By the time he realized he was in trouble he'd already run into a barbed wire fence, feeling nothing besides the sudden absence of gravity, which turned to black. The envelope of darkness wrapped its fragile wings around him, shielding him from an intense, white light that now sought to claim him. Then he felt a presence, an entity, a voice.
Your future is not on the other side. Not yet. Words appeared as thoughts, images. Whatever it was, it spoke directly to him.
Who are you? Thorn asked. He had never been religious but was now having second thoughts. Are you God?
I am the Lord of the Land of Shadows, the voice replied. I am a god. From the darkness came a candle flame, lighting a vast plain of desolation. A single bare tree stood in the distance. This is the Land of Shadows. It is always winter, here. Thorn saw himself, a transparent ghost, still wearing the aviator's suit, the helmet, the goggles. He felt naked without his motorcycle. Remembering Valerie, and the way in which she must have died, sent a pang of guilt through him.
The Lord was a tall wiry figure, standing next to the dead tree, his back turned to the cold wind that blew in from the north. The wind whipped at the edges of a robe of thin, black fur, wrapped tightly around him.
"I'm not sure I follow." Thorn looked down at himself, taking in his ghostly image with a critical eye, wondering what if anything he had to barter with. With what? With who? he thought, now wishing he had gone with the white light that had abandoned him.
Do you believe in angels, Thorn? the Lord asked.
Thorn's first reaction was to laugh. But when considering recent events, the humor drained out of the question. He answered honestly. "Not much."
The Lord of the Land of Shadows turned to him slowly, and Thorn saw his face for the first time. What he first took as the pallor of snow white skin was revealed as a grinning skull. The sight did not frighten him; instead it filled him with warmth.
You should believe in angels, now, the Lord continued. You have become one.
Thorn looked at his arms, checking for telltale wings that might have sprouted when he wasn't looking, really wanting to laugh now. "So what did I do to earn this honor?"
You died, the Lord replied. Most spectacularly, I might add.
Thorn held his arms up, flapping them like a bird. So do I get a harp? Where are my wings?"
You get something much better to fly upon than wings, the Lord said.
In the distance he heard a familiar growl of internal combustion. His heart leaped. "Valerie?" Thorn said, looking toward the sound. Riderless, and in pristine condition, Thorn's motorcycle rode up to him and stopped; Valerie had become a living, thinking being.
You loved your motorbike. You created a soul.
Love flowed from the bike, a pinkish, red haze. When he touched it, it flowed through him.
Become familiar with my land, the Lord said, and began walking away. You will learn where it goes, and travel it with ease.
"As an angel?" Thorn asked, still unable to comprehend it. However, he could think of worse fates than riding Valerie for an eternity.
As a Rider Guardian, the Lord replied. A guardian angel, for living souls who very much need a guardian.
"Whose souls?" Thorn asked, though he already had an idea.
The riders of motorcycles will need protection.
The Lord was gone, and Thorn tested Valerie, revving her motor with a delicate twist of the throttle.
"Let's see what's out there," he said to her, and they were off.
Chapter Three
They reached Castle Tuiereann after a long day of travel, and no small amount of bickering between Wenlann and Petrus. Odras rode in silence, as if lost in his own thoughts, but out of the corner of his eye Petrus had seen him looking rather amused.
King Aedham had built the new castle at the fork of the massive Arannan and Gruac Rivers. Aedham made the river deeper, wider, and swifter, then established his new home between the two river branches. There had already been a sizable hill here, and with the five stories of castle it seemed even taller.
Petrus' own chambers were on the third floor, and commanded a striking view of the surrounding landscape. The sight of the castle was a welcome relief He hadn't realized how much he'd enjoyed living in cushy comfort until trying to sleep on a blanket on a soggy moor.
They paused at the gatehouse before crossing a drawbridge. The house was an elaborate affair with a tall, pointed arch and a thick, bronze gate. A second gate of cold iron lay concealed behind wood panels, against the walls of the house, ready to be closed over the bronze gate should they again be attacked by the Unseleighe. Despite the concealing planks of oak, Petrus flinched at the death metal's heat every time he passed.
