Fireshaper's Doom (29 page)

His hand ached where the dagger joined it to throne and map and land. No one would ever know the agony it cost him. And another thing that no one would ever know: the dagger talked to him, told him about the borders of his kingdom, and who went there. And told him other things as well, which a certain matching sword relayed to it: what that sword saw, the dagger saw; what its master knew, he knew. That Ailill’s trail had been found, for instance; that Fionna was all but captured, which was certainly a relief.

David Sullivan was missing, too—another problem there, to which the resolution might be interesting, if it led in the direction Lugh was beginning to suspect.
Someone
had interfered with Fionna’s plan, after all, for she would never have set Ailill to run the Tracks in beast shape. So there was at least one more person involved: someone with no love for Fionna or Ailill. And there was something else of note going on at the well that had recently appeared by the ford: something had awakened there which had long been sleeping. Perhaps he should investigate that, maybe exert a little divine intervention. It might prove very useful if certain things went as he more and more expected.

No sound disturbed his ensuing reverie except his breathing and the dry rustle of the enfields’ talons as they paced on the marble floor beyond the dais. Their padded hind paws made no noise at all.

The larger of the two, Ceilleigh, broke formation and came forward to have his fox ears scratched. Angharad, his mate, followed more tentatively. Lugh smiled and stretched his free hand toward her, grimacing as the movement caused the bones of his other hand
to
grate against the blade. A thin line of new blood trickled between his second and third fingers.

With a faint creak the great doors at the far end of the hall cracked open. A fluttering of wings disturbed the fog; a swirling of red-black mist occluded the spears of sunlight—and the Morrigu stood before him, her face cold and pale against the red and black of her elaborately dagged gown. A formation of crows swooped in behind her to array themselves in fan-shaped patterns at her feet.

“So, Lady, it is early you are about,” Lugh said pleasantly. “Are you preparing to renew your search? Or are you only now returning?”

The Morrigu’s face clouded. “The latter, Lord Ard Rhi. I have searched, and all the men and women of your kingdom search even now. They search on foot, who may, and on beast back; and they search with Power, who are well versed in its use. Some comb the past or the future; some the seas or the air. One inspects the tiny Worlds that lie inside our own. Had you not sealed the borders, we might search outside as well.”

“And what of the Tracks?” Lugh demanded. “Are
they
being watched?”

“Most certainly they are, Lord,” the Morrigu replied, indignantly. “Many have I set on lookout there, though I think it an effort in vain. One could not pass from them into Tir-Nan-Og—or from Tir-Nan-Og to them.”

“Only a flame could pass that barrier,” Lugh noted cryptically. “A flame hotter than my wrath.”

The Morrigu eyed him narrowly. “Aye, Lord,” she whispered, “but no such flames exist.”

“It is to be hoped,” Lugh replied with a smile. “But what have you learned from this watching, Lady? Is there any sign of those we seek?”

The Morrigu shook her head. “No, Lord. Neither Ailill nor Fionna are like to be found in Tir-Nan-Og. Other Powers we have felt probing about your borders, yet we have not been able to find the source of those Powers, for, as I have said, your binding likewise binds us.”

She took a breath and stared hard at the High King, who returned that stare mildly. “And I must say it now, Lord, that surely another way might have been found to achieve your ends. For this waiting game you are playing is dangerous in the extreme. Surely, at least, you could have sent a force seeking Ailill and Fionna upon the Tracks., for that is certainly where they have gone. It would have been better than putting every one of your subjects on watch!”

“No,” Lugh replied. “That would have been folly. First of all, there was a dire need for haste, for I did not dare give Ailill a chance to flee my realm entirely. Had I waited it is possible he could have returned to Erenn and thus have escaped my justice. With the borders sealed, he cannot now reach that land, for the few Tracks that lead there from Outside will not support him in this season.

