Warstalker's Track

by Tom Deitz

  Another jolt put them lower yet, and was he dreaming, or was the ship listing to port? Suddenly, all he cared about was finding something solid to hang on to and the waning hope that they might somehow crash (for surely that was about to occur) in the open, in lieu of the woods or one of those no-longer-so-friendly-looking peaks.

  Treetops beat at their keel, each prompting the ship to lurch, and a few now rose higher than the gunwale. “Land ho!” Fionchadd cried right behind him, grabbing his arm as the ship cleared the last of what was probably national forest and sailed into the scanty airspace above a clearing on the knees of yet another mountain: maybe two acres of open land, vaguely tended and sprinkled with tumbledown outbuildings, centered around a worn-looking house he thought he might recognize if seen from the ground in daylight.

  He was still trying to fit a name to this all-too-familiar stead when the hull jolted one last time, bounced, came down hard on its prow—and then kept on bouncing as, wood screaming across rocky earth, the ship heeled over—and stopped.

  It took David a moment to get his bearings, and another to elbow a breathless Fionchadd off him so that he could take stock of surroundings that actually stayed put; didn’t burn, make noise, smell bad, or make him sweat; but were instead a small, rather run-down farm tucked somewhere in his own north Georgia mountains.

  Surrounded by moonlit darkness (there was no security light), it was hard to tell much about the house facing them roughly fifty yards away, save that it had been built midcentury at best and had more the look of a cabin erected on impulse than a purpose-designed dwelling. Briefly, it was one story, with a tin roof and faded vinyl siding that might once have been cream or white but which now more closely matched the dusty, ill-trimmed yard. Nor was there any real architecture to speak of, the structure’s main claim to fame being a simple frame porch across two thirds of the front, with a set of concrete block steps leading up to it and a room flush with its forward edge on the right-hand side.

  And then David noticed the details.

  Old Harley Electraglide in a lean-to shed along one wall. A wind chime made of bones depending from the roof rail. Assorted herbs hanging along the porch in drying bundles. A pair of muddy military boots set neatly by the door. A dark brown bottle with no label that had likely held home-brewed beer.

  And the lean, middle-height, dark-haired man who’d just eased the screen door open to stalk carefully into the yard, a double-barrel shotgun resting across his left forearm. Moonlight darkening the man’s jeans to black, while washing all color from his bare feet and what torso showed beneath an unbuttoned flannel shirt.

  And the stump of featureless flesh that terminated that man’s left arm at the wrist.

  Which could only mean one person.

  “John!” David yelled. “Hey, man! It’s me, David!”

  The figure still looked wary as he squinted into what must strongly resemble an explosion in a sawmill with a crazy man trapped in the middle. Not until he’d come within speaking distance did he relax: comfortable country grace replacing the taut military precision he’d previously affected—which extremes pretty well defined him, if one threw poet into the mix.

  “Interesting…entrance,” John Devlin drawled carefully, then set the shotgun down and ambled over to where Aife had just flung the boarding ladder over the side. As it was, the gunwale was barely above the man’s eye-level.

  “I try,” David retorted. “Hang on.”

  “Never mind. I’ll come up.”

  “Without your h—” David began, then caught himself, remembering something more important. “You got any medical trainin’?”

  A curt nod. “Comes with the turf—went with it, anyway.” David noted that Devlin had neither remarked on their presence nor on the means of their arrival.

  “Nice ride—or was,” Devlin observed when Fionchadd had helped David hoist the former Ranger onto the sharply listing deck. “Who’s the patient?”

  David nodded toward the cabin. “My pa. Down there. Major league stick in the back, courtesy of a little altercation. I think it’s plugged things up enough to prevent much blood loss—outside. Inside? Who knows?”

  “I will, in a minute.”

  “You don’t look too surprised,” David dared, when Devlin reached the top of the stairs.

  “Figured you’d show up, just not right now.”

  “Bad time to ask?”

  “Wouldn’t argue with that.”