"Aie, Scoriath." Petrus called the guard on duty. The guard stepped forward with the reverence due Petrus us one of the highest ranking elves of Avalon. "Another good day for hunting. There's Unseleighe vermin on our lands to the north, in the thick forests. Care to join us when we return in force?"
Scoriath's eyes lit brightly at the mention of a hunt. I he Seleighe was an expert with horses, and an excellent warrior. He and thirty others had emigrated from Outremer to join Avalon in their rebuilding. Scoriath and his brother, Rochad, had grown up with Petrus, and had taught each other a thing or two about swordplay.
"Unseleighe?" Scoriath said, sounding more intrigued than surprised. He had stepped closer to Moonremere and had started scratching her jowls, his bright, blond hair cascading past his shoulders. "How many?"
"Twenty, perhaps."
Odras yawned expressively. "I didn't think their mage was very good."
"Good enough to fool Petrus with a projection," Wenlann countered. "One that vanished the moment our hero here decided to leap on it. Instead, he leaped on some rather treacherous mud. Didn't he, Odras?"
Odras said nothing, and Petrus glared at Wenlann, remembering a nugget of advice the mage had once offered. Never get involved in a boy and girl fight. Odras seems to be taking his own advice.
"I suppose the King would want to speak with you directly," Scoriath said diplomatically, stepping back to allow them entry. "If there are Unseleighe to contend with he will wish to know immediately," the guard added.
"Aie," Petrus replied, making a point of looking away from Wenlann. "And I'm tired as well."
"There may be leftover supper," Scoriath said as they passed. "We dined only a candlemark ago."
Petrus nodded, hoping the rumble in his stomach wasn't loud enough to be heard. He felt the magical shields snap into place behind him as they took the drawbridge across a moat, a wide channel guarding the northern side of the castle. As they approached the stables a page came for their steeds.
I'll gather our gear later, he thought, as he started for the castle, not caring if Wenlann accompanied him or not.
He found the Great Hall empty. The thick ceiling timbers matched the stoutness of the entire castle, which had an ornamental rock exterior laid over a dense, granite frame. This castle would, according to the mages who had assisted, withstand levin bolts twice as strong as the ones that had leveled their previous home.
Petrus decided on a quick change in his quarters; casting a glamorie to hide his mud-soaked clothes would be tricky, and impolite. Etiquette required all business with the King be done without disguise, magical or otherwise. Besides, Aedham would see right through it, and would likely find it all the more amusing. It will only take a moment to make myself presentable, Petrus thought as he ascended the main stairwell at the end of the hall. But as he passed by the King's solar, Aedham called out as he tried to sneak past.
"Petrus? Is that you?" Aedham inquired, and reluctantly Petrus turned and entered the solar, mud and all.
"Yes, Aedham," he replied. "As you can see, I am less than presentable."
"Since when have I cared about a little dirt?" Aedham said cheerfully. Today he looked more like Adam McDaris, teenager, than King Aedham Tuiereann, Ruler of Elfhame Avalon. As he often did, he had forsaken his royal robe
, crown and scepter for more casual clothes. The slogan on the simple red T-shirt was certainly appropriate, reflecting Petrus' mood as well: When It Absolutely, Positively Has To Be Destroyed Overnight. U.S. Marines. He sat at a long narrow table salvaged from the ruins of the former castle. This was the same table King Traig had used in his final minutes while holed up in the bowels of the castle, and Aedham had grown attached to it. On it sat a pink Lava Lite, a halogen desk lamp, and a hundred or so compact disk holders spread around him in a semicircle. Depeche Mode's Songs of Faith and Devotion played through four deceptively small Bose speakers hanging from the ceiling's rock.
Aedham was barefoot, wearing a pair of well worn and faded jeans, with holes for knees, his face illuminated by the dim glow of a computer screen. The PC sat upright on the floor, wires spilling out its back, with the big crystal port sitting on a shelf behind him. It was one of the Unseleighe technologies Niamh had learned to convert to peaceful use, and was the means with which Aedham was able to dial into the human array of computer systems called the Internet. Other elves questioned this link to the humans' world, fearful it might be traced back to Underhill by unfriendly humans. But Niamh had assured all that such a thing was not possible. The King had used it from time to time when he was feeling nostalgic, and wanted to converse with unknowing humans.
