Sunshaker's War

by Tom Deitz

  “Quick, Fargo, the scales!”

  “Huh? We can’t make fire here. There’s no t—”

  “Who’s talkin’ about fire?” David yelled, reeling frantically on the rawhide thong that secured his uktena scale. “I’m talkin’ ’bout the other scales—the shapechangin’ ones. Quick, think small and portable and quick. Maybe we can hide in one of these fissures.”

  “Huh?”

  “’Possum, Calvin, think ’possum!”

  And with that David grabbed Calvin’s hand and clamped it around the scale that hung at his throat. He thought desperately, sparing a moment to glance toward where the monster had subsided back into the sea, hoping against hope that the thing could not come fully ashore, could only make frantic, sea-based lunges.

  “Possum…?”

  David squinted his eyes almost shut, not daring to close them entirely for fear of unseen attack. If only he could focus on one thing for just a minute, banish fear for a bare sixty seconds. Come on now, Sullivan, you can do it, he scolded himself. “’Possum, ’possum, ’possum,” he began to chant. White ’possum, he added, and felt the first twinge in his stomach that heralded the change. He did close his eyes, then; though fear almost consumed him, and he prayed the sea-lion would not come at them again in the instant that remained. What was ’possum? It was small, it was quick, it was furtive, it had delicate feet that were sensitive and could climb, it had a long pointy nose that could sort out odors. It couldn’t see well, but had good instincts. It was…

  The change came over him so quickly he gasped. He had only time to force Calvin’s hand hard enough over his own scale to bring forth blood and hope the change would work as well for the Indian, hope their mingled blood would do the trick, when he lost himself in the agony of the shift. One moment he stood, the next was arching forward as his spine and joints shrank and re-aligned. He felt his face stretch, his vision blur and alter to read a different part of the spectrum; was vaguely aware of a thrusting at the base of his spine, of a sudden blessed wash of warmth as fur sprouted all over him.

  Abruptly he was on all fours and tangled in something—his clothes; they’d not shifted with him—not that he’d expected them to. And what of Calvin? Yeah, there he was—another ’possum, ruddier than that bit of himself he could see, and darker about the head.

  But then he had no more time to watch, for a huge splash behind him made him switch around, and he saw the monster again, only this time it had dragged itself wholly out of the water at a point where the shoreline was lower, and was making deliberate haste toward them.

  “Run!” he hissed, and then was running, sparing only a moment to grab the cumbersome fannypack with his teeth. (The changing scale was still on a thong around his neck where he prayed it would stay, along with Liz’s token; the knife was a no-go, as were his clothes). Calvin seemed to be loitering, though, and David had to zip back and urge him along with a sharp smack of naked tail against his furry russet rump. That got him going: pack, changing scale, and all.

  Door? Where was the door?—as they scurried around the base of the tower. Sounds behind them, enhanced beyond human hearing: a fishy-catty smell that made him want to gag. Perception strange: movement quick, but so little ground covered, and the dratted fannypacks kept snagging as they dragged across rough rocks—and that wasn’t even counting the added mass of the bolt-cutters, which suddenly seemed very heavy and awkward indeed.

  Slap, slap, slap: webbed claws behind them, followed by a roar that might have been out of a grade-B Tarzan movie—except that it scared the shit of him. Onward they scurried, and the slurpy-scratchy sounds grew ever louder. Calvin was lagging, too; twisting around too often to gaze back. But then they rounded the edge of a second buttress, and David himself risked a glance back, and saw the creature—sea-lion, whatever it was—gaining on them, its shadow stretched long before it, threatening them with a dark that was pale to what would surely follow.

