Fireshaper's Doom (27 page)

Alec glanced down at her finger, saw David’s ring suddenly pulse with a blue-white light that hurt his eyes.

He glanced around fearfully, a sick feeling in his stomach; started to say something, but Liz’s voice rang out ahead of him.

“Cormac!” she yelled. “Come quick, it’s the ring. It’s—”

The dark-haired Faery sprang to his feet, ran toward them. “What?” he demanded. “Where…?”

“There, I think!” Liz cried, pointing to the Track by which they had entered the clearing. The rough hiss of labored breathing and the clatter of running hooves assaulted the air.

“Cormac—behind you!” Regan shouted from across the glade.

Abruptly an enormous reddish gray deer bounded into the open almost at Cormac’s back. He leapt aside barely in time, as the deer whirled around, lowered its antlers, and prepared to charge.

Cormac crouched warily, hand flashing to his side to draw the bronze-bladed dagger that was his closest weapon. He angled his body, the blade carving careful circles in the air before him.

The deer checked itself, its eyes red flame.

“That’s not Ailill!” Alec shouted, leaping to his feet. “The Crazy Deer was bigger.”

“Fuckin’ big enough!”

Alec reached for the knife at his belt, his other hand grabbing behind him for his spear. Liz and Gary did the same. Regan had hers too, and was running toward them from the other side, screaming like a banshee.

The deer’s ears flicked that way; it paused in midstep.

Cormac flung his dagger with unbelievable speed and force straight at the deer’s exposed chest.

But fast as Cormac’s cast was, the deer’s reaction was faster yet as it flicked its head sideways and down, caught the dagger on a point of antler and flipped it casually away, sending it pinwheeling into the pulpy mass of thorns yards beyond the creature’s shoulder.

The beast spun around again, to face Cormac head-on. Fire burned brighter in its eyes, an evil fire fueled by fear and hate and anger. Cormac drew back, fumbling for his other knife.

And the deer charged.

Cormac had no time to turn, no time to flee, for he stood midway between the entrances to two Tracks. Behind him were only briars, and beyond
them
only chaos.

He dodged left, away from the humans—too late.

The deer’s antlers struck him full in the belly, lifted him, shook him, flung him free to sprawl motionless and bloody against the barrier of thorns which impaled him and held him fast. His mouth fell open, but only a trickle of blood oozed forth. His eyes rolled backward, then closed as his head lolled sideways across his shoulder.

“Dead,” Regan cried bitterly. “Dead, for this time and place.”

The deer whirled again, then commenced leaping here and then in a frenzied half-dance that was almost more rapid than eye could follow. But always it kept its antlers lowered, and always there was fire burning in its eyes.

“Yiiii!” Gary screeched, as he ran forward and cast his homemade spear. The throw was awkward, though, the weapon poorly balanced, and the deer dodged it with appalling ease.

He stared at his empty hands, then looked up—and screamed.

He was alone in the middle of the clearing. And the deer was facing him.

Its head swung down.

The boy’s eyes widened.

“Quick, Liz,” Alec shrieked, as he raced forward to impose himself between his friend and the deer, his spear lowered purposefully at the tangle of antlers. Liz joined him. A bare instant later Regan too was there, her face grim. Together they wove a pitifully inadequate web of steel-tipped wood before them.

“How ’bout it?” Alec sneered, feeling a sudden anger burn into us heart.
“
Iron,
deer. We all have iron!”

The deer paused, though volcanic fire still glowed within its eyes.

Hooves sounded again, from behind them: horses at a gallop. Blackwind flung himself out of the center tunnel, skidded to a halt.

The deer jumped back.

Nuada’s eyes flashed fire, widening when they glimpsed Cormac’s lifeless body. He drew his sword.

And then Froech was there, barreling out of the far tunnel, and Uncle Dale to their left.

Regan raised her spear, took a step forward.

Alec and Liz did the same.

Nuada paced his horse in, then Froech and Uncle Dale.

Another pace, and the circle of deadly iron closed a notch.