A long wooden torch burned on the wall in eerie contrast to the technology spread out on the ancient table. Petrus might have mistaken the King for a young human man, if not for the pointed ears protruding from his curly mop of shoulder-length hair.
Aedham took in Petrus' muddied condition, visibly suppressing a smirk. "I take it your trip was eventful?"
Petrus nodded, meeting the King's eyes. "It was. We encountered Japhet Dhu, my King. They are here, and they are looking for trouble."
Darkness fell across the King's face like a portcullis. He calmly tapped a few keys, turned off the monitor, then the computer. Its falling whine sounded like a dying animal.
"Are you certain?" Aedham said, his demeanor now completely different. He stood slowly, rising to his full height.
The look Petrus saw in his face was frightening, and one he had not seen for a long time. "Yes, I am certain." Petrus told him about the first encounter that turned into solo mud wrestling, and about finding the banners.
"The son of Zeldan," Aedham said, pacing the floor. Sparks of energy flared around him, a sure sign the King was very, very pissed. "How dare they defile what they have already destroyed."
"We pursued them to the edge of the Black Forest," Petrus said. "I wanted to go after them, but Odras urged caution."
"How many?" Aedham said. His human clothing had changed to more elven attire. Gone were the jeans and T-shirt, replaced by a gold fur-lined robe with large cuffs, hose and short boots. The ring with the large letter A had also appeared on his hand. The transformation to his elven self was sudden, and startling, and a certain sign the King wanted blood.
Twenty, perhaps, according to Odras. I only saw three. A mage is among them."
Aedham frowned, and continued his pacing. "Dammit all, I knew things had gotten too sedate around here."
The King's anger made Petrus nervous, and he began stammering an apology. "Forgive me, if I have failed you. I—"
"You've done no such thing," Aedham said acidly. "You were right not to go after them." He stopped pacing and walked over to Petrus, putting a hand on his shoulder. "If there were as many as Odras says, it would have been suicide to follow them into the forest. We need our heroes alive, thank you. I need to speak with Odras."
As if on cue there was a knock on the solar's entrance. "Sire?" Odras said hesitantly.
"You have met some of my old enemies, Petrus tells me," Aedham said. "A mage was involved?"
"Ale," Odras replied. Petrus repressed a surge of his own annoyance. Didn't the King believe him? "One capable of projections." Odras didn't elaborate, and Petrus was grateful. "They tried to lure us into a vulnerable place."
"No forces to be concerned with this evening?" the King asked.
Odras shrugged. "They are hardly a force worthy of attacking us here."
King Aedham turned and walked to a narrow window, which overlooked the Arannan River.
"We must launch an attack," the King said. "And rid ourselves finally of the vermin."
Petrus slept fitfully, and when he did fall into a deep sleep it was already morning; he must have looked as exhausted as he felt, since the King argued against his joining the raid on Japhet Dhu. Time was of the essence; the King wanted to attack right away, before the Unseleighe had time to move. Yet he found the energy to convince the King, and himself, that he was fit to go.
Wenlann opted not to go with the troops, to Petrus' relief. She was exhausted, and not afraid to admit she would make an unfit warrior in her present state. The King had ordered forty soldiers to take part in the campaign. If he had needed more he might have been tempted to appeal to the other Elfhames, but twenty Unseleighe opponents seemed a small lot. He voiced his doubts to the troops, as they assembled quickly on the castle grounds, that this scruffy band of Unseleighe would be any sort of a threat.
King Aedham also announced to the troops that a mage was among the Unseleighe, and in the same breath reminded them that their King was a mage as well, as was Odras.
"Our magic has beaten theirs before, and it will do so today. The nodes are better protected than they ever have been, and energy from one of them would be sufficient to counter any magical attack," Aedham announced. Fion, Captain of the Guard, stood at the head of his mounted ranks. His second in command and younger cousin, Liadin, was busy in the castle armory collecting weapons. A dozen new crossbows had yet to cure completely, and Fion had made a last minute decision to replace the new crossbows with older weapons.