  The cabin door, which appeared to have been jammed, was almost literally ripped from David’s grip by a worried-looking LaWanda. “’Bout time,” she told David. “It’s your dad. He—” She paused, studying Devlin. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? And am I to assume we’ve finally got somewhere?” she added to the tired-faced Fionchadd, behind them.

  “Talk to her, Finno,” David sighed—and ushered John Devlin into the cabin.

  Fortunately, the various impacts of what had passed for a landing didn’t seem to have wrought nearly as much damage to Big Billy as they had to the vessel. But as David scooted around so that Devlin could join him at his father’s back, he realized at once what had caused LaWanda’s consternation.

  “No!” he shouted as Devlin reached out to touch the stake that lay so perilously close to Big Billy’s spine.

  Too late. Or was it? Devlin’s hand had halted just shy of the splintered wood—which now evinced an odd sort of transparency, as though it were not entirely present. He stared at it critically. “You didn’t pull this out ’cause you were afraid he might bleed to death, right? That was smart thinking. Unfortunately, it’s…dissolving.”

  “Iron,” Fionchadd spat, looking very puzzled. “Only iron could affect it so.”

  “There’s iron in human blood,” David gave back. “Hemoglobin. Carries oxygen to the brain.”

  “What about Faery blood?” Brock wondered.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Devlin murmured, then looked up at David. “Right now, folks, we’ve got a problem.”

  Chapter VII: Aftermath

  (near Clayton, Georgia—Saturday, June 28—late)

  “This man needs a hospital now,” John Devlin said flatly, not looking up from where he was gently probing the swelling around Big Billy’s wound.

  “Sorry,” David grunted, offhand.

  “’Bout what?” Devlin shot back. “I doubt your dad volunteered to have a piece of kindlin’ rammed into his tenderloin.”

  “Better call an ambulance,” Aikin inserted. “Just point me to the phone.”

  Devlin shook his head. “Bad idea. One reason you’re standin’ on. The other is that it’ll take time to get one down here—which he may not have.”

  David eyed him warily. “You got wheels, then? Besides the Harley, I mean?”

  Devlin gestured toward the side of the house opposite that on which the bike was sheltered. By straining on tiptoes to peer through the door, David could just make out the front of a small pickup. Black, old and rusty: probably a Mazda. “Truck somebody gave me in trade for a ride to town when it blew a hose. Nothin’ to write home about, but it’ll get you to Clayton faster’n an ambulance can get here and back.”

  “Mind if I, uh, borrow it? Unless you wanta go.”

  “Don’t mind, but it’s not real smart for you to leave just now. Folks are after you, if this guy next to your dad’s who he looks like. You’ve clearly lost ’em—for a while—and comin’ back this side’s probably the best thing you could do in the short term ’cause folks like that don’t like to draw attention to themselves, plus there’s the Power thing. But a hospital’s no place to draft battle plans, and you’d have to leave eventually. And”—the man hesitated briefly—“here you’d at least have some protection.”

  “But my pa,” David protested. “I gotta be there—”

  “No,” Devlin countered firmly. “He has to get there. You’re part of bigger things.” He glanced around, gaze finally settling on LaWanda. “You drive a stick?”

  “I can drive a bulldozer if
I have to!” she snorted. “You get me directions, I’m your woman.”

  “I’ll go too,” Aikin volunteered. Then, when David would have protested: “No, think, Dave: You guys have things to figure out, but I know your dad better than anybody here except you, plus he knows me, plus…I’m a guy, and a man needs other men around for stuff like this.”

  Again, David started to speak, then gave up. “You’re right—dammit! But please call as soon as you get there.”

  “What about the stake?” Brock wondered. “It’s vanishing. Won’t that be a problem?”

  “Not ours,” David retorted, decisive again now that the crucial matter had been resolved for him.

  “Well,” Devlin concluded with a yawn, “let’s get him loaded and you folks on your way. There’s others could stand some lookin’ after.” He eyed Lugh speculatively.

  Five minutes later, David had helped Devlin, Aikin, and LaWanda carry his father from the cabin, lower him over the side (Brock and Aife assisted there), then hoist him into the back of the black pickup. Devlin supplied a foam pad and a pile of blankets, then ambled up to the cab to give LaWanda directions. The Faeries were tending their own, and Aikin had slipped behind the house to pee, so that David found himself alone with his dad.

