by Dave Freer
“But there are two of them. Maybe Barko too,” said the shepherd.
“Don’t you worry,” said Fionn. “I’ve got a little surprise for them.”
“You’re a thief-taker?”
His Scrap had once come to just that wrong conclusion. “By the First, no! But I have nothing against taking from thieves, and I have decided I really don’t like people who steal dogs. Díleas doesn’t either.”
Díleas had started out very doubtful about the other two sheepdogs. But now that they had all finished the bones, and it appeared that the other dogs were now used to the dragon smell, and the treats that came with it, he was quite enjoying being one of the pack. They were all peacefully snoring together at the dragon and shepherd’s feet. How to gain social acceptance with animals you were designed to eat: via the dog, thought Fionn, sardonically. He really would have to try it with horses, someday. It made traveling incognito very difficult in some areas. He prodded Díleas with a toe. “Come, boy. It’s time to be bait.”
“They’ll likely use drugged food. There is a piece of meat from down the inside of a horse’s hoof that dogs find irresistible. I’ve trained mine to only take food from my hand, now,” said the shepherd, still looking worried. “They’re bad men, Finn. Best to leave them alone. You’ve hurt them enough with the money.”
“Oh, it’s best, I’d agree. But we’ve come a long way today, and have a fair way to go tomorrow. And you might say I have a little training in fighting.”
This plan was rather turned awry by a shout from the door of the alehouse. “Recruiters!”
There was a frantic press at the door, and they were a long way from it. Fionn’s shepherd friend was very pale, and rapidly sobered by the situation. “Do you have a chit from your lord? Or are you a freeman?”
It was clear that the press at the door were only getting out one at a time. Fionn would bet the kitchen door was guarded too, but probably with a club rather than a demand for papers. By the way the shepherd said it, being a freeman was anything but free . . . or good. It appeared that Annvn hadn’t gotten any more pleasant since Fionn was here last. Well, he worked on the energy flows of planes, not their social evolution. He’d seen plenty slip downhill. “No. And you?”
“Mine’s out of date,” said the shepherd, tersely. “And what’ll happen to my dogs if I’m taken?”
“Well now,” said Fionn. “The answer is you can’t be. This is the work of our friends that we tricked out of robbing a drunk who was too proud of his dog. So now I’m going to work another trick or two. I will get us out of here. You call your dogs close, make for the hills, and I’ll organize a distraction.”
“What . . . ?”
“Hush. Close your eyes. Cover your dogs’ eyes with your hands. Díleas, eyes closed, boy.”
Dragons were good with fire. The alehouse was fairly badly lit with tallow rush dips. The recruiters had lanterns—and they included the two who had been dealing with the gambling fixer. Fionn concentrated on the energy flow of tallow dips and especially those nice iron-bound lanterns. Iron oxidizes . . . usually as rust, but in the presence of sufficient oxygen, finely divided iron will burn. And when you can direct energy and focus heat, and speed chemical reactions . . .
The smokey tallow dips exploded into a bright flare, burning up instantly. So did the iron lanterns. Fionn could have made that reaction hot enough to consume the hand that held them too, but he cut it short, settling for sudden darkness and some burns. He could still see perfectly well, but he was the only one in—and probably outside—the building who could. A lot of people decided that this was the perfect time to panic and leave. Fionn held back his shepherd friend, who was all for joining them. “Wait.”
When the bulk of the stampede had gone out the front door, they walked through to the kitchen. There was a burned-out lantern and an iron-bound club there, but no sign of any other watcher, so Fionn, the shepherd, and the three dogs slipped out. By the sounds of it there was an almighty fight going on in the village green. Fionn was quite tempted to go and join in, especially as it appeared that, having had the tables turned on them, a fair number of people were for tossing the recruiters into the river. Fionn and the shepherd instead skirted the backs of kitchen gardens, and cut onto the road just beyond the town.