  Another swat at the dawdling Calvin, and they were making tracks again, with the monster still behind. Around another buttress, still no door—but there was an opening, at the juncture of the buttress and the tower proper. No, not an opening so much as a slit: the bottom of a fissure that seemed to snake and twist right up the side of the tower, not much bigger than their own furry bodies. David hesitated there for a moment, but then the monster’s shadow fell full upon them, and he decided. A final swat sent Calvin scurrying inside; he followed, finding himself at once engulfed in a stifling, smelly darkness. Probably a garderobe shaft, he thought, or something that intersected one—if the Sidhe used such primitive solutions to basic functions—if they even had basic functions. But then there was no more time for thought, for the slit of light behind was obscured by a mass of yellow fur, and the smell of fish and wet feline overwhelmed all others. Calvin hissed viciously and barred his needlelike teeth, though he did not let go of his pack. David tried to quiet him, but could not.

  Which way now?

  That was the question. Their shelter was small, no more than two feet on a side—except up.

  So up it was. David started climbing, hoping Calvin would follow, and thanking a variety of deities for ’possum strength and balance. Fortunately, the shaft was not quite vertical, but seemed to describe a slow, steep spiral that made it possible to make reasonable progress. Straight up David thought he could have managed as a ’possum, but not with their equipment—and they had to have the equipment. Up then, into darkness, feeling rough stone beneath and occasionally bits of slicker material, all mixed with a brush of mold or fungus that sent spores into his nose when he slipped past them.

  Up and up, and he suddenly realized he had no idea where this tunnel went, or if it even led to Fionchadd’s prison. But just when he’d decided it might in fact have no openings, another crack snaked in from the left, and he could see light through it: a guard room, it looked like; he could make out a trestle table, a handful of squat, halfhuman figures standing around one, the other manned by an even dozen bored-looking Sidhe in the black-and-scarlet livery that marked them as Finvarra’s warriors. Curious, he scooted closer, wondering what he could learn. Too close, and a paw struck a loose stone, sending it sliding back down the shaft.

  The noise made one of the Faerys look up, but by then David had scuttled back into the darkness and was following Calvin further up the shaft. Good, the Indian seemed to be adapting to shape-shifting nicely.

  Higher and higher, and he was starting to get tired: three hundred feet, maybe, and little ’possum legs had to move back and forth a lot to mark that distance, especially in the spiral path they followed. Another series of curves, another juncture of broken stone, another shaft of light arrowing unexpectedly in—and then a breath of fresh air found them, mixed with the sound of sweat and stagnant bodily fluids and a slow, steady groaning.

  Quicker, now; crowding around Calvin and climbing higher, faster. More light, and he was suddenly looking down—not through a cleft in the wall as he had expected, but from one in the joint where a piece of vaulting met the webbing that backed it, at the juncture of ceiling and vault and wall.

  Below—fifteen feet maybe—was Fionchadd.

  Beyond all luck, they had found their quarry.

  He was not alone, though. One of the squat figures David had seen before was just withdrawing a glittering needle from an inch or so below his navel, but not without giving it an occasional flick or twist. David saw his friend’s near-naked body tauten with each movement as he obviously fought back screams, then relax at last as the needle joined other, even more wicked-looking implements, on a round table by the door.

  A second torturer jerked Fionchadd’s breeches up, but left his chest uncovered—so that he could lay a dagger there. It must surely have been of iron, too, because the Faery boy immediately turned very pale, and David could see his jawline tighten as he bit back a scream. Tendrils of smoke—or steam—began to drift up from the flesh beside that blade.

  The first guard frowned, then shrugged, and
adjusted the chains tighter. And then—God be praised—headed for the door. His fellow followed, and sharp ’possum ears caught the sound of a key grating in a lock and of a bolt being thrown. Primitive, David thought, compared with some of Lugh’s precautions. Finvarra must be very confident of this place’s secrecy. A moment only it took to scurry down the intricate carving of the column that supported the vaulting, and they stood on the floor.

  The room swung, shifted; David was looking up at it, at the narrow bed that held Fionchadd—at the chains of iron that bound him. Their Faery friend was apparently unconscious.

  David started to speak to him, to whisper that all was well, that help had come, but only produced a discordant squeak. Something about that infuriated him. He bared his teeth in anger, started to attack the other ’possum for lack of a better target, then stopped himself.

  Had he been human, he would have blushed. He was still a beast. Almost without realizing it, he had let the ’possum mind take him, had once more nearly sublimated his intellect completely to bestial instinct.