“And second, Morrigu, there is an excellent chance that Ailill may have fled into the Lands of Men, since that realm lies closest to our own. A large force of our folk suddenly appearing there would truly have upset the balance between the Worlds. Almost certainly it would have provoked too much curiosity on the part of humankind—and we have already seen the trouble one human’s knowledge has cost us. To send more could quite possibly prompt the very war Ailill has long desired: between Faerie and the Lands of Men. That, I dare not risk.”

“That choice may be taken from you,” the Morrigu observed. Lugh nodded grimly. “Aye, but I do not think that time is come, though I am not so optimistic as once I was. Yet that is another debate for another time.”

“Have you other commands for me, then?”

“Call off the search—and trust me.”

The Morrigu stared at him. “That is becoming a hard thing to do, Lord, unless you trust me in turn. You know more than you tell; this much is clear to me.”

Lugh smiled cryptically. “I am not called Samildinach without reason. Besides,” he added, “a king should test his Warlord now and then, it seems to me. And his Mistress of Battles as well.”
And,
he continued to himself,
I suspect I may soon get to test David Sullivan. I will know, as soon as I have checked on the well.

Chapter XXVII: Boogers in the Woods

(The Straight Tracks)

“Fools,” the deer repeated, staring at the company that encircled her. “Poor fools!”

Somehow, as Liz looked on aghast, the creature’s body quadrupled in size.

And then the change began in earnest: The gray-red hair changed to stiff scarlet fur that massed upon its shoulders in a heavy mane; the dainty hooves became wicked black claws. Its legs thickened, chest expanded, shoulders became more massive as the body assumed the muscular, low-slung contours of a vast feline. Even its short tail altered, grew long and naked and hard-jointed as a scorpion’s, with that creature’s dreadful barbed stinger at its tip.

And the head that now looked out from a thick ruff of mane had become a horrible, fanged travesty of a woman’s.

“A manticore!” Regan gasped, as the monster crouched.

Fionna growled, black lips curling away from teeth like ivory daggers. No trace of the deer remained except the eyes: the same red, hate-filled orbs that scant seconds before had glared at them from above a narrow muzzle. Now they cast their baleful stare from a snarling woman’s face eight feet above the ground.

Liz felt her nerve desert her, saw her spear point waver in hands that were suddenly clammy. She found herself drawing back in horror. Beside her, Alec did the same.

“Shit!” Gary gasped.

“You said it, man,” Alec muttered. “I think I’m gonna!”

A horse screamed, and Liz saw Snowwhisper running wild and panicked around the farther side of the clearing. Cormac’s horse was there too: poor Cormac. Regan whistled a single pure note, and the horses calmed, though they continued to pace nervously.

“Surrender, Fionna,” Nuada thundered for the second time in as many minutes. He leveled his sword at the sorceress, his eyes blazing like small suns.

“To what?” she sneered. “A handful of children, old men, and crippled Sidhe?”

“Maybe not so crippled,” Nuada cried. He set his mouth, focused his gaze straight at his adversary. His body shifted, expanded, strained against clothing that was suddenly too tight. His skin darkened, became hard and slick. An extravagance of scaly horns bristled around his face.

Beneath him Blackwind snorted, shook his mane, but held his ground.

The manticore took a clumsy step toward him.

Nuada swept his arm out and up, the sword a glitter of fire; and his arm stretched impossibly far beyond his sleeve in a quick snap that sent the blade slashing close to Fionna’s face.

But the blow did not connect. At the limit of extension, the Faery lord’s grip seemed to lose its strength. He managed a pair of wobbly thrusts, and then his arm was drawing back, regaining its proper proportions. His face returned to normal, pale with disappointment. He shook his head, wiped his arm across his face and cast an apologetic glance at Regan. “I cannot; this body will not let me, not even with the Track.”

“Oh, so the mighty Airgetlam wears the stuff of the Lands of Men, does he?” came the manticore’s sarcastic growl. “Well, it seems you do not find that substance of much service, when you ask it to change shape for you and it refuses. You are—”

“Froech, now!” Regan shouted, lunging with her spear at the monster’s unprotected side—once, twice—and drew back as its jointed tail lashed at her.

She flung herself flat on the ground. “Knives! Throw the knives!”

