by Tom Deitz
Seeing no other option, he finished his sandwich, claimed the one vacant chair that looked halfway comfortable. And dozed.
When he awoke half an hour later, Devlin was shaking his shoulder—with his real hand, to David’s relief; he’d never got used to the other, though the glove was better than the stump. “Guess we better talk,” the man said, dragging another chair over to join him. He was drinking coffee. Good stuff, too. It smelled heavenly.
“Might oughta,” David agreed with a tired smile, followed at once by a yawn.
Devlin puffed his cheeks. “Okay then, how ’bout giving me the short form, minus the council at the palace, the attack on us mortals, the coup, and most of the politics. Contacts,” he added cryptically. “Don’t ask. Start with when you got on the Faery lad’s ship.”
“Fionchadd,” David supplied a little angrily.
“Whatever.”
David sighed, and for the next fifteen minutes gave an account of Lugh’s rescue and their subsequent pursuit.
“Somebody’s lookin’ out for you,” Devlin observed when he’d finished. “No way a plan like that should’ve succeeded.”
David studied his mug. “Hey, it was the best we could do under the circumstances! And don’t forget we had three of the Sidhe, and they all agreed that the only way we had a ghost of a chance was to play to the rebels’ blind sides. They’re used to underratin’ us mortals, and most of ’em don’t seem to know much about us, ’cept those guys they’ve got workin’ for ’em, who aren’t the best examples, from what I hear.”
Devlin didn’t reply.
David shifted in his chair. “So what about you and Silverhand?”
Silence. Then, eventually: “Didn’t know who he was when we met. ’Course you don’t generally expect to meet a demigod on the street in Beirut—or your daddy’s back forty, I guess. He’d heard about me through that business with your uncle. Thought I was…intriguing. Then he discovered I knew a bit about some other traditions—there’re strange folk in the world a whole lot closer than Faerie, in case you didn’t know. Anyway, he told me a little and I told him a little. Mostly, we talked about history.”
David lifted a brow.
“Yeah, well, see, there’s only four or five kingdoms over there, and they’re all basically one people, not countin’ the little guys. Our politics are incredibly complex to them: all those countries, kingdoms risin’ and fallin’. Death that’s real, so that good folks stay gone forever. Poverty, starvation, weather: all those are problems they don’t really have. It makes ’em naïve, frankly. They’re brilliant, but they haven’t had to live hard and fast, so we’re often better planners than they are. It’s not really a fair trade, if you think about it.”
David frowned. “So, how’d you know we were in transit?”
“Logic, mostly. I—I…knew you’d left, and figured if you succeeded you’d be pursued, and since you had at least two Faeries with you, they’d be thinkin’ in terms of bolt-holes, and I’d already told Silverhand he could use this as one, if he had to.”
David regarded Devlin askance. “You got this place…warded?”
A cryptic smile. “Let’s just say that if anything unpleasant comes around, I’ll know. Might not be able to keep it out, but I’ll know.”
“It could go either way,” Nuada inserted quietly, joining them. Devlin studied him for a moment, then rose, retrieved a bottle of Guinness from the refrigerator, opened it, and passed to the Faery, who nodded thanks before drinking. Fionchadd joined them a moment later, and Aife. Brock slept on, untroubled.
“Time we talked,” Nuada announced. “I am rested—a little. There is nothing I can do for Lugh now. He hides within himself, but I can feel him stirring. Still, his suffering has been unimaginable.”
“Evidently,” David acknowledged. “No offense, but I had no idea you guys were so fragile.”
Nuada glared at him. “Best we talk,” he insisted. “The more we decide now, the better it will be. Time may be in short supply.”
Devlin nodded sagely, if a little warily. “Fine. You’re senior fighting man. What’s your read?”
Nuada took a long draught and cleared his throat. “Very well. The first thing we must consider is our danger of attack. This is difficult to assess, for we know not the full strength of the rebels, save that there are more than we supposed. What say you, Fionchadd?”
