Fireshaper's Doom (41 page)

David shrugged and retrieved his sword, the bow, and as many undamaged arrows as he could salvage—not as many as he would have liked. Then he set off at a jog downhill straight toward the dark smudge of forest he could see across the plain below him. A towering golden filament emerged from the lands beyond that line of trees: the tower-Track, he suspected, by which he had entered Tir-Nan-Og.

David let his body carry him into the oak wood, through the gardens, over the walls, down the stairs.

The spider had shown—perhaps.

But the land was still too empty.

And his escape had been too easy.

Chapter XLII:
Impatience

(The Enotah National Forest)

“Slow down, Little Billy!” JoAnne Sullivan called. “Don’t run off and leave us!”

But Little Billy did not slow down. Partly because it was fun to run, even uphill, even on a dirt road, even with his mother panting along behind him.

And partly because if he stopped he might start to look around at the surrounding dark woods, might start to see things hiding there between the trees. The sky was lighter now: almost morning. But there were still things that could catch a little boy during that perilous hour. He knew: the memories had come trickling back one by one over the past year. He’d been caught before. And David had saved him. Now he owed him one.

“Slow down, or I’ll take me a switch to you!”

That did it: a greater fear replaced a lesser one.

The little boy skipped to a standstill, twisted around to see his mother and Katie trudging up the road behind him. Mama could go faster if she didn’t have that old lady with her, Billy knew. But the old lady was too nice to leave behind. And besides, she was a friend of Davy’s.

He hopped from foot to foot until the two women were a little closer, but then he couldn’t stand it any longer, and threat or no threat, fear or no fear, started to run again.

It was nearly dawn. Davy was in trouble. Davy needed him. And his mother was too slow.

“Come back here!” JoAnne Sullivan called.

But this time he chose not to listen.

Chapter XLIII: A Message

(Tir-Nan-Og)

“Speak, Mistress of Battles,” the Ard Rhi said. “Your face betrays some trouble.”

The Morrigu folded her arms and took a deep breath to compose herself. On her right shoulder a crow ruffled its feathers nervously and pecked inquiringly at a pale cheek.

“I bear ill tidings,” the war queen said heavily. “I fear you have no choice but to rise to action.”

A dark brow lifted. “Oh?”

“The Horn of Annwyn has been stolen, Lord,” the Morrigu replied, her voice desolate as the emptiness between the stars.

A ghost of a smile twitched the roots of Lugh’s mustache. “I am very glad to hear that, Mistress of Battles,” he said. “Very glad indeed.”

Chapter XL
IV: The Empty Shore

(Tir-Nan-Og)

Step, breathe, feel the pain; step, breathe, feel the pain.
The pain: a stitch in David’s side like a dagger thrust and twisted, tightening in thighs and calves and ankles, a gall across his shoulder as mail rubbed through along a sword cut. And there were
many
of those cuts, though none so deep as to pose much hazard beyond discomfort. Which was more than enough just then.

David was tired beyond caring; too tired, almost, to think. But he staggered onward, aware only of the constant pounding of his legs, the driving of his blood. Behind him dark shapes cut out above the grass showed the vanguard of Lugh’s foot soldiers pressing forward. A single blast of trumpet split the air, and he risked a glance over his shoulder—and saw mounted figures issuing from the palace gates.

I knew it was too good to last,
he told himself
. Only a matter of time before one or the other of them got word to the king and he called out the heavy artillery.

A quick glance aloft showed the wyvern still pacing him in an easy glide, its dark shadow flickering among the tall grass a little way behind.
Thank God for
him,
anyway; maybe he’ll buy me the time I need.

*

More running, not daring to stop to tend his wounds, not daring to strip himself of the heavy mail and padding that were now more an encumbrance than an asset.

Harsh cries crackled aloft, and immense bird-shapes began winging skyward from field and castle alike. David realized to his horror that many of the Sidhe—perhaps all of them—were shape shifters. And that there was nothing to keep them from adopting forms that could easily outpace him. Indeed, one of his pursuers had already stopped and begun stripping off his clothes. A moment later an eagle rose into the clear, still air above the plain. The wyvem saw it, arrowed down toward it, and, with a casual sideways snap of its whiplike tail, sent the eagle-man spiraling back to earth, his neck at a ghastly angle.

A
whoosh
of wings, a raptor cry harsh in David’s ears, and another eagle deftly eluded the wyvem’s jaws and dove to tangle its talons in the hood of his cloak, setting the lizard to screeching in alarm. Feathers flogged David’s face, and then the eagle was gone again, as reptile jaws snapped closed.

Another brush of wings; a reckless flailing of the iron sword he had almost forgotten; the dry acrid scent of burning feathers. A shriek, another blow; but the forest was ahead now, scarcely a quarter mile away. Beyond it lay the river.

*

Mud squished beneath a silver leather boot. Through a gray-green screen of bracken a liquid glimmer showed. David threw himself down the bank and plunged first his hands, then his face, and finally his entire head into its coolness. He drank mouthful after heaven-sent mouthful, finally abandoning himself to instinct and flinging his whole body briefly into the stream.

Reluctantly he heaved himself up again and set off down the narrow trail that crested the bank, the heavy folds of his sodden velvet surcoat slapping against his calves, his boots squirting water with every step.

*

The forest lay behind him; beside him ran the river.

A quarter mile away was the cleft in the sea cliffs where the ship of flames was hidden.

An eighth of a mile—and David’s feet felt like lead encased in concrete, his thighs like long-rusted iron cables that could snap at any moment, his lungs like bellows that had fanned one too many fires and that for far too long.

A sixteenth…

The riders were closer, though the eagles had drawn away, too many of their number smashed or broken, some even flapping headless and ludicrous across the plain.