“Finn, my dogs and me owe you,” said the shepherd, looking back. “That’ll teach me to come to town without a chit from my lord. But they were in town recruiting barely two weeks back. There was no reason to expect them here again, gods rot them. Ach, that was a neat trick with the light. Magic worker, are you?”
“Not really. I’ve picked up a few little spells.” Fionn gathered by the tone that that, too, was something to be cautious about in Annvn these days.
“My grandmother had the sight. And she had nowt to do with Lyonesse, either,” said the shepherd.
Lyonesse again. “Me neither. But people think that,” said Fionn.
The shepherd shrugged. “If you’re the demon himself, I’m grateful not to be a foot soldier and to leave my dogs to starve. I’ve no wish to be a soldier. And I’ll say nowt if they come looking for you.”
“Well, if they come looking, I’d stick to saying you fell in with me at the ale-house and claim I borrowed money from you, and left without paying it back, if anyone asks. Who are they fighting with that they need to use such harsh recruiting methods?”
The shepherd stopped and looked at him incredulously. “Where are you from, stranger?”
“Further than you can imagine, friend. And I have further to go. I’m just passing through. No real interest in your wars, I just need to know where to avoid going.”
“We go to war with Lyonesse. They raid our lands, rape our women and steal our sheep. The mage has foretold the Ways will open soon, and we must be ready this time, to strike hard and fast before they do.” It was plainly a recitation of a speech he’d heard, rather than a deep-held belief that could make a shepherd volunteer.
Given that the paths between planes that Fionn had once known were poor places to try and take armies through, Fionn had to wonder just how they did that. And just how this mage knew all this. But he was human. Probably therefore a charlatan. Fionn was one, himself. But he avoided starting wars.
That night they slept under a haystack. And the next morning they came to the coast, and the next of the spots that the dog seemed to know just where to find. This one involved swimming.
The dog could do that without any alteration or teaching, even if he still tried to bite the waves that splashed his face.
Fionn decided there were better forms for the ocean here. There were sharks big enough to try their luck with humans, and certainly dogs. And besides the water looked cold. Form gave some protection. It took him a few moments to change into that of a large sea lion and plunge after the dog.
It was nearly a few moments too long. The dog wasn’t paddling his way across the surface anymore. Heart full of terror, he plunged down, looking for Díleas, his eyes wide, staring, twisting over and over in the water to look all around him. Then he shot to the surface, propelling himself out of the water to look around.
There was no dog. No triangular fin cutting the water and no trace of blood either.
Forcing himself to calm down, to be systematic and sensible, Fionn began looking for telltale energy patterns, and, on the third pass, found them.
It took five more dives to find the exact point of transition, to somewhere beneath the waves.
In the strange dapple-shadowed world, Díleas greeted him with a bark and by shaking all over him.
“So kind of you to share,” said Fionn, “but I was wet enough without your help.” He wished that transformation did more than hide his clothes. They were wet. And it was cold here.
“This may be the way to your mistress,” said Fionn, “but it’s an awkward place to pass through,” said Fionn, looking at the water-dappled “sky” above. “They don’t have dogs like you, and it’s not exactly a friendly place. I am hop
ing that we are just passing through, Díleas, because this would not be an easy place for her to survive. If anyone has harmed as much as a hair on her head, I am going to extract a vengeance that their great-great-great-grandchildren would remember. But I’d rather find her alive and well, and generating chaos.”
“Hrf.”
“So the issue is just how to travel where we need to go, without it turning into a running war. Fomoire lands are, shall we say, interesting: the effects of magical ideas meeting real physics. The locals aren’t friendly either.” He shrugged himself into a body form that would pass local muster. Díleas, who knew his smell, and was accepting of dragons, and of Fionn shifting to human form, still backed off and barked. Fionn was not that surprised. It was the extra head that did it, as well as the withered arm and the extra height and bulk.
“It’s me, you fool dog,” growled Fionn through his snaggled teeth. “Smell. I smell better than most Fomoire. The problem with most of their ‘blessed plain’ of the land beneath the waves is that it is abyssal plain. Cold and dark. And the magic needed to keep off the weight of the water produces some very strange side effects.
