The Firehills (15 page)

Suddenly, a figure burst from the heart of the fire,
appearing out of the heat shimmer with a gasp. Sprawling onto the floor, Sam
rolled, one hand still clutching the package Wayland had thrown to him, and
came up hard against a table leg. He lay still for a few moments, colored
lights wheeling behind his eyes and smoke rising from the soles of his shoes.
Scrambling to his feet, he surveyed the long table, which was littered with the
remains of the faery banquet. His stomach wrenched with hunger, and he grabbed
a handful of fruit from a bowl, stuffing sweet berries into his mouth. Next, he
ripped off a hunk of white bread and chewed greedily on it as he poured a
gobletful of golden liquid from a silver pitcher. Perhaps it was the intense
hunger, but the food was the best he had ever tasted. He gulped at the golden
drink and then surveyed the table. Making his way along its length, he picked
and nibbled at the leftovers, a piece of creamy white cheese here, a slice of
meat there. Finally, his hunger satisfied, he slumped into a chair and swung
his feet up onto the table. Then he remembered the package. Opening the
wrappings, he saw the knife. Wayland had polished the blade of the athame to a
soft sheen, bringing out a delicate spiraling pattern, like repeated
snowflakes, deep within the metal. A black wooden handle was bound in place by
bands of bronze and topped off with a disk of iron. Looking more closely, Sam
could make out something engraved on the circle of metal. He smiled. It was a
human face surrounded by leaves, tendrils of foliage emerging from its mouth
and nose. Standing up, Sam flipped the knife into the air and caught it,
unfortunately by the blade rather than the handle. With a yelp, he dropped it and looked at
his hand, but it was unmarked. From a silver salver he chose an apple, huge and
artificially red, and tested the athame against its skin. The knife slid
through as if through water. Sam peered at the blade, tested it with his thumb:
blunt. He glanced back at the two halves of the apple, lying on the table. They
seemed to have shrunk and to have aged dramatically. Brown spots marked the
wrinkled skin.
That’s odd,
he thought. It was as
if the apple had been enchanted, and the magic had vanished at the touch of
iron. Sam felt queasy as he wondered exactly what he had just been eating. He
tucked the athame into his belt. Looking around the room, he spotted a door off
in the shadows and made his way toward it.

Amergin sat with his head bowed, staring into a darkness
that was as much in his mind as in the room around him. He had been foolish. He
had thought, when Sam defeated the Malifex, that his long quest was over, his
task completed, and he had relaxed. With his head full of television and flying
machines, he had turned his back on the old ways—on his heritage—and fallen
into folly. And this was the result, trapped like a fly by the webs of his
ancient enemy. What would his old mentor, Merlin, say if he could see him now?

Actually,
came a voice in his
mind,
not a lot, under the
circumstances.

Amergin spun around and caught a faint glimpse of
movement, but when he looked more closely, there was nothing there. He sighed, fearing that, at the bitter end,
his mind was failing him.

What with all the business about that
witch Nimue,
continued the voice,
you know,
imprisoning me all these years,
I’m not really in
a position to comment about folly.

“Merlin?” Amergin called into the dead air. He thought
he heard a chuckle.

I suppose what I’m saying,
said the voice,
is that we all
make mistakes, let our guard down. With me, it was the
ladies.
With you it was—What is Buffy? Never
mind.
Amergin was on his feet now, eyes darting around the room. In the
faint light from the webwork of energy across the doorway, he thought he could
see movement, as if someone was constantly stepping out of the edge of his
field of vision. But whenever he turned to look, there was nobody there.

The important thing is to get over
it. Move on.
The voice seemed to draw closer.
My
friend, you once called yourself
Wisdom. Use your
head, wise man. The story
—the voice was so close now—
never ends. The circle, remember?

Always turning. Down through all the
years, evil will rise and
fall, and always the wise
and the brave will stand forth to
oppose it. Your
task is not over, no more than mine. The power
that
was in the Malifex cannot be destroyed, merely weakened
for a time. And you and I, old friend, we will fight it
whatever
form it takes.

The voice seemed to recede. “Merlin!” cried Amergin.

