Warstalker's Track (41 page)

More replaced him at once; and a bullet zinged close to David’s head. Lightning cracked from the left to smite the falls, and he glimpsed, cut out in stark black-and white, Kirkwood wielding the atasi, apparently from blind reflex. Anything it hit could conjure a bolt if the wielder was angry. And anything that hit it as well, evidently, since the guy was using it to
parry
bullets. The boy liked to live dangerously. Then again, he was kin to Calvin.

“Damn! Fuck! Hell!” Brock groaned beside him, not fighting at all as he clutched a bloody calf, but David dared not check on him when he had Bessie reloaded and hungry for fodder. There was plenty of it, too: warriors—mortal and Faery alike—crowding from behind the waterfall. At least none had Uzis or anything like that, or they’d all have been mincemeat. In fact, many of the humans looked like good-old-boy hunter types; and come to think of it, a number had gone missing the last few years, all through the South.

But where was a target? If only Alec weren’t so close.

Fuck it!
He fired at a pair of wide white eyes that suddenly squinted down a barrel before him. The shotgun roared. The man staggered backward into his fellows. Something ripped along David’s bead between his skull and right ear. Sudden aching warmth.
He’d been blooded!

The world vanished. Returned. Vanished again, then returned to stay, but with a killer headache that hinted of concussion.

He ducked instinctively, peered up again, seeking another target—and caught a faceful of spray as Fionchadd exploded from the pool right in front of him to seize the foremost man by the belt and drag him down to an assignation with the obsidian dagger flashing in his hand.

More lightning, to his right, this time from Calvin, who was jumping up and down and screaming as though every ancestor he possessed had crowded into his head and was cheering him on together. Bullets spat at him, but miraculously none hit.

And then silence, as everyone seemed to mil out of steam at once, giving David time to take stock. The attackers—mortals in the vanguard—had got no farther than the middle of the pool but couldn’t retreat for the pressure of forces behind. At least four were floating facedown, and three were making tracks for the relatively unguarded shore farthest from the overlook: toward Kirkwood by way of Aife, who was simply sitting waist-deep in the water looking shocked—
wounded by iron!—and
bleeding into blood-starved water.

Alec and Liz seemed to be okay. They’d found shelter behind the largest log around, and Piper was lying flat on his face beyond, with his pipes beneath him: probably the smartest thing he could do. Myra, who’d apparently lost the gun she hadn’t wanted to start with, was cursing and throwing rocks at anything that moved.

He couldn’t tell much about the rest without looking too far afield, but Aikin, LaWanda, and Sandy were choosing
their
shots with care and making them count. The atasi crew were holding their own, which left Scott, who’d expected to fight with Elyyoth’s sword but had wound up scrunched behind very sparse cover indeed, fumbling frantically for his shotgun.

And Brock, who lay closest: first of the fallen.

“Hang in there, kid,” David grinned. “Just hurts; you ain’t dyin’.”

“I’m tough,” Brock breathed, feeling with wet red fingers for the atasi which had wound up under him. “Just gimme a minute.”

A
word,
then: Faery Gaelic, shouted at the sky. And more lightning, this time aimed at them.

“Fucker!” LaWanda spat, burying her face in her arms as a shrapnel of rocks rained down, shrapnel that merged with the rain itself, which was getting harder as the Faery boy’s shield wore away. “Fucker!” again, as another bolt struck and turned the World stark white, catching her with eyes open, too late to blink.

Which gave her a chance to see the third bolt actually switch directions and veer toward Calvin’s atasi, where it was reflected back at the serious-looking Faery who’d called those bolts down from the sky.

Wouldn’t call no more, though, ’cause Aik had shot
him.
Shotgun, too, which meant iron pellets, which meant
that
sucker wasn’t risin’.

But which gave her a chance to. She snapped off a pair of rounds at the nearest mortal: a woman of the sensible-shoes, angry-at-men, short-haired type, with a dash of good-old-girl thrown in. Which looked damned funny in Faery livery. Bitch wasn’t laughing now, though, with bullet holes in her too-large titties.