“You need lead underpants if you’re going to live here rather than just pass through in a hurry. Besides that, they’re inbred, which is why they look like this. I think you will have to be my fur. There are places where dogskin cloaks are very fashionable on people, not just on dogs, and this is one of them. I doubt if they’d realize, with you sitting on my shoulders, that you aren’t a dead dog. They don’t always bother to skin their cloaks here. They figure they can always eat the contents later. My glamour might affect you too. I look the part, thanks to learning a thing or two from the alvar about their magics.”
Díleas stared at him. It was a disconcerting, intent stare. “And I know you were studying those other sheepdogs, but it’s no use giving me the eye. I am a dragon, not a sheep, and I’ll go with you without being herded. Up on my shoulders, and you can point me with your nose.”
Fionn bent down, and the dog jumped up. It was rather odd to be that trusted. It was rather odd having his ear licked, too.
They began walking. Mag Mell, the blessed plain, or the joyous plain, or, as far as Fionn was concerned, the blasted plain, sloped steadily toward the dark depths. The sunlight that did penetrate down here made everything a twilight blue. The only fertile areas of the land beneath the waves were those parts which lay in the shallows, and the entire thing had a bad effect on marine life. It was a good example of how a need for security could blight a people, thought Fionn. Yes, the Tuatha Dé Danann could not reach them here . . . but that was all that was good about it.
It did not take Fionn long to realize that something was seriously amiss with the land beneath the waves. It was the first of the places he’d been recently where the energy flows were seriously adrift and in trouble.
The other thing, of course, was a lack of Fomoire. They farmed—as much as they could—the shallow lands, where the water-filtered sunlight still fell. Mostly they grew seaweeds, watered with salt water—the freshwater springs of this place were few and far between. Too precious for plants. And rain could not fall from their saltwater sky. They lived as much by hunting—harpooning fish and whales and other creatures in the sea above them, spearing them through the magic curtain that kept the sea off and dragging them through—as they did by cultivation. But the sea was wide, and seaweed could be nutritious, and fish were abundant, and one could feed a fair number off a whale, and most things washed into the sea. Some things were pretty dead and ripe by the time they got into the depths, but the Fomoire had long ago stopped being fussy.
Now they were not around. Not even their women, for which Fionn was extra grateful. They had ideas about the hospitality owed to visitors. Curiously, they hadn’t been gone long. Fionn came upon a still-smouldering fire. Fires were precious down here, for all that they made the air hard to breathe.
He could simply fix a few things as they went. And it seemed like it was going to be a longish walk. It was cold here under the ocean, but not, Fionn realized, as cold as it should be. Nor was the air as foul as it usually was. It smelled of the upper world, and not just of salty damp.
That might be an improvement, but it meant something was not as it should be. And by the traces of the crude magic they were using it was easy to spot.
So he made a few changes.
Their mages were not going to enjoy that.
Chapter 12
Earl Alois and his men watched from the headland. Of course the water was warmer down here, and it must be taking the Fomoire ice tongue more time to reach here than it would in the colder waters near Dun Tagoll.
That was scant comfort. Well, the ice would spill Fomoire onto the land and those ill-formed giants would fight their way south—if there was anything to fight against—once they’d overwhelmed Dun Tagoll. If they did, which, considering history, seemed likely.
In the meanwhile they had to be stopped here. Straining his eyes, Earl Alois could only make out the outlines of their banners. His engineers were busy building siege engines, and he would add his art to their strength and accuracy shortly. But he wanted a better view. “I am going up there to have a look, Gwalach,” he said to his second-in-command, pointing at the rock spike above the bay. There was nowhere up on it flat enough for the catapults, or they’d have been building them there.
“Supposed to be a spriggan up there, my liege.”
A few months ago, Alois would have laughed. No one had seen a spriggan—outside their imaginations—for many a year.