“I . . .”

Go, Bard of the Milesians. Your young
Arthur needs you.
And the voice was gone.

Amergin sat for a moment, lost in thought, then scrambled
painfully to his feet. Merlin was right. His labors were not yet over. He took
a deep breath, shaking off the despair that had sapped his will. Reaching
inside, he found a hidden core of strength that the Sidhe had not broken. With
a glint of anger in his eye, he turned and hurled a bolt of energy at the
doorway. It shattered the web of the Sidhe into a million fragments. Writhing
worms of purple energy glowed and sparked on the ground for a moment and then
were gone.

Charly moved quickly along a dark passageway that angled
down into the earth. She had left behind the storerooms and kitchens, the
barracks and armories, and entered an area that seemed almost abandoned. She
had seen no one since leaving the banqueting hall, but here the dust and the
infrequent torches suggested that the Sidhe seldom ventured this way.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her and spun around.
“You!” she exclaimed. It was Sam. She took a few steps toward him, grinning
with relief, before she remembered herself. Planting her hands on her hips, she
snapped,

“You left me. You absolute, steaming, twenty-four carat
boy!
” She spat the last word as if it was the
worse insult she could find.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and gave her an embarrassed
grin. “Sorry?” he tried.

“Sorry? Is that the best you can do?” she exploded.
“You go tearing off into the hills, without so much as—”

“Well, I’m here now,” interrupted Sam. “Let’s go
and find Amergin, shall we?”

With that he pushed past her and headed off down the
passage. Charly stood with her mouth working for a moment, then set off after
him. “Don’t you even want to know if I’m OK?” she demanded as she
caught up.

“You look fine to me,” replied Sam, not looking round.

“Come on—this way.”

Just then, Charly heard footsteps once more, running this
time. “Watch out,” she hissed to Sam, “someone’s coming.”

They hurried around a corner and found themselves in a
chamber where four passageways converged. Sam stepped into the darkness of one
of the side passages and dragged Charly after him, motioning for her to be
quiet. From the shadows, they saw a figure stumble to a halt in the torchlight,
looking around in confusion. As he turned toward them, Charly saw it was Sam.
With a cry, she stepped out into the chamber.

“Charly!” said the second Sam. “Look, about leaving
you . . . ”

“Don’t listen to him,” said the first Sam, stepping
out of the shadows. “It’s some trick of the Sidhe. Look, he’s got some
sort of knife.”

And Charly saw that indeed the newly arrived Sam was
holding a long dagger limply by his side. “Charly?” he said.
“What’s—”

“Now hang on a minute,” demanded Charly, “you
can’t both be the real Sam. So we need to sort you out. Any suggestions? You
. . . ” She pointed to the second Sam.

“Um, I dunno . . . how about—”

“A test,” butted in the first Sam. “Ask us some
questions, something that only I would know, something that the Sidhe could
never have found out.”

Charly was edging toward the first Sam as he spoke,
casting worried glances from face to familiar face.

“How about, instead—” and with surprising speed she
pivoted on one foot and kicked the first Sam firmly in the stomach. “Kill
it!” she screamed.

The newly arrived Sam stood blankly for a moment, looking
from Charly to his double to the knife in his hand. Then he grunted, “Oh,
right!” and took a couple of steps forward.

The Lady Una straightened up, rubbing her stomach, eyes
fixed on Sam’s athame. Edging toward the mouth of the nearest tunnel, she
hissed to Charly, “You will pay for this, mortal. You and all your kind.”
And then, as Sam lunged toward her with his blade, she cast a fold of her black
lace skirt before his face and vanished in a vortex of air.

“Oh, well done, Zorro,” said Charly as the dust
settled.

“That showed her.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, then paused.

“How did I know which one was you?” asked Charly.

“Er, yeah.”

She smiled, shaking her head, “Sam, you stood there with
your mouth open, grunting ‘dunno,’ holding that knife as if somebody had
handed you a wet fish, and you ask me how I knew?” She chuckled. “Come on,
let’s find Amergin.”

Sam closed his mouth, then ran to catch up with Charly as
she strode off along the tunnel.