  Christ, he looks old!—as David stroked his father’s brow in a gesture that would’ve embarrassed both of them had Big Billy been awake. He was sweating, too, as though his body fought an invisible battle against that wooden invader, but his breathing was slow and regular, which David assumed was good. He hadn’t regained consciousness, though, which could mean anything.

  Suppose he didn’t! Suppose David had had his last conversation with the man who’d begot him, raised him, and sent him off to college. Suppose his mom (who must be worried sick by now) had had her last conversation, and her last dinner, and her last night making love to the man who’d given her two sons. Suppose Little Billy lost his father. Himself, he could handle it—he thought—being mostly on his own now. But the kid—a boy needed a dad, even one like Big Billy who only half understood him. It would, David concluded glumly, be a long night.

  “I’ll call your mom soon as we get there,” Aikin vowed, behind him. David nearly jumped out of his skin, not having heard his friend approach. “No sense in you doin’ it until we know something,” Aikin went on. “You got other fish to fry, and you can bet I’ll be back with the tartar sauce soon as I can. But right now—”

  “I’m on it!” LaWanda called from the cab, and cranked the rattly engine. Aikin scrambled over the tailgate to join Big Billy in the back, pausing only to slide the rear window open so he and LaWanda could communicate.

  “Take care!” David shouted. And didn’t watch as the truck lurched down John Devlin’s half-graveled drive toward civilization.

  Devlin accompanied him as they headed back toward the shattered ship, and only then did David comprehend how badly damaged it was. The front third had taken the brunt of the impact, mainly below decks, leaving the superstructure intact and everything below the gunwale a mess of splintered wood. Most of the shields along the sides had fallen off, and the mast had cracked halfway up and now leaned at a crazy angle, the sail unfurled in places like a flag of warning.

  Devlin chuckled dryly. “Never figured I’d have the King of the Faeries as a houseguest.”

  “A king of the Faeries,” David corrected. “There’s a bunch of ’em.” A pause. “Guess you knew that, though.” Devlin didn’t reply.

  “How much do you know?”

  “More than we’ve got time to discuss right now,” Devlin gave back tersely but not unkindly. “That’s gotta wait until we get the rest of those folks settled, and I can—” He didn’t finish, for Fionchadd had leapt from the deck in front of them and was studying the ship critically. “If this was a horse, I would have to kill it,” the Faery youth announced. “As it is—I do not know. It is not wise to leave it here. Still—” He pondered his serpent ring, then looked up at Aife. “Are the others—?”

  “Nuada is tired beyond belief, but if we can get the King inside…”

  David reached for the ladder.

  Ten minutes later, Lugh Samildinach, High King of the Sidhe in Tir-Nan-Og, was lying on a thrift-store sofa in front of John Devlin’s fireplace with an heirloom quilt tucked under his chin. Though his face was pocked with open sores and he hadn’t awakened even once, he still looked relatively peaceful, considering his ordeal. David sat on the hearth watching him. A mug of coffee steamed in his hands, barely tasted. Nuada and Aife slumped to either side, seemingly as wasted as David. It was damned disconcerting, too, to see such imposing figures brought low. Was it pure fatigue, David wondered, or being away from Tir-Nan-Og, or the fact that their ruler—their friend, in Nuada’s case—was himself so altered as to seem a stranger? Immortals, all of them, yet no one was truly immortal. Even Faeries could die the Death of Iron, which did major damage to their souls. And souls could die or be devoured, as Ailill’s had been, all those years gone by.

  But that way lay guilt, of which bitter draught he’d drunk deep that night already. Idly, he scanned the environs: a living room-cum-library, with a minimum of simple furniture, plain paneled walls, sanded pine floors, and shelves everywhere bearing an even mix of books and what could only be described as “stuff.” A door straight ahead opened onto a narrow hall that connected the front door to an extension out back that contained the kitchen, the tiny bath, and another room that was discreetly but purposefully locked.