  He nudged Calvin with his pink nose, reached a paw under himself to grasp the scale that still hung from his throat and scratched across the floor. A quick squeeze, and he felt pain as the change came upon him, and an instant later had regained his own form. He winced, blinking dizzily as the world spun and twisted around him and brought him at last back to his full five-foot-seven. A final spasm, a quick breath, and he released the scale. A glance at his hand showed it already healing, and then for the first time he truly looked at his Faery friend.

  Fionchadd was not a pretty sight, not any longer; for the wasted form on the bed was a too-cruel caricature of his former elegance. Now there was only gauntness, bruises, lines and scars that should not be there—and dirt and foulness. Chains led from the boy’s slender arms and legs to the floor, the flesh beneath the barely padded shackles raw and faintly smoking from proximity to the iron that ate away at it, even as the Faery constitution sought to restore it again. And the dagger—that awful dagger! He knocked it roughly aside. The whole thing reminded him far too much of another friend a year before: Alec dying from the poison of the uktena. Fionchadd moaned gently, but David forced himself to ignore him. It was time for the matter at hand, and please, God, let it succeed.

  The chains first, and it was time to rip the duct tape off the compact bolt-cutters Sandy had assured him would nip right through solid high-chrome steel, never mind djinn-forged iron.

  A second quick glance around, just to be sure. Damn! The ’possum residue was making him muddle-headed. Another survey, noting absently that Calvin was still fumbling with his scale—but sparing him no more thought except perhaps a twinge of irritation; this was no time to be fiddling around.

  The door: yeah, that was it: best to barricade the door just in case. A second later he realized there was not one thing in the room to wedge it with—not one thing to keep it from opening. And it was locked on the other side, and probably warded as well. Blind good luck that they’d come the way they had, though if the tower were warded, there was still a good chance some sort of intruder alert might have gone off already. Lord only knew they’d made enough noise downstairs, and that didn’t even count the monster out in the ocean. No telling what it’d do—or say, if it was sentient.

  Still, there was no helping it; he’d just have to chance leaving it unwedged. Maybe he could thwack the guards with the bolt cutters if it came to that.

  “David?” Green eyes slitted open, then abruptly opened wider. “David!”

  “You got it, Lizard-man,” he whispered. “We’ve come to get you outta here.”

  “We…?”

  “Me and Calvin.”

  “C…Calvin?” Fionchadd craned his head, scanning the room, suddenly much more alert now that he was suddenly presented with hope.

  “Yeah—if he ever changes back.”

  Fionchadd’s eyes closed again. He felt back onto the bed. “Hurts, David, hurts.”

  “I know, guy,” David replied softly, as he attacked the bonds, trying hard not to brush against already tortured Faery flesh. Finno could endure it, he knew, could rebuild eventually from almost anything—but he didn’t want him to have to.

  And then the one thing David had most dreaded: sounds outside: heavy feet on the floor: running.

  And he wasn’t finished, hadn’t freed his friend yet—and what was keeping Calvin…?

  “Calvin?” he called in a hoarse whisper. “Come on, Fargo, cut the crap.”

  He searched the room, finally found his accomplice—still in ’possum shape, happily batting his uktena scale across the floor like an extremely ugly cat, his pack and its precious cargo apparently having been abandoned. David started toward him, but Calvin hissed at him—and then a terrible thought struck him.

  Calvin was stuck. Not only hadn’t he changed back, he couldn’t change back. In spite of David’s warnings, the beast had claimed him.

  And there was no more time.

  Only one chance—one slim chance, if he only could manage it. There was a brazier burning nearby, probably to take the worst of the chill off the room, though he imagined it had other applications as well, if the burns that pocked Fionchadd’s flesh were any indication. If he could just find Calvin’s pack, it was barely possible. Yeah, there it was, over in the corner. He grasped it quickly, emptied out three uktena scales, and flipped the flap back closed.

  Sounds on the threshold now, the lock being worked.

