The Firehills

by Steve Alten

  “Run with me,” said Epona. And Charly ran.

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  Together, they left the circle of shadowy figures and the blazing beacon and ran along the hill’s crest. With the speed of horses, they tore across the night, and the cold light of the moon spilled from Charly so that she seemed like a vessel of glass, lit from within. As she ran, her hair streaming behind her, Charly caught glimpses of another figure, half-seen, always on the edge of vision.

  “Mother,” she called to Epona, “who runs with us?”

  “It is my consort, the Horned God. The one you call the Green Man.”

  Charly turned her head and caught an impression of antlers, a face of leaves and a familiar pair of amber eyes.

  “Come,” cried Epona and plunged on into the night. For an eternity, they seemed to run without tiring, along the high ridge. Charly grinned as she ran, exhilarated by the speed, burning within with the power of the Moon Goddess. No longer would she envy Sam his power. This night was hers, had come from her alone. She had her own path to tread now.

  After a time that Charly could not measure, the bushes grew thicker and tall trees began to dot the slope. Epona paused, waiting for Charly to catch up. As she drew to a halt, the goddess placed her hands on Charly’s shoulders and smiled.

  “We are one now, you and I.”

  “My thanks, Mother,” said Charly. Then she added, “I seek a doorway, an entrance to the Underworld.”

  “There is a gate such as you seek,” continued Epona, “It is called the Gate of Water. Follow.”

  Epona plunged down the slope, leaving the ridge behind and picking her way through the thickening trees. Soon they were in dark woodland, full of strange shadows and movements in the undergrowth.

  After a time, Epona led Charly down a steep slope into a narrow valley. Trees arched over from either side, blotting out the stars, but the light of the moon followed them. At the bottom of the valley, splashing and murmuring over rocks, was a tiny stream of cold, clear water. Together, Epona and her daughter followed the flow upward, picking their way slowly through the overhanging branches. At last, they came to a small pool in a bay of rock, where ferns clung to the crevices and water dripped from the moss, a thousand bright droplets.

  “The Gate of Water,” said Epona, standing aside. Charly stepped forward. Before her was a blank face of stone, higher than her head, draped with greenery. The source of the stream was somewhere in the rock above her. Water poured down from the leaves of the ferns like strings of glass beads, and its music was all around her.

  “Trust,” said Epona, “and the gate will open unto you. But take heed, daughter. Those who journey in the Underworld are ever in peril. You have run well on this, your first night of power. But my protection was upon you, and the elder things of the world would not draw near. I will not always be by your side. Fare well, daughter, and blessed be.”

  “Thank you,” replied Charly, feeling awkward. The light that burned within her was fading, and the impression of existing in two worlds at once was drifting away. She gazed at the wall of layered stone. When she looked back, Epona was gone.

  Charly stepped forward into the shallow pool at the foot of the waterfall, gasping at the icy bite of the water. She stretched out one hand, meaning to test the weeddraped rock but then decided against it. Trust, Epona had said. Closing her eyes, she strode forward, flinched in expectation, but the anticipated collision never came. Instead, she stumbled, tried to regain her footing, and sprawled headlong into dry dust.

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  Sam worked until the sweat poured from him, maintaining a steady rhythm that kept the metal glowing red. Just when he thought he was at the end of his endurance, Wayland took the blade in a pair of tongs and plunged it into a barrel of water. Steam billowed up with a great whoosh, and the smith bent close, peering intently at the metal. When he was satisfied, he took it out and returned with it to the forge.

  “Right, lad. Now it’s ’ard, we needs to temper it.” He put the metal back in the coals and let it heat up to a dull glow, cooler than the fiery red that Sam had maintained before, then plunged it once more into the water barrel. He repeated this several times, until at last he seemed happy. Taking the cooled metal from the water, he held it up to his face, squinted along its length with one eye closed, and smiled. “Aye, lad,” he said, “that’ll do.”

  “Can I see?” asked Sam, but at that moment, they heard noises outside.