“Many more, evidently, though how loyal they might be is hard to say. Most are younger even than I, and many have allied with the Sons more from boredom than conviction. They may not be reliable.”
“Still, there are enough to crew at least three vessels.” David scowled. “Three?”
“The one we first encountered would not have destroyed itself had there not been a backup. Nor is it likely that one would have risked subsequent pursuit in anything as perilous as a Pillar had there not been more backup in turn. Clearly they regarded the cause as greater than themselves.”
“Odd, for our kind,” Aife mused. “Perhaps contact with mortals has affected them more than they know.”
“Perhaps,” Nuada agreed. “In any event, it will take time for the Sons to determine that Lugh is free. It will take longer to locate him, and longer again to make their way here. And if we can endure until dawn—”
“Why dawn?” David broke in.
“The chance of observation is greater in daylight; I doubt they will risk it.”
David’s scowl deepened. “But what about glamour? Couldn’t they just hide themselves?”
“You forget that not all the Sidhe are as skilled in the use of Power as those of us you know best. And any time one divides one’s Power, usage becomes more difficult. To attack with anything beyond ordinary weapons and yet maintain a glamour would be almost impossible—as well as foolish, given the amount of iron you command. In effect, to attack with Power would require that they drop whatever glamour shields them, which would render them vulnerable to your eyes and therefore your weapons.”
David gnawed his lips. “So what you’re sayin’ is that—”
“Any attack now would be mostly diversion, simply because it is unlikely they can rally their full force in an effort to retake Lugh so quickly. It will be designed to frighten rather than to harm—and do not forget that while I am weary, many of them fear me. Nor is it likely they know Lugh’s condition, and to stand against him, even naked as he is, would require much courage indeed—or foolhardiness.”
“So basically,” Devlin summarized, “you think there’ll be a diversion to scare us, after which we’re safe during daylight, and then tonight they bring in the big guns.”
Nuada nodded. “That is how I would plan such a thing, and I know your strengths and weaknesses better than the Sons, which gives us some advantage.”
“And the intent of this battle,” Devlin went on, “would be to recapture Lugh?”
“Primarily,” Nuada acknowledged. “Though I would also make an excellent prisoner, and Fionchadd, being kin to the houses of Annwyn and the Powersmiths alike, would surely be taken hostage as well. As for Aife—”
“Death,” she said flatly. “I have betrayed them. They will not forgive.”
“You seem to require a lot of that,” David growled, and immediately regretted it.
Nuada glared at him.
Devlin indicated the figure on the sofa. “And if he were conscious?”
Nuada’s face was hard. “A moot point, for now. He could return at any time, but I can think of nothing in your World that would equate with what was done to him, in terms of pain. A mortal so tortured would have died. Do not forget that he was covered with iron dust, yet even the Sidhe must breathe. It follows he breathed some of that dust. We have cleaned the worst from his body, but that which is within—He must dispose of it and heal the damage alike.”
“Or shift into the substance of this World!” David countered suddenly.
Nuada shook his head. “That would require that he be conscious, and likewise render him all but Powerl
ess, certainly no stronger than the lesser Sons.”
“Which means we need to get him back to Faerie!” David gave back. “To reconnect him with the Land, I mean.”
Again Nuada shook his head. “Alas, no. Oh, you are correct in that he could draw strength from the Land, were he there. But how do we accomplish that? The ship is beyond repair. There are no Tracks hereabout, and even so, it would take time to reach Tir-Nan-Og, and surely the Sons now guard all access in and out.”
David took a deep breath. “So what you’re sayin’ is that he needs a place where he can take whatever time he needs to recover?”
Nuada looked puzzled. “Do you know of such a place?”
“Galunlati,” Brock supplied from his chair, not moving, though he’d opened his eyes a crack. He yawned and stretched languidly like a cat, then wandered over to join them. “I’ve not been sleeping as much as thinking.”
Fionchadd raised a brow quizzically. “Galunlati?”