LaWanda saw the woman’s mouth round into an anguished, shocked
O,
and realized with sick fascination that she’d just killed her first, and she prayed only, white woman. Her only mortal, period, she hoped; her other shots had been calculated to wound. And wasn’t it just like men, too; sending the “not-like-mes” in first? Blacks before whites. Aussies before English at Gallipoli. Irish foot before English archers in fourteenth-century Scotland, if you believed
Braveheart.
Mortals before Sidhe.

But they were all enemies, all trying to kill her friends (and remind her to take Myra aside after this was over and teach that gal to
shoot).
And all of a sudden there weren’t many mortals anymore, and the whole pool was swarming with pissed-off, rain-soaked Sidhe. One of whom had pretended to be a floater until he made it almost to shore—two yards from her—whereupon he leapt straight at Myra, who lay between.

LaWanda shot him. Shot
at
him, rather; the automatic was empty. Okay then: blade on blade, and she jumped up, rolled, and met the man’s sword with her machete before he knew what had happened. Blade didn’t like hitting iron, either, and clanged tinnily as the man jumped back—on one leg, her follow-through having hamstrung the other. Myra promptly fell atop him with Alec’s dagger. Faery blood spurted from severed carotids.

Guy had friends, though; at least two, both of whom rushed her with swords upraised in opposing hands, which wouldn’t be good if she got scissored, protective juju or no. Myra stabbed one in the foot; Alec, who’d got himself winged early on, tripped the other by rolling into him—which brought him down smack on top of Liz, who was trying to reload, effectively immobilizing her. The guy’s lips—he looked like the prettiest Guess model imaginable—had already curved in a wicked grin when LaWanda slammed her machete into his skull.

She didn’t stop to survey the damage, but Liz didn’t look real happy under there and was bleeding from a scalp wound that could’ve had a dozen sources. “You okay?” LaWanda demanded. “If not, play dead.”

“Won’t take much playing,” Liz chuckled, head falling into a pool of someone else’s blood.

LaWanda hated to abandon her, but she was probably in the safest place she could be. Myra, Alec, and Piper (who’d anticipated Liz’s action) were her main concerns. In fact, she was surprised she wasn’t standing over Piper defending him above all else. Wouldn’t hurt if she was closer, though! Stepping over the body of the Faery whose head she’d sundered, she leapt toward her lover.

And spun half around as something smashed into her thigh right above one of the wounds Yd had given her, knocking her to the rocky ground.
Gunshot,
she knew right off; she’d thought they’d taken out all those motherfuckers. Hurt like a son of a bitch, too, though the force surprised her more than the pain, which, being on top of something that hurt already, wasn’t as bad as it could be, though it might’ve messed up a tattoo she’d lately had done there. In any event, it probably wouldn’t be fatal, thanks to certain protections.

Best stay off it, though, and so she crawled up between Piper and Myra, behind their log, and decided it was time to reload the automatic.

Calvin, who was crouching behind her in the shadows of the biggest boulder on that side of the clearing, saw her and muttered a terse, “You reload, I’ll cover.”

It took but seconds, which, however, she hadn’t had earlier. It also gave her time, first of all, to fight down shock, which was threatening to blindside her, but also to assess the battle. First wave, mortals with guns, were down. Second wave, Faeries with mojo and swords, were doing better because they were rasher and probably used to dying. Shoot, the Death of Iron was likely no more real to them than death of any kind had been to most of her party until tonight.

Her party—they seemed okay, but she couldn’t see the kid, who’d been on David’s other side. “Dave?” she yelled, because it wasn’t a bad idea to check now and then on your commander. But he was busy: shooting the chest out of a blond Faery who’d also tried to play the floater game. The Faery fell, but his sword came down anyway—right at David.

David rolled. Brock either couldn’t or didn’t, and the atasi the boy flung out to block the blow imperiling his friend didn’t quite get there in time. Blood blossomed along David’s sleeve—blessedly his left one—even as the war club caught the sword on the follow-through and reduced it to slivers of light.
Some
of it. The blade shattered and bent but continued down, wielded by dead hands.

And caught Brock with weakened but still potent force at the juncture of arm and shoulder. The kid screamed. David’s face went white as paper, eyes blank as the blind, which a blast at that range might well have effected.

And then the third wave arrived and she had no more time for observation.

*

Brock was pissed as hell, and not because he hurt so bad he’d have done anything he could imagine to stop
it—either
it: the one in his calf, which had hurt more than anything he’d ever felt; or the new one in his shoulder he couldn’t see, but which he knew was awful, because that arm just wasn’t moving.