Faery daggers flew then, and human kitchen knives—and two more broom-handle spears: a sparkling, hissing rain of steel and Faery alloys thumping into leonine flesh. Froech threw, and Alec; Uncle Dale, then Liz; Froech again, and then Gary.

Fionna bowed her head, presenting only her mat of mane to their attack, shrugging the weapons aside though her flesh and hair smoked at the touch of iron. Regan cast her last weapon at the creature’s eye, but Fionna batted the stiletto casually away. And Froech’s lone remaining dagger was a mere trinket meant for show and flimsily made, useless against so vast an adversary.

“Pick away,” Fionna roared. “These iron toys are like bees to me, for my fur is thick. No weapon I have seen so far could kill me before I ripped its master asunder. And I
feel
like killing just now—”

The manticore whipped around to face the terrified group of humans at its left, took a heavy step forward. “Perhaps one of the mortals first?”

“No, Fionna! In the name of Lugh I command you!”

“Enough, Silverhand,” Fionna snarled, twisting around again. Her right arm whipped up and over in a horribly casual slash of claws.

Nuada paled and tried to move Blackwind back with knee pressure alone.

He was too late. One claw, one single black claw ripped across the stallion’s side, bare inches behind his thigh. It continued across Blackwind’s rump in a terrible wound that deepened as it went, flaying muscle and nerve amid a dark gush of blood.

The horse screamed horribly, even as Nuada threw himself forward across its neck.

Another flash of claws, and the stallion crashed to the ground.

Nuada too hit the earth, rolled, then rose in a bent-knee crouch.

Paws tore the air before him. He leapt backward, and the deadly claws swung by his head, missing by mere inches. His sword ripped through fur but missed flesh.

And then he was on his feet, lunging forward, the sword raised high before him as he entered the monster’s shadow. His blade cut: an upper front leg; whipped across the chest. Snicked out at the throat, even as the beast drew back.

“Froech, Regan—do something!” Liz screamed, glancing aside to see Regan’s face straining as she too attempted a shape-shifting without apparent success. Beyond the manticore, Froech was fully involved with a panicking Firearrow.

Nuada pressed the attack, stabbing, feinting, drawing lines of blood from paws and forelegs, but never able to get close enough to finish her.

Fionna responded savagely with raking paws and occasional stabs of tail; but kept her face and chest well away from that sliver of metal. And then—

A quick left-right, too fast for him to parry, sent claws scraping across his single arm and into his hand.

“No!”
Liz screamed, as she saw the Sword of Lugh fly from Nuada’s nerveless grasp.

Froech stretched desperate fingers toward the blade as it whirled past—missed—leapt off his horse and after it. But there was another body in his way of a sudden, knocking him sideways as the manticore hurled itself forward to imprison Nuada’s chest and shoulders beneath its vast forepaws. Its scorpion tail swung around, arched above his stomach, and with savage delicacy stabbed home right beneath the ribs. Nuada’s scream was muffled by the mass of scarlet fur. He shuddered, then lay still.

The manticore raised its head, roared triumphantly.

“Quick—Alec, Liz,” Gary muttered, nodding to his right. “The Track. It’s too low for that thing, I think. Maybe our only choice. I’ll run up there and grab one of those spears, poke ole Fionna real good while you guys run for cover.”

“Gary, no!” Alec shouted.

“Go!
Dammit!”

Gary gave him a shove in the direction he had indicated, ran forward and recovered his spear, then drew back and stabbed at the creature’s side. The spear struck home, hanging for a moment amid a smoking mass of fur until Gary jerked it out and prepared to stab again.

The tail snapped toward him.

Gary ran.

*

“Here, Fionna! Look here!” Froech yelled. He took a deep breath and paused, tense and motionless as his shape too began to shimmer. Seams ripped in his tunic, in the shirt and hose beneath, fell away in tatters to reveal a mat of thick black hair on arms and legs and torso. His pointed shoes frayed from feet that had sprouted claws. The link-belt strained across a thickening middle, then snapped, to pin-wheel crazily into the grass behind him.