But the knights came on, and arrows whispered through the air.

An ear-shattering scream sounded right above him. David whirled around…

The wyvem had been hit. Even as he watched, it crashed to the ground behind him, one pearly wing bristling with no less than three arrows which the beast was trying to worry free one at a time with its horny beak. Images slashed into David’s brain, images, thoughts, shadows words:
Runrunrunrunrun!

And run he did, into the shelter of the cliffs.

*

The boat was not far now: the rock with the zigzag pattern lay just up ahead.

David lurched to a swaying halt, stretched a trembling hand into the crevice to lift the model from its hiding place. Quickly he placed it on the water and began to stroke the golden serpent’s head.

“C’mon, fire,
burn!
Get me outta here!”

—Nothing.

He rubbed the ring again.

Still nothing.

Maybe he was doing something wrong. He stared at the ring. Which head had he scratched? And how many times? It was gold to return, wasn’t it?
No,
dammit, it was
silver!

“Shit!” he groaned.

But now he could hear thrashings in the high bushes along the stream to his right as the pursuit drew nearer.

A mounted knight appeared at the top of the bank and leapt down, grinning. David spitted him on the sword almost without thinking. The Faery began hacking at the wound with his dagger, as his flesh sloughed away in smoking globs of black and red.

Perhaps he could salvage that body.

David wished him luck—

—And then emptied his stomach on the sand, even as he tried the ring again.

“C’mon.”
Faster this time: the silver, no, maybe it was the gold. Both— “Dammit, ring,
c’mon
!”

Suddenly both tiny serpents were awake, their metal sides heaving and pumping. But as fast as a spark emerged from one mouth, a breath of wind from the other blew it out. He was getting nowhere.

Another thrashing, and then a silver-skinned form shoved through those bushes, a filigree of blood lacing the tattered wing it held above itself like a flag.

David’s eyes met the wyvern’s. Thoughts buzzed. And then, to his complete surprise, a spurt of real fire leapt from the creature’s nostrils to wrap a nearby bundle of reeds with flame.

All at once David realized what it was doing. He sheathed the sword and reached into that blazing thicket, snapped a brittle stem, and rushed back down the strip of sand to set the flame against the stern of the toy vessel.

Fire shrouded the ship as the wyvem fought against a second knight who had appeared on the bank. Arrows whizzed through the air. One struck David in the calf, sending him stumbling as he tried not to scream.

Pain washed over him, then heat as well, as the ship drank in the flames that gave it substance.

Abruptly they were gone. The heat fell from the air, and David flung himself across the low bulwark, giving vent to a stifled cry as the arrow impaling his leg caught on one of the ornamental shields. He flipped over onto his back, saw the blue sky beyond the loom of cliff tops, then saw those cliffs begin to move as current and Morwyn’s magic set the ship adrift. A final arrow thumped to the deck at his feet, and David moaned as he dragged himself upright. He reached down, grasped the shaft that protruded from his calf, snapped it, and drew it out, then felt around behind and yanked out the other end. A gush of blood followed, and he jerked off his belt and wrapped it around his leg above the knee. He gave the tourniquet a quick twist and held it there until the flow of blood began to diminish, then slipped his boot off and contrived a makeshift pad and bandage from strips torn from his cloak. That final task completed, he gave himself to sleep, too tired to care any longer whether or not he lived or died, much less whether or not his quest succeeded.

*

David slept, awakened, slept again. His eyes cracked open once to see pink clouds above him, and again somewhat later to a wash of heat upon his face and a glare of harsher light. He levered himself up, saw the pillar of fire before him, and had just strength and sense enough to drag himself into the tiny cabin where unconsciousness again overwhelmed him. He did not see the dragon prow reenter that burning tower-Track; did not feel the appalling giddiness. Time passed in a blur that, had he known it, warped back upon itself. But David was aware of nothing as he slept in the cabin of the dragon ship, his left leg bound with the makeshift bandage, his right hand cradling the curve of a gold-and-ivory horn.

*

Heat aroused him finally, a return of the thick, pulsing air of the Lands of Fire. He rolled over groggily, felt the knobby roughness of the Horn hard against his hand, then fumbled at his hip until he found the water flask. He had drained more than half of it before he realized that perhaps he should ration himself.

He started to stand, then remembered his wounded leg. It didn’t seem to be hurting much, a fact he found both curious and disturbing. Cautiously, he felt along his calf until he found the bandage, then probed beneath it to explore the wound itself: no pain.
Is that good or bad?
he wondered.
Maybe it means infection.

He untied the bandage carefully.
Good, not too much blood.

Finally, he held his breath and removed one of the bloodstained pads—and found a small, neat wound that was already scabbing over.

A soft scratching along his right cheek drew his attention, and he raised a hand in some annoyance before the gentlest of chirps reminded him of the lizard in his hood. Miraculously it had survived his afternoon’s adventures and was still with him. He reached carefully into the mass of sweat-stained fabric until he touched dry scales, then removed the lizard, feeling a slight itch as the tiny claws released their hold on the skin beside his ear.

He brought the creature to eye level and looked at it. Suddenly curious, he squirted a bead of water onto his left forefinger and raised it to the creature’s mouth. A tiny tongue flicked out; once, twice, then the lizard chirped again and wriggled free to skitter to a spot on David’s shoulder.

David ventured a look outside, was not surprised to see dead white plains stretching in all directions. Mercifully, he had survived his second passage through the pillar of fire without noticing it. He wondered idly what time it was—or whether time was even a factor within this complex of Tracks and layered Worlds. Wearily, he hauled himself on deck.

The open air brought no further clues to his location; there was simply the plain and the billowing sail and the line of the Track before him.