The deer backed up another step, but Froech slid into place there, cutting off retreat, a dagger in each hand.

“You can surrender now, Fionna,” Nuada said.

Slowly, deliberately, the deer turned to stare at him. Its mouth jerked open in a horribly distorted articulation, and one word cracked forth.

“Fools,” the deer said.

And its shape began to shimmer.

Chapter XXIV: On the Porch

(Sullivan Cove, Georgia)

“I hope to God they find somethin’,” JoAnne Sullivan muttered into the cool, still darkness of the front porch as the last set of taillights flashed out of sight up the Sullivan Cove road to the left. Moonlight regained the night, casting a pale, sparkling veil across the short grass of the lawn. She took a sip of bitter hot coffee and stood up, pausing one last time to look westward toward the lake.

They had found David’s clothes in Liz’s car, the sheriff had told her during the time he and his deputy had spent asking her and Big Billy questions. His jersey had been wet and smelling of lake water. And they’d found Dale’s .22 in the car as well, and the old man hadn’t answered his phone when they’d tried to call over there, which was very strange indeed. So they had gone to his farm to investigate further, and Big Billy had gone with them.

The screen door squeaked open behind her. A head of bed-rumpled blond hair insinuated itself through the crack; a small hand rubbed sleepy blue eyes as Little Billy paused half inside and half out. The sound of tentative breathing whispered into the night. “What time is it?” the little boy yawned, his forehead contorted in a frown. “When’s Davy comin’ home?”

“Oh, Billy, you’re s’posed to be in bed, baby.” His mother sighed her distressed surprise as she squatted down beside him.

“Yeah, but when’s Davy comin’ home?”

“I don’t know, honey,” his mother said softly, as her younger son trotted over to stand beside her. She ruffled his hair absently and took another sip of coffee. “Truly I don’t know.”

“He’s in some kinda trouble, ain’t he?” Little Billy insisted, his eyes searching hers trustingly, but a little fearful as well. “I know he is, ’cause I sneaked out an’ peeked while the sheriff was talkin’ to you an’ Pa. They think him an’ Liz has run off with the gippies, an’ maybe Uncle Dale’s helpin’ ’em or somethin’, don’t they?” He paused thoughtfully, but then his face brightened again. “Reckon maybe they’re gonna get
married,
or somethin’?”

JoAnne frowned. “I wish it was somethin’ that simple, baby. Right now I wish they
was
gettin’ married. That I could understand.”

The momentary joy faded from Little Billy’s face. “But they wouldn’t be doin’ that at night, would they? And they’d have told us an’ all and the sheriff wouldn’t of been askin’ questions about that fight Pa and Davy had, would they?”

“Smart, ain’t you, to figger all that out?” His mother smiled.

“Davy says I am,” Little Billy replied proudly.

“Well, your brother’s right there, I guess. I just wish he was as smart sometimes—leastwise, smart enough to hold his tongue once in a while.” She drained the last grainy contents of her coffee cup and set it down on the rough gray boards beside her.

“Yeah…but if they was gonna git married, Liz wouldn’t’ve left her car, would she?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” JoAnne cried, tears starting involuntarily into her eyes for the fourth time that evening.

“Yeah, but you don’t believe it, do you?”

His mother shook her head sadly, and slipped an arm around him, drawing him close. “No, honey, I don’t.”

”Sheriff’ll find ’em. Sheriffs always find ’em.”

“This ain’t TV, baby.”

“Know what I think?” Little Billy said, as he pulled away and started back inside.

His mother turned around and watched him go, feeling the solitude already closing in on her again. “No, what?”

“I think the boogers got ’em.”

Chapter XXV: The Ship of Flames

(The Lands of Fire)

David stepped out from behind the enameled copper screen he had commandeered for privacy and aimed a soulful glare at Morwyn before turning his full attention to the image he saw reflected in the sheet of mirror-polished silver set in the flickering wall beside her.