Brock shrugged. “Think, guys. If Lugh stays here, they’ll eventually attack in force and retake him, which won’t be good for the home team—unless he has time to heal, but he can’t get that here or in Faerie. Therefore, he has to do it somewhere else, and the only somewhere else that makes sense is Galunlati. At least we’ve got allies there.”
“True,” David conceded. “But we don’t have a way to get there.”
“Yet,” Brock corrected. “Cal could do it, I bet.”
“And if he can’t?”
Brock shrugged sheepishly. “I, uh…I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
Nuada scratched his chin. “Still, it is worth considering.”
David frowned. “But isn’t there some deal about not bein’ able to go to a World more than one World away from one’s home World?”
“Or what?” the boy yawned.
“Or you will go mad,” Fionchadd replied. “Though like most things to do with the Worlds, the rules vary from one to the next” He paused, looking guilty. “Actually, that could have been a problem when we made our embassy to the Powersmiths.” He stared sheepishly at David. “But I knew we would be there but briefly, and the distancing is not so great in that case, for the Land of the Powersmiths both is and is not of Faerie.”
Brock scowled. “But Galunlati touches the Land of the Powersmiths, and you’ve got Powersmith blood, right?” The scowl deepened. “But Lugh—”
“Has Powersmith blood as well,” Nuada confided. “It is the source of much of his strength, though I alone now living know that, and that knowledge is not to leave the circle of our allies.”
“Fine,” David agreed. “And it just so happens that there is a healing lake in Galunlati. If we could get Lugh some of that water—” He broke off, face ashen. “Oh my God!” he breathed. “We could…we could’ve used that to heal my dad!”
Fionchadd shook his head. “We still have no way to get there, and he would have died ere now had we waited—from blood loss when the splinter…faded. His wound is not mortal, I do not think—no more than if it was wood from your World that had pierced him. He will heal.”
“I’d still like to try it,” David insisted.
“That is what we will do,” Nuada concluded in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have heard of this lake, and the Sons will have no way to reach him there while he regains his strength.”
“It’s not quite that simple,” David noted irritably, democracy having yielded to dictatorship all in a space of seconds. “And of course it assumes Cal can actually get us there.”
“I have faith,” Nuada said. “You should too. Or—”
Tires crunched in the yard, followed by the squeak of badly adjusted brakes applied too hard. An unmuffled motor grumbled unhappily, and a door slammed with a tinny thunk. Footsteps pounded on the porch; the knob rattled frantically. “Let me in!” Aikin shouted. “Let me the fuck—”
Devlin had acquiesced by then, slamming the door shut behind the young man who dashed inside, pale-faced and far too out of breath for a bit of yard, a pair of steps, and a porch to account for.
“We got company!” Aikin panted, turning to face the night. “Came out of the sky, like birds and bats, then turned into people. They tried to block me as I turned in, but I ran ’em down.”
David exchanged glances with Nuada and with Devlin. “Some escaped the ship in bird form,” Fionchadd mused. “Perhaps—”
“Likely,” Nuada agreed ominously, rising. “And if that is the case, we may be in for trouble, for anyone who could shift and survive the Pillar to arrive here must be far stronger than I expected.”
“But few,” Fionchadd offered. “I hope.”
Aikin nodded. “Maybe six, if they all came together. I—”
His comment was consumed by the rumble of thunder from a sky that had been clear the last time David had looked. Another clap, and a bolt of lightning lanced into the yard. “I doubt any wards will prevail against the like of that,” Nuada spat when the noise had abated. “It is a natural thing, and born of this World. Your wards, I would guess, are set against intrusion by beings from another.”
Devlin could only nod sadly. David said nothing at all. Nor did Aikin.
“Well,” Brock suggested far too brightly, “any reason we can’t just shoot ’em?”
Devlin stared at him and scratched his chin.
Chapter VIII: Divide and Conquer
(near Clayton, Georgia—Sunday, June 29—the wee hours)
“Shoot ’em?” David choked, though the suggestion was not without merit.