  “Stay ’ere,” warned Wayland. “I’ll go an’ see what’s amiss.”

  He stamped out of the forge, and Sam heard muffled voices outside. He listened for a while, trying to gauge the mood of the conversation. As far as he could tell, everything seemed friendly, so he ventured to the doorway. Wayland was in discussion with a man on a horse, a tall, blond-haired stranger with a haughty expression. Catching sight of Sam, the man said, “And who do we have here, smith?”

  “Oh, ’tis just my lad, sir,” replied Wayland, “as helps me around the place. Get ’ee back indoors, boy.” Sam turned to go.

  “No,” said the stranger. “Come here, child.” To Wayland, he said, “I’ve seen your boy, smith. He dresses as you do. This child is different. Come here.”

  Reluctantly, Sam moved forward.

  “What is your name, child?”

  Sam looked at Wayland for guidance, but the smith’s face remained impassive.

  “Sam,” he replied.

  “Sam,” repeated the stranger thoughtfully. “Your name is as strange as your attire, boy. You will come with me. My king will wish to see you.” He beckoned for Sam to approach his horse.

  “Now, ’ang on,” began Wayland, moving to block Sam’s path. In an instant, the horseman had drawn his sword with a ringing hiss of steel.

  “One more step, smith,” he said coldly, “and you will rue the day you forged this blade.” He leveled the point at Wayland’s chest. “Child, I will not ask again.”

  Sam stepped toward the horse and was suddenly hauled upward with surprising force. He found himself on the bony spine of the animal, his face pressed against the man’s back. As the horse lurched into motion, he flung his arms around the man’s waist and hung on for his life. He had one final glimpse of Wayland, standing like a statue outside his forge, as the horse thundered out of the clearing.

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  Charly stood in the darkness of the cavern. The magic of the Firehills had faded now, and she felt suddenly very alone. As she waited for her eyes to adjust, she tried to shape a plan in her mind. Sam, she knew, would just blunder off, picking a direction at random. Not her. Come on, Charly, she thought. Common sense. What would be the sensible way? She couldn’t look for both Sam and Amergin. She had to assume that Sam would make his own way toward the bard. And Amergin would be wherever the Sidhe had their stronghold. So she needed to look for signs of the Sidhe, to try and work out where they were most likely to congregate.

  One problem occurred to her right away: Her eyes showed no signs of adjusting to the darkness. She needed light or to be able to see in the dark. And she needed to travel quickly. Got it! she thought. Charly closed her eyes—not that it made much difference—and concentrated on a shape. There was no crop circle here to help her with its residual magic, but she had changed. Part of her, deep down, would always be Epona, the horse goddess.

  The change came easily this time. She let out a squeak, too high for the human ear to detect, and its echoes lit up the cavern. She saw—not with her eyes but with her ears—the stalactites and fluted columns that hung from the ceiling, the tumbled boulders and shattered rock of the floor. With a flutter of leathery wings, she darted through a stone arch and headed off along the tunnel, a tiny bat in the echoing darkness.

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  Sam was exhausted, his arms like lead. After his efforts on the bellows, there was little energy left in him, and the strain of holding onto the man’s waist was unbearable. But the horse continued to canter through the endless forest, and if Sam let go, he would hit the ground at quit
e a speed. Even in animal form, he was not sure he would survive the fall unscathed. They had galloped along rough paths and dirt tracks for what seemed like an eternity. Once or twice, they had passed through farmsteads, huddles of low buildings where the hens went squawking out of their path and the barking of dogs faded behind them. But the settlements were few and far between. Mostly, they traveled through trees—mighty oaks, ashes, and lindens marching past in an unending procession.