“Hey,” he shouted, “that’s not fair! I came to
rescue you! I didn’t have to, you know!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” breathed Charly, still smiling.

Jack-in-the-Green bobbed and twirled through the streets
of the town, accompanied by his bogeys and followers and by a growing crowd of
tourists. The sound of the accordion and a jingle of bells, the stamp and
clatter of the dancers’ clogs followed him.

High above, in the shell of the old castle, the Wiccans of
Hastings were gathering, their faces grim. The craft stalls were set up now:
books and pottery, T-shirts and cards laid out on trestle tables, striped
awnings flapping in the breeze off the sea. The followers of the Craft moved
among the tourists, nodding to each other, touching an arm here, exchanging a
word of encouragement there. The sloping banks of grass around the amphitheater
were dotted with spectators now, and a growing crowd surrounded the stage in
the center. Morris dancers rubbed shoulders with bikers, New Age pagans with
tourists pointing camcorders at the strange sights. A girl dressed as a fairy,
shocking pink hair to match her tutu and fishnets, chatted with a man dressed
entirely in silver, his skin painted to match. A man in medieval costume and a
cloak of green cloth leaves wore the head and pelt of a stag as a headdress,
skin and antlers intact, glassy eyes staring. The atmosphere was festive, as
befitted a holiday, tinged with the anticipation of the coming of the May King.
Over by Megan’s stall, Mrs. P. looked around at the happy, harmless, eccentric brew of humanity swirling in
the cauldron of the castle and smiled.

“Are you OK?” asked Megan.

“Sorry? Oh, yes, dear,” replied Mrs. P. dabbing at her
eyes. “Just nerves. I’ll be fine.”

Megan flashed her an uncertain smile and returned to her
own worries. On the far side of the castle grounds, Mr. Macmillan watched them
with dark intensity.

Charly and Sam stayed close together, fearing that at any
moment the Lady Una would return. The flickering light of the sparse torches
made shadows leap and dance in every corner, sending their hearts racing as
they moved deeper into the earth.

Suddenly, Sam stopped dead and held a hand out behind him,
motioning for Charly to do the same. Then she heard it—footsteps, a single
set as far as she could tell. Sam raised the athame before him, trying to hold
it with authority. The steps grew nearer, fast and purposeful. An elongated
shadow played on the wall in front of them. Then, around the corner, a figure
came into view, silhouetted against the light of a torch.

“Ah, there you are,” said a familiar voice.
“You’re going the wrong way. Come along!”

“Amergin!” shouted Sam and Charly simultaneously.
Charly ran forward and hugged the bard, almost lifting him off his feet.

Disentangling himself with difficulty, Amergin said,

“There’s no time for all that. We must return to
Hastings.

I have been very, very foolish.”

“Did you hear that?” asked Charly. “Foolish. He said
so himself. Make a note.”

“Yup,” replied Sam, “heard it with my own ears.
It’s official.”

“Oh, come along, you two,” said Amergin, smiling
despite himself. “The Sidhe are heading for the castle to sabotage the
festival. We have wasted too much time already.”

As the wizard led them through the labyrinth of tunnels,
they chattered excitedly, recounting their adventures. Amergin muttered with
concern as they described the opening of the Gate of Air.

“This crop circle you describe,” he mused, “this
phenomenon concerns me. Finnvarr said that the Old Ways—the ley lines, you would call them—are full to
overflowing with energy since the power of the Malifex was dispersed. I fear
these crop circles are a manifestation of that. The land is saturated with
power. Any attempt to use the Craft may attract that surplus power like a
lightning strike. You had a fortunate escape, my friend.”

Charly drew gasps and a “Wow!” from Sam as she
described her initiation and her encounter with the Goddess Epona. She secretly
hoped that he was slightly jealous, but to her disappointment, he just seemed
impressed. When Sam described his escape from the Sidhe into the ancient forest
of the Weald, Charly asked, “If you can make a door anywhere you want, to any
place or time, just by thinking about it, why can’t you make a door to
Hastings, just here for instance?” She gestured at a nearby wall.