Not bad, actually,
he told himself, upon closer inspection. At least
this
outfit wasn’t that absurd red. There were still hose, unfortunately; but these were a subtle grayish green, the more embarrassing parts mostly covered by the lower flaps of a padded gambeson that fit snug about his torso. There were thigh-high boots of silvery leather, too—wyvem skin, Morwyn had said, the single substance in Faerie to which iron was not inimical. Any other material would have been consumed by the Iron Road.

And then the good part: the suit of fine mail that rested close across his shoulders and hung shimmering to elbow and knee. The stuff had looked heavy, but had in fact been as surprisingly light as it was proving comfortable to wear—once he got it on right. It had looked easy: you simply raised the whole thing over your head and let it slither down your arms and over your body like a flood of silver water.

But then he had discovered that he’d put it on backward, and getting it off again had proved both more complicated and far less dignified than putting it on had been. You had to pull up the bottom, then bend over and sort of half thrash, half wiggle from side to side until gravity got into the game and gave the stuff enough momentum to carry it the rest of the way off. And the tiny links had gotten tangled in his hair on the way, which hadn’t made things any better.

It’d really been a shame to cover it, he thought, when he finally got it right; but Morwyn apparently considered it necessary, so he’d reluctantly added the sleeveless, calf-length, gray velvet surcoat she’d tossed over the screen to him. A belt of scarlet leather went with it, looping twice around his waist and hanging down in front And finally, there was the best thing: the sword Morwyn had fastened upon him herself when he’d been forced to ask her how. The gray leather scabbard (wyvem skin, too, it looked like) hung low or his left hip. He fingered it experimentally, began to loosen the scarlet peace-ties as he turned once more toward the lady.

Morwyn gripped his wrist with a warning hand before he had scarce begun. “No, do not draw it here. The blade is of iron—iron of a particular sort and origin. To draw it here would not be good for this chamber.”

David stared around in confusion, not at all certain what she had meant. “Lot of good it’d do anyway,” he muttered. “Don’t know how to use it.”

“Perhaps it will find a way to use
you,
then.”

David raised a dubious eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

Morwyn shrugged noncommitally and handed him one final object: a medium-sized pouch embroidered with salamanders and closed by a drawstring at the top. He opened it, reached inside, felt something cool and softly slick, and pulled out a bundle of some light, semitransparent material that looked a little like spun glass. A quick unfolding showed it to be a hooded, ankle-length cloak.

“Wear that as you enter the Iron Road—or beforehand, if you have need,” Morwyn said. “It will make you all but invisible.”

“Invisible?” David’s nose twitched doubtfully.

Morwyn took it from him, refolded it in what looked to him like a very particular manner, and returned it to the pouch.

“The stuff of which it is made is cousin to that which comprises the glass walls of the Iron Road. When warmed by the touch of a living body, it bends the Walls Between the Worlds enough to confound the eye of the unwary. But beware, for it may confuse your own perceptions as well, and if you wear it for very long it will almost certainly make you ill. Human bodies are not meant to walk in two Worlds at once. Finally, do not let it be damaged, for its strength rests in the sum of the parts, which any flaw diminishes.”

David glanced around the room. “No helmet?” he said with a trace of disappointment.

Morwyn shook her head. “I do not have one here to fit you, and were I to provide you one that did not, it would cause you more trouble than good. In any case your role is not that of warrior; what I have given you is to protect your body from—”

“My head
is
part of my body,” David interrupted. “Or it was last time I looked.”

“From such beasts as may attack you unlooked for, I was about to say. Few there are and cowardly, at least in the country you will travel. What you now wear should be enough to make them avoid you.”

“That’s
real
comforting.”

Morwyn ignored his sarcasm. She folded her arms and regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, you are as ready as I can reasonably make you,” she said at last, “and we have no more time to squander.”

Without another word she turned and strode to a section of wall where matching life-sized carvings of mustached warriors in full armor flanked what appeared to be an archway. Each statue held a silver sword upright before it. Morwyn nudged the right-hand blade the barest distance to one side.