  Sam was debating whether or not to attract the man’s attention and ask for a rest, when to one side of the trail, the trees began to thin. Above loomed the unmistakable bulk of the Downs. They followed a broad, well-worn track along the foot of the slope, through neatly hedged sheep pasture that gradually gave way to fields of crops. Men were at work with horses or plowing with teams of oxen. Plumes of smoke rose here and there from clusters of buildings, and Sam could hear the distant sound of metal on metal. The track grew steeper until suddenly, high above them, Sam saw a town. A great fence of sharpened tree trunks circled a high point on the long ridge of the Downs. Within it, Sam could see wooden buildings and pale, shaggy thatch. Smoke rose from here too, a dark smudge across the blue sky.

  They reached a broad road up to the town. Outside the towering palisade fence was a deep ditch. The road crossed it on a bridge before plunging between great wooden gates and becoming the main street. Once through the gates, the rider drew his horse to a halt, and Sam slumped gratefully to the ground. He knelt in the dust, massaging his burning arms and groaning.

  “Cease your whimpering, boy,” snapped the rider, grabbing Sam by the arm and dragging him to his feet. “We go to see my king. Come.”

  Leading his horse by the reins, he marched up the street, pulling Sam behind him. As he stumbled along, Sam stared around in wonder. The buildings were similar to those he had seen on his journey through the woods but in a far poorer state of repair. Wayland, with none of the conveniences of electricity and running water, still kept his home clean and well maintained and his land in order. Here Sam sensed an air of decay. Children played in puddles of filth in the streets. The thatches of the buildings were gray and sagging. Sam saw rats scurry for cover as a pack of thin, yellowish dogs trotted along the street. Up ahead, a group of men staggered out of a building and began to brawl in the gutter, cursing and shouting. The rider picked his way carefully around the rolling bodies and continued up the street. At the very crown of the hill was an open square, an area of trampled dirt and scattered household rubbish around the largest building Sam had so far seen. It was low and circular, with a conical roof of thatch rising up to a central hole through which pale blue smoke was drifting. Large wooden doors stood open, but the interior was full of shadow.

  As they approached, the rider barked a command, and a young boy ran to take his horse. As the beast was led away, the man said, “You are about to enter the hall of my liege lord, King Haesta. Show respect, speak only when you are spoken to, and be sure to answer his questions. Or . . .” He drew his sword a short way from its scabbard, just far enough for Sam to see the glint of steel. Once more, the rider grasped his arm and pulled him forward. It was as if Sam had walked into a vision of hell. In the center of the great hall, a fire blazed, and the heat it gave out was stifling. The smoke hung thick in the room, adding to the gloom. Rough tables were arranged around the perimeter of the chamber, and men were feasting. Bones were scattered across the rush-covered floor, and hunting dogs snarled and brawled over the scraps. As Sam and the rider entered, the roar of voices lessened until something approaching silence fell across the gathering. Darting nervous glances from face to hostile face, Sam was drawn toward the center of the hall. Beyond the fire, on a huge throne of wood and wrought iron, sat an equally large man, his hair and beard blond, and his cheeks flushed red by the heat and wine.

  “My lord,” began the rider, “I found this boy at the smithy. Wayland claims that this is his lad, his assistant. But he is like no child I have seen before.”

  The man on the throne leaned forward, one elbow braced on his knee, and peered at Sam.

  “Boy,” he rumbled, “account for yourself.”

  But Sam said nothing. He was staring beyond the throne, to a dark-haired figure almost lost in the shadows.

  “You!” Sam said. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Forgive me, boy,” drawled the voice of the Malifex, “but should I know you?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Charly sped on leathery wings through the darkness of the Hollow Hills, swooping between dripping stalactites. The echoes of her voice bounced back to her from a million rock facets and were picked up by her huge, sensitive ears. Her brain converted the echoes into a strangely colorless, grainy image of the world but a precise image. She could judge distances with millimeter precision, flying through gaps barely wider than her outspread wings, darting through a maze of columns and arches.