  Calvin? Where had that damned ’possum got to? Oh there—by the head of the bed. Enough time wasted, and none left for hesitation. David seized him by the scruff of the neck, grabbed his scale from the floor and their packs as well, wincing as the ’possum tried to bite him. Finno now—one chance. He tugged on the iron links, but they would not move, abandoned caution and yanked at the chains, felt one of them grate but not break. Only one other option, then: He grabbed the brazier, poured the coals on the floor, thrust in the three scales, and—as smoke and flame erupted from them as if they’d been made of magnesium—cried out as loudly as he could, “Alec, Liz—God in Heaven, please be there.”

  And then, as the familiar agony enfolded him, he clutched Calvin to his chest, grabbed Fionchadd’s smoking wrist, and hoped his plan would succeed.

  Heat, like superheated steam, like evaporation… For an instant his only thought was the pain of the transition between the Worlds, but it was not so severe this time, nor so long in duration. In fact—

  Abruptly he was tumbling to the soft, warm earth of Calvin’s make-do Power Wheel.

  “Jesus,” he gasped, as Alec and Liz reached toward him, and it took until then to dawn on him that he had succeeded, at least in part: Calvin was still with him, though in ’possum shape. And wonder of wonders, he’d actually managed to bring Finno through as well—without his chains. He heaved a sigh of relief and sank down on the grass, oblivious to his state of undress: “We made it,” he laughed, almost hysterically. “I don’t believe it: we made it! I was so afraid I was gonna have to swim again—”

  “Must have been the gate,” Alec mused softly, as he handed David a bundle of clothes. “That would have been the simplest way between the Worlds, so when you burned the scale, it brought you here. We saw you earlier, but couldn’t help—saw the monster, but had no idea what was going on inside the tower, since Liz couldn’t scry ’cause she had to help keep the gate open.”

  David suddenly froze in the act of slipping on his cutoffs. “The gate—oh my God, Alec—the gate! We’ve gotta close it!”

  He whirled around, saw the arc of fire that still burned in the pink light of Georgia sunrise. And through it saw half a dozen shapes take wing from the top of the tower: enormous eagles. But each one, David knew, bore the mind and soul of a Faery warrior. And they were gliding straight toward them.

  PART III

  DELUGE

  Chapter XIX: Panic City

  (Stone Mountain, Georgia—Monday, June 16—morning)

  “Clo
se the friggin’ gate!” David shouted, his eyes ablaze. A glance over his friends’ heads showed him the flame-edged hole, six black eagles coming in fast.

  “How…?” Alec began, then: “But where’s Calvin?”

  “There,” David gasped, pointing to the ’possum that had slipped his grip as soon as he’d tumbled to earth in the clearing and was now calmly nosing around the ice chest. Alec’s eyes grew wide, and David noticed then that they were clouded with pain. His mouth was grim. Liz was already tending to Fionchadd, who was unconscious again. But David’s concern was momentarily elsewhere.

  “The gate, Alec! What did Calvin say about the gate?”

  “Nothing!” Alec shot back miserably, staring at the eagles that had now covered half the distance from the tower.

  “You’re sure?”

  A nod.

  David glanced one last time at the birds—and acted. He shouldered past his best friend and flung himself on the ground before the glimmering hole in space, afraid to stand for fear he might be sucked in again.

  Come to us, a voice whispered in his head. You cannot defy us.

  There was no more time. The window into the Otherworld had its origin in the ulunsuti that still blazed atop the remnants of the heap of twigs, its lower third embedded in glowing embers. David grabbed it—felt fiery agony burn into his hands like the king of all electric shocks as he jerked the crystal from its bed and hurled it aside.

  Alec dived for it, caught it as it rolled, thrust it unthinking into the ice chest where a little water yet remained, then set about re-securing it in its pouch and jar.

  David held his breath—the gate was still there, fading at last but not gone; and the Faery warriors had almost reached them now; he could see their vast wings filling half the circle.

  Abruptly Liz grabbed the thermos that still lay at the edge of the Power Wheel. A deft twist of wrist unscrewed it and she emptied its contents into the soil.