The last while . . . it had been different.
“I’ve a mail shirt and a good steel sword, Gwalach.”
He scrambled up the rocks and was staring at the ice on the sea, at the banners, when someone said, “One standard with the eye. I make it seventeen of the one-eyes under it.”
“You’ve better eyes than I have,” said the earl, still staring. “With any luck we’ll land a rock on them.”
“If the catapult doesn’t break and drop it on you,” said the the other observer with morbid satisfaction. “Mind you, I’d throw a sheep or two. Fomoire haven’t seen fresh mutton or decent fleece for a long time. And they’re loot-hungry. They’ll fight each other for it.”
Alois turned to look at just who was telling him how to wage war, and nearly fell off the rock he was sharing with a spriggan. Its skin was the same color as the etched limestone he stood on. He reached for his sword. And it stepped back into a crack and . . . vanished.
Alois stood staring at the rock for a long time. And then swore. Long and hard.
At himself.
Drawing his sword! That was nearly as stupid as trying to kill the Defender because she stood between him and Medraut.
Since she’d come, the land’s fay had been waking. Scarcely a day passed without some neyf being piskie-led. Other creatures too had been reported—including the spriggans. He should have realized. Worked out the connection. The spriggan hadn’t been there to kill him. It had been watching the Fomoire. Advising on what could be done.
Well, they’d have to drive some sheep up here. Slaughter a few ready for flinging. And drive the rest into the Fomoire horde, when they came ashore. Hopefully without their seventeen evil eyes.
* * *
Further north, the siege of Dun Tagoll dragged on. Meb was the only one unfortunate enough to be tasting and seeing just what the feasts consisted of. It was curious that no one starved on the food. It was real enough though, just not the rich fare it appeared to be. Meb decided that somehow Aberinn must multiply it from some little stock he kept somewhere, rather than making it out of nothing or summonsing it from elsewhere. That had puzzled her at first: if all the blood of the House of Lyon were skilled in magic, well, why then did they not use it? Finn had said it was a poor idea because it distorted the other energies, but firstly, she wasn’t too sure what that meant, and secondly, she couldn’t honestly see the castle people caring unless it hurt them. But
it seemed that was Aberinn’s price for the magic he guarded the castle with. Other magic was suppressed, only barely possible to the most powerful with great effort. And it seemed their magics were very different from hers, all tied up with long complex rituals and symbols and appeals to Gods. Well, at least they knew what they were doing.
She didn’t. And she really didn’t have anyone she dared ask about it.
Neve was still pale, weak, barely able to swallow gruel, and very inclined to weep whenever Meb was there. She didn’t seem be able to speak anymore. That left Meb with Lady Vivien, as no one else in the bower was even speaking to her. It appeared there had been considerable trouble about precious mirrors being used without their owners’ permission. Mirrors were valued and expensive items in this society.
On the other hand, she’d found that the kitchen servants, the stable hands, and the common men-at-arms all were, to varying degrees, her partisans. They would bow, and give her a smile and a greeting.
Meb also found she was desperate for space. Dreaming space, if nothing else. Space away from the cold fetid breath of the Fomoire host would have been good. Her room felt too . . . watched. Too small. She took to walking in among the buildings and along the inside of the outer wall. It was a much older wall than the main keep, built of precisely fitted dry stones that had later been plastered over with mortar. It had cracked in places, and, because it was sheltered from the wind and caught the morning sun, the inside of the west wall had some tiny plants growing in those cracks. Periodically they were scrubbed off, except down by the fountain and the rock-bowl. For some reason the neyfs left that area alone, and Meb liked to go and sit there, on the edge of the basin. No one had told her not to, and it seemed that when she was there, they ignored her, and left her in peace. It was the one place the reek of the Fomoire invaders didn’t seem too noticeable. The water was sweet, and she’d taken to having a drink there and dribbling some off her fingertips onto the ferns. Even in the cold Fomoire winds, they’d put out some little curled green shoots.