  Soon she saw the first signs of habitation. The floor of the cavern became smoother, worn down by the passage of feet, and the outlines of the archways more regular. Someone—or something—had been at work here,

  improving on nature, widening and shaping to create underground roadways. And then she began to see a flickering orange light. Up ahead, a rectangular doorway was outlined by the glow of flames. She swooped close to the ground and reverted to her human shape. Edging forward, she peeped around the doorframe and gasped. Blazing torches in niches on the walls revealed a chamber of wonders. Along one side of the room was a Viking longboat, perfectly preserved, its dragon-headed prow casting a sinister shadow across the floor. Along the facing wall was a row of suits of armor, some plain and functional, others ornate and highly decorated. Swords and shields of all sizes and designs hung from the columns that supported the roof. In the center of the chamber, in pride of place, stood a huge cannon and its cannonballs, neatly stacked. Charly realized that this collection represented a history of warfare spanning centuries, but all the items looked as if they had been made only yesterday.

  She moved on, past chain-mail shirts and racks of spears, to a doorway on the opposite side of the room. Here more torchlight glinted from golden plates and goblets, from open chests of jeweled crowns and necklaces. Resisting the urge to stop and rummage through the chests, Charly made her way through the treasure chamber and out by another door. This time, she found herself in a broad hallway with a high, vaulted ceiling. Flaming torches were arranged along the walls at regular intervals, fading away into the far distance. Since there was enough light for her to see, Charly decided to stay in human form. But she felt increasingly nervous. The chambers she had passed through contained an unimaginable fortune—surely the Sidhe would not leave them unguarded? After a moment’s thought, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was clad from head to foot in black—a flowing black satin skirt over black leggings and leather motorbike boots, a black leather jacket over a black Tshirt. Even her auburn hair was now a glossy shade of midnight. With a satisfied smile, she strode off along the chamber.

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  Amergin sprawled in the dust in the center of the room. The circle of Sidhe who had kept him suspended in the air were gone, their work done. He moaned and tried to push himself up from the floor, but the pain in his shoulder joints was too intense, and he slumped back, exhausted.

  So, thought Finnvarr to the Lady Una, it was the boy after all. We have made a grave error.

  I don’t understand, my lord, replied Una. How did the spirit of Attis come to reside in this . . . this child?

  That, I think, is a tale our friend here, he prodded Amergin in the chest with the toe of his boot, has yet to tell us. For now, it is enough to know that the power of the Green Man survives, and it is all that stands between us and our goal. Destroy the spirit of the Green One, and the power of the Malifex will be ours.

  So we seek the boy?

  Perhaps. And perhaps not. Lord Finnvarr paused for a moment, lost in thought. The boy is involved somehow, but he is not Attis. No, the power of
the Green Man is dispersed, like that of the Malifex. It is strong in the boy, but it is not rooted in him. It will manifest soon, though, for a moment. At the festival?

  Indeed. I think we should pay a visit to the castle and await the coming of the May King.

  And what of him? Lady Una nodded at the motionless form of Amergin, sprawled in the dirt before them. Leave him, said Finnvarr. Seal the door. And when all this is over, there are stories I would like to hear from our friend the Milesian.

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  Sam stared in astonishment at the Malifex. “Er, sorry,” he stammered, “you, um, reminded me of someone.”

  The Malifex frowned back at him from behind the throne. Sam felt a familiar prickling in his mind. Boy, said a voice in his head, there is something strange about you. I’m sure we have never met and yet, there is a hint of my brother about you. . . .

  The voice receded, and the Malifex bent close to the ear of the king on his throne, whispering.

  After a moment, King Haesta leaned forward and said,

  “Boy, it seems my counselor has not only never seen you before, he has never seen your like. And Counselor Morfax has traveled far. What are you, boy?”

  “Just a boy, sir,” replied Sam, casting his eyes to the ground. “I work for Wayland, the smith, sort of an apprentice.”

  The lord frowned and turned again to his counselor. There was another whispered conversation.

  “Child,” continued Haesta, returning his gaze to where Sam stood, head bowed, “we have seen Wayland’s lad, and you are not he. Nor do we know this word, apprentice. So it seems you lie to us. Perhaps you are a foreign spy or worse—some fell creature of magic. It will be amusing to find out. Bind him.”