ damned sure it only points at something you wouldn’t mind puttin’ holes in. You ever point that thing at me, I’ll beat the snot out of you—with the butt of the gun.”

  Brock nodded meekly, and Aikin handed the pistol to his student. Brock hefted the weapon, then swung around, pointing it at the target shield.

  Aikin studied him for a moment, then: “Okay, now; take a firm grip with your right hand and rest the butt in the palm of your left. Yeah, that’s right—but don’t lock your wrist too much, ’cause the gun’ll jump up in your hand. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  Brock scowled seriously and adjusted his grip. Aikin nodded in turn. “Okay, look down the barrel. The rear sight’s a notch, the front’s a post. Put the post in the notch and line the top of the post flush with the top of the notch. Now, set the target just on top of the post.”

  Brock did so, gnawing his lip unconsciously.

  “Now…pull the hammer back with your thumb…” Brock did. An audible click ensued.

  “Take a deep breath, hold it, and squeeze the trigger.”

  Again, Brock did as instructed. David saw his eyes narrow, his finger tighten on the trigger, the anticipatory tension that filled the boy’s slender body.

  Snap.

  “What the…?” Brock yipped. Aikin’s lips curled in a smirk. David had to suppress a guffaw.

  “First off,” Aikin informed him, “you anticipated—and you flinched.”

  Brock’s face was red with shame and taut with ill-suppressed fury David at once understood and held no sympathy for, having been there himself with a far less tolerant teacher. “Wasn’t loaded!” Brock spat. “You tricked me!”

  “Worked, too,” Aikin retorted. “You flinched, so you’d have missed. Next
time, relax. Don’t anticipate the shot; just let it take you by surprise.” And with that he retrieved the revolver, lifted and cocked it in one fluid motion, then took aim at the shield.

  Snap. He cocked the handgun. Click.

  “Just squeeeeze it off.”

  Snap. Click

  “Niiice and easy.”

  The pistol barked and bucked in Aikin’s hands. David’s ears rang with the report. A hole less than half an inch across pierced the bronze boss in the center of the shield. Aikin grinned. “Nothin’ to it,” he smirked, as he slipped another round into a chamber and spun the cylinder. “Try again.”

  The first live round startled the boy, and his shot hit high. “Not bad,” Aikin conceded. “You’ll get used to the kick. Hold firm, but allow some give or you’ll hurt your wrist. And try to get closer to the center of the target. Remember, you don’t aim at the deer, you aim for a specific spot on the deer—or whatever; otherwise, you’ll miss.”

  Brock practiced with a dozen more shots, his aim improving steadily. Aikin plopped down nearby and began sawing methodically at the barrels of his shotgun, all the while continuing to advise his pupil.

  LaWanda sauntered over to join him, then raised an eyebrow in alarm. “Is that legal?”

  “Screw the law,” Aikin snorted. “This is war!”

  “Little melodramatic, aren’t you?”

  Aikin put down his saw and regarded her coldly. “You think I’m takin’ this too seriously?” He gnawed his lip, then looked up at Brock again. “Yo, John Wayne, get your butt over here.” Brock started as if he’d himself been shot, then padded over to stand at Aikin’s booted feet. Aikin’s gaze took in the two of them—and the rest of the company as well. “I probably don’t need to tell you this, LaWanda, but even if I don’t, it bears repeatin’: this ain’t D & D, boys and girls; ain’t Sands of Iwo Jima. This is real. You shoot somebody with any of this stuff, it’s gonna be messy.”