No, he was pissed because this was his second battle, and he’d spent the first cowering, and had determined, at any cost, to be as good a man as all these excellent friends, which meant holding his own no matter.

He’d spent his fifteen-minute psyching time thinking about it: how a man had to control his own mind, and if fear came calling, it was to be told to go away, because fear got you killed, and you could offer it tea later, when you sat around BSing. This was to have been reflex: cold and calculated as a video game.

There was to have been no sneak attack. No pain—you didn’t see that in the movies, just guys grimacing—no stench of blood, no taste of bile and adrenaline and dirt and bloody water in your mouth, and no fucking rain to complicate everything, including choosing your target.

At least he’d told David the truth about the medallion. And at least part of him would survive in the child that woman was carrying: half-human, but all Faery.

As for the battle—gosh, there
was
a battle, wasn’t there? Was still shouting and yelling and bullets going off and lights flashing and faces he knew blinking in and out like strobe-lit masks in an arcade.

In a quirky, drifty, unreal kind of slow motion.

But he had to help too! Sure he hurt, but Dave had it right: pain wasn’t dying, and he had a good leg and a good arm, and a brain that was no slouch either.

But where was his atasi? He fumbled in the mud for it, but couldn’t find it. “Club,” he choked, to the quick-moving, wild-eyed shadow to his right.

“Huh?” David gasped, even while shooting—handgun now.

“Club,” Brock repeated, though it cost him.

“There!” The weapon appeared at his side as by magic. He grabbed for it, missed; ducked something that whizzed past his face. And found it again with fingers that were slick and not nearly as strong as they ought to be.

There was a dead man right in front of him, too: blond and young-looking, with half his pretty face burned off, and one whole arm charred to the bone. Made a good shield, anyway, though Brock was damned if he knew what he could do besides parry bullets. God knew he couldn’t run screaming into that mess that had just exploded at the water’s edge, where at least five people went at it with fist and tooth and—claw, if he wasn’t mistaken. One was Dave, which wasn’t good, since his buddy had taken one in the arm trying to shield him. One might be Finno. The other good guy was Elyyoth, who’d reclaimed his sword and was having at someone his own size with the hilt. Guy knew his way around a blade, too, which made sense, given he was one of Lugh’s guard.
One, two, snicker-snack,
and an arm flew off—a rifle still clutched in its hand.

Whereupon Elyyoth’s eyes went very wide indeed, and he toppled forward, a hole the size of his fist in his back, where a mortal had let him have both barrels of a shotgun at pointblank range.

Blood splattered Brock’s face—his
mouth,
for Chrissakes—and he choked and retched and tried to stand and fell because he’d forgotten his leg didn’t work. For that matter, he’d mostly forgot that it hurt, which ought to bother him but for some reason didn’t.

He
was
getting light-headed, though, and things were going weird and distant, but he thought most of his folks were still up and running. The Indian crowd—his crowd—were doing fine. Aik, LaWanda, and Sandy were like clockwork. A few were befuddled. Elyyoth was…dead.

And David, Alec, and Liz, who’d all been so nice to him…

The last two he couldn’t see, but Dave was right in front of him, embroiled in the pitched hand-to-hand in the shallows. He couldn’t help anyone else—

Hey, but maybe those folks wouldn’t be looking for someone his size, if he stayed in the shadows…

“Motherfucker hell!” LaWanda yelled, five yards to the right, clutching a hip that was already bleeding twice, though she tried to rise.

“Shit!” Scott spat, right after, on Brock’s other side. He heard Scott’s pistol fall, but couldn’t spare time to assess his damage, because Dave was down flat on his back, and his gun was empty and there was a man twice as big as him and Brock together jumping on top of him—weaponless, but with hands the size of baseball gloves. Hands that clamped around Dave’s throat.

Dave grabbed at wrists as thick as his legs, and was wriggling and thrashing for all he was worth—a lot, actually; he was a pretty decent wrestler—but his eyes were already bugging out.

Brock started, realizing he’d gone into that dreamy fugue again. This time, however, he knew what was causing it. But he also knew a friend was in trouble, and that that friend had no hope but him, and that he once more had a weapon.