The troops were divided into cavalry and foot soldiers. The latter would ride to the Black Forest on two long wagons. Each mounted warrior bore a sword, shield, helmet and lance; each wore a long coat of chain mail. Bronze was the elven metal of choice, strong enough for armor and weapons, without the lethal side effects of iron.
Petrus, eager for battle, had donned his mail. A surge of adrenaline revived him somewhat, but he still had to feign energy when movement was required. Hatred for the Unseleighe joined the different groups from the other Seleighe courts, and despite their slight differences in speech they had formed a formidable, cohesive fighting unit.
During his brief stay in the humans' world, Petrus had seen weapons that could do far more damage than their swords and lances. Images of Rambo, toting the enormous M50 and Schwarzenegger in Predator flashed through his head.
If we had one of those Gatling machine guns, he thought, remembering how it cut down a jungle in the time it took to draw a sword, there would be no contest.
The Seleighe adhered to the traditional weapons, as the Unseleighe would never use anything but the sword, arrow and spear. To defeat the Unseleighe by using modern human weapons would be a hollow victory indeed.
With a nod from the King the forces set forth across the drawbridge, and began the journey to the Black Forest.
Petrus led them to the campsite on the moor. The black banner lay where they had left it. After one glance King Aedham said, "It is indeed. The same as Zeldan. You were right, this must be his son." He led his horse over the banner, trampling it with disdain.
From the moor's crest they saw the edge of the Black Forest, a dense area of oak and ash that stretched over several hills; to the north was a bare hill which would make an excellent staging area for any direct attack on the forest.
But where did they enter? he thought, gazing across the homogeneous line of trees. It all looks the same.
"There," Aedham said, pointing to a thin spiral of smoke drifting from the forest interior. "A campfire."
"Would they be so stupid?" Odras asked, riding up alongside the King. "What better way to give away their position?"
"They're not stupid," the King said warily. "The
y simply don't care. Or it is a false fire, burning far away from where they actually are. That would make the most sense."
A rumble of surprise rippled through Aedham's forces. Petrus looked toward the bare hill. To his horror a vast army had appeared, filling the horizon with black silk ribbon banners and the eagle crest flag. The opposing forces must have numbered in the hundreds. They all seemed to be cavalry; horses as black as the uniforms, elvensteeds that seemed to be as well trained as their own. Fatigue forgotten now, a new surge of energy swept through Petrus, accompanied by a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Aedham turned, slowly, to Petrus, and said with the utmost calm, "I thought you said there were only twenty."
Petrus shrugged. "Give or take."
Odras leaned over and whispered to the King. Petrus overheard him say, "Sire, as I am only half the mage that you are, surely you must see this spectacle for what it is."
The King looked at Odras, at Petrus, then the enemy. His eyes seemed to unfocus a little, and glaze fell over them. Mage sight, Petrus thought, and turned his sight to the foe. But after a long moment Petrus still couldn't quite see what Odras saw.
"It's a projection," King Aedham said. "A good one, too." He regarded his forces anxiously. "We must tell them…"
"It would be more efficient," Odras interrupted most diplomatically, "to simply rid our landscape of this abominable sight." Odras bowed, most humbly. "With your assistance of course, Sire."
The King frowned. "In many ways your mage powers are superior to mine, dear Odras. Now is not the time for humility. What do you need from me?"
The old mage's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the army. "Power, Sire. Node power."
"Consider it done," the King said, and closed his eyes. Petrus felt a familiar buzzing that vibrated up from the ground to his inner ear. It was, he knew, only an echo of what was happening between the King and Odras.
"Aye," Odras said, breathlessly. "That is… more than sufficient."
"Sire, look," the captain said. "They are sending someone to parley."
Four horses advanced from a brief opening in the army's line. The fourth rider seemed to be the leader, and from the finery that adorned uniform and tack, Petrus guessed this to be Japhet Dhu.
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