Aikin rounded on him. “You got a problem with that?”
“I…shouldn’t,” David hedged. “But now that we’re back home—well, it’s just different, I guess. Reckon I’m afraid the Rabun County sheriff’ll drop by and tote us off to the slammer, or whatever.”
“For killing people who can’t die,” Devlin snorted.
“Their bodies would not endure long after death,” Nuada acknowledged. “Not in this World, at any rate. But correct me if I am in error, but do not…guns function better in daylight?”
“’Less you got a night scope,” Aikin replied slyly.
Devlin favored him with a sharp look; the things were illegal, after all. “Got a heavy-duty ’lectric torch,” he countered. “And I’m willin’ to go out sniping if I have to, but I’d rather—”
Another blast of lightning stabbed the yard, close enough to turn the room stark white. When normality returned, Devlin made a point of unplugging certain crucial bits of electronics. “Lots of storms up here,” he grinned. “Lots of lightnin’ rods too—which I hope those folks don’t know. But if they start foolin’ with the wind—”
“Do not even think such things,” Nuada cautioned. “They should not be able to touch your mind here, because of all the steel hereabout, if not because of your wards. Still…”
“Makes no difference,” David grumbled. “We were just talkin’ about attackin’ them. If they can pick up one, they can pick up the other.”
“True,” Aife agreed.
“This is to frighten,” Nuada emphasized. “Random energy—random anger—directed at the clouds and carelessly funneled. But if they merge their skills…”
Fionchadd had been staring intently out the front door. “I think they are.”
David joined him—they all did. Little was visible, beyond vague movement near the entrance to the compound, where the flimsy wire fence that encircled Devlin’s property terminated at a pair of posts on either side of the drive. Still, by straining his eyes and calling upon the Sight, David could barely make out a number of shapes clustered there. And as he watched, more lightning lanced into the yard. A tree was struck, then another. A third bolt surely found the house but was diverted. The air smelled of ozone. Every hair on David’s body stood on end—and kept on standing, for the flashes were increasing in intensity, becoming nearly constant, though the bulk of them were now focused beyond the fence. Nor were they mere rapid jags of light any longer; rather, they were
coalescing into an actual shape: a vast man-form that flickered against the dark woods, tall as the smaller trees.
“I could disperse that easily in Tir-Nan-Og,” Nuada sighed. “Fionchadd, Aife, and I could dissolve it with a puff of joined thought. But here, we are weak. Our foes are barely stronger, but can afford to spend strength where we cannot.”
“What about the wards?” Aikin wondered. Then: “Shit! Where’d it go?” For the flickering lightning man had vanished into the woods that encircled Devlin’s compound, save where the driveway cut through at the entrance.
“I’m on it,” the Ranger announced, striding toward the double-locked door. He paused with the key in the lower lock and stared at David. “Somebody better see this.”
“See what?” David asked edgily, joining him.
“Early-warning system. In case I’m…incapacitated.”
And with that, he turned the first key, then inserted the second.
David held his peace as he followed Devlin into what proved to be a windowless room no more than ten feet square, with a low, sloping ceiling not much higher than the medium-height Ranger’s head. The walls were bare wood, as was the floor, and the boards showed evidence of frequent scrubbings through the wisps of smoke that issued from four thick pillar candles fixed at the precise quarters of a chalk circle inscribed on the floor. Devlin paused at the threshold to remove his boots, motioning David to do the same, then stepped deftly over the chalk line. It was then that David saw the rest of the regalia, hidden as it had been by the glare of the nearest candle and the smoke. Not much really: merely a small chest like a jewelry box, with an elaborately embroidered cloth atop it, upon which a brass brazier sat, containing the ashes of a tiny scroll of expensive, possibly handmade, paper or parchment, to judge by others stacked neatly to one side. The other side held a flat soapstone dish full of dark red liquid, a quill pen, and a silver-colored dagger no longer than his hand, its blade obviously exquisitely sharp.