  As for Devlin himself—he’d shifted from take-charge Ranger to gracious host, all in a minute’s time, and had made coffee, offered drinks (spring water, juice, beer, and wine—but no soda, to Brock’s dismay), and pointed out the ’fridge. “Anything that looks edible, eat,” he’d announced, then vanished into the locked back room. At some point, he’d also acquired a left hand: a gloved prosthesis that covered the stump where flesh and blood had been shot away.

  Brock had found a comfortable-looking armchair and was fast asleep, apparently his approach to stressful situations. Fionchadd had seen Lugh settled, then ducked outside, to return a short while later clutching what looked like a bird’s nest. It took David a moment to determine that it was actually the remains of his boat. “It work?” he asked stupidly.

  Fionchadd regarded the object sadly. “Whether it will expand again—that depends on whether that which empowers it still lives, and that I can neither predict nor alter.”

  “I don’t want to know,” David yawned. “Sorry.”

  Fionchadd merely shrugged and wandered off in search of food, though he studiously avoided the refrigerator, it being made of steel.

  The telephone rang twice before David figured out what it was, hesitated briefly, then rose to answer it. “John Devlin’s residence…”

  “Dave,” Aikin shot back breathlessly. “We’re here. He’s mostly okay—stabilized, anyway. Stick fell out in the parkin’ lot, so we didn’t have to worry about that. I went ahead and called your mom.”

  “She take it okay?”

  “Dunno. I got Dale. He said not to worry, he’d been doctorin’ her coffee all day and she didn’t care about much of anything. They’re on their way over, though, all three of ’em. Elyyoth’s holdin’ down the fort, I think with Scott.”

  “Best place for ’em—if we can keep ’em away from here.”

  “Dale’s the only one who knows anything, and he knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Good point.”

  A long pause. Then: “So, you need me here or there?”

  “Juju Woman makin’ it okay?”

  “Cool as a cucumber. She eats RNs for breakfast.”

  “Cooked or raw?”

  “On toast, but you’re not answerin’ my question.”

  David shifted his weight restlessly, noting that Devlin had emerged from the mysterious back room, now clad in black and with an equally mysterious black box tucked under his arm. “Protection,” he offered in transit—and vanished into the
night.

  “Dave?” Aikin prompted.

  “Oh, hell,” David sighed. “Let’s see: if Wannie’s got her head on straight, you’re not really needed there. Dale can keep Mom from goin’ ballistic, and Little B’ll just think it’s an adventure. Which I guess means get your butt back down here and help me stress out for a while.”

  “Catch you, then. I—Oops! They’re wantin’ me to sign something. I told ’em I was you, if that’s okay. Gotta go.” Aikin hung up the phone. It was just past midnight, and now Sunday: a day and change since their departure.

  David blinked into the sudden silence, the first he’d experienced in what seemed like centuries. Still, he’d made a decision, and while it was a crime to disturb that peace with more talk, one did what one had to. A deep breath, and he punched in his and Alec’s number back in Athens. No answer—not that he’d expected one. But when he checked for messages, there was one from Alec, sounding harried, wired, and furtive. “Dave, just in case: the deed is done. Parents disposed of. Got the stuff. Folks wanted to feed everybody in Athens, and wondered why you weren’t here. Bottom line: we’re runnin’ very late. At least we’ve slept. Catch you…whenever. Leave word where.”

  David did, then tried Liz, got the same result, and left the same reply.

  Calvin and Sandy’s place, then—where there was no response at all, which could mean anything. Cal was pretty canny, though, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have contacts.

  “So basically,” he sighed to the empty room. “I cool my heels and wait.”

  Not on an empty stomach, however. He’d just contrived a roast beef sandwich, and was debating chasing down Devlin or else phoning his folks’ place, in case they hadn’t left, when footsteps sounded on the porch. He tensed—Lord, he was jumpy!—but at least he still had the Beretta. Just in case.

  It was only Devlin: tight-faced and tired-eyed, as he slung off his black leather jacket and strode straight to the room in the back. David started to follow, but the man was gone. David heard the lock snap.