Warstalker's Track (7 page)

David sniffed an armpit. “And
then
a nap.”

“There will be time to sleep on the journey,” Fionchadd informed him curtly. “Of that you may be certain.”

“Just hope we wake up again,” Aikin called from the door, then suddenly looked alarmed. “Oh, crap, I don’t have my car. Will somebody…?”

“Take mine,” JoAnne hollered, fishing in her pocket for the keys to her latest Crown Vic. “Not your style, but
some
of us got taste.”

Aikin caught the keys on the fly and grinned. “And some of us got brains.”

David giggled like a fool as his mother chased his buddy out the door, swearing like a sailor in mock anger as they fought the latest skirmish in the lesser but more tenured war between Ford and Chevy.

“Bath’s clear,” Alec prompted. “You go, then Brock.”

“I’ll chase down the guns and ammo,” Big Billy rumbled.

“And I’ll—” Little Billy began.

“—stay out of the way,” his mother finished for him.

“Come…child,” said Elyyoth the Faery. “I will show you a wonder.”

David wondered whose smile was brighter: this odd silent refugee warrior, or his voluble younger brother.

“I’ll call the rest of the Gang,” Liz volunteered. “Figured they’d at least like to see you off. Plus, they really do need to know what’s going on.”

And then Alec dragged David to his feet, hustled him down the hall, stuffed him into the bathroom, and closed the door.

Chapter III: Weapons Practice

(Sullivan Cove, Georgia—Friday, June 27—noonish)

“So let me get this straight,” JoAnne Sullivan said stiffly. “You really have
no
idea when you’ll be back?” She was addressing David, but her eyes were averted, fixed firmly on the rocky shingle beach of Langford Lake. Which meant she was having a hard time staving off tears and didn’t want anyone to notice. David hated to see her this way. He wasn’t a father—yet, and maybe never—but he’d seen people he cared about march knowingly into situations from which they had no guarantee they’d return. This was the same. The lapping of the waves against the shore made a counterpoint to her breathing, as though the world echoed her regret.

He reached out to give her a cursory hug, which she returned with surprising vigor. “No idea,” he murmured. “Sorry. Time runs screwy over there. It
shouldn’t
take long—you might get home and find us sittin’ there—but there’s no way to be sure.” He paused, shifted his weight, looked around at his friends for support that didn’t seem forthcoming. “Plus, if things go like they’re supposed to, we’ll have Lugh in tow, and there’s no tellin’ what he’ll want to do once we spring him—whether he’ll try to retake the palace then, and if so, whether he’ll want us around for that, or whether he’ll hie himself off somewhere to lick his wounds and regroup, or what.” Another, more uneasy pause. “Shoot, there’s even some chance we might have to bring him back here. I hope not, and I’ll try to keep his stay short if that happens—but be prepared.”

JoAnne ruffled Little Billy’s hair. David snared his no-longer-so-little brother—he was a sturdy eleven and change—and embraced him roughly. “Take care of our ma,” he admonished. “Dale’s gonna be there, and Elyyoth, but
you’re the
man of the house.”

Little Billy stood up straighter, which put him not far off eye level with David. “I’ll fight for you, Dave,” he said solemnly, but his blue eyes were bright with tears. “I’ll fight for whatever I have to.”

“You and me both,” David sighed.

Fionchadd cleared his throat. David grunted a reply and rejoined the group waiting with the Faery youth at the shore. And shivered. Not a week had passed since a similar crew had met here, a quarter mile south of the incipient construction at what he and his friends called B.A. Beach (in memory of a particularly embarrassing fall that had occurred there) to embark on what had proved to be a fruitless mission to enlist the aid of Fionchadd’s Powersmith kin. And here he was again, on the vanguard of a similar mission, though to a far more accessible and familiar place, and he was scared all but shitless. Maybe it was the fact that there was a good chance there’d be fighting, a chance he or someone he knew—his father, even—could be killed. Or perhaps it was simply that Big Billy would be present: his first foray into Faerie.

David didn’t know what he thought about that. His pa was about as earthbound as you could get: narrow-minded, almost a bigot. But he loved his family and his land. And he was proud of his children, David had no doubt. Still, the natural order of things made David defer to him—yet
he,
David Kevin Sullivan, was effectively in charge of this mission. Would they find themselves contesting control at some crucial juncture? Or defending kin at the expense of a higher goal?

No!
He wouldn’t think about that now. He’d think about how pretty this little out-of-the-way cove was, where the mountains pointed into the lake in pine-gloved fingers that made a vee around a quiet backwater where stone shelves sat on the porch of the Enotah National Forest. He’d think about how
this
was what he was fighting for: the land itself.
His
land, and his family’s, for nigh onto ten generations.

But it was Calvin’s land, too, for far longer; and for a moment he wished his Cherokee friend was here. The others—Liz’s folks had been here a fair spell, and Scott was a mountain boy, though from Tennessee. But Alec’s parents had moved here to teach at MacTyrie Junior College five years after their son was born; and Aikin was also technically an outlander, having arrived in MacTyrie at ten; while Darrell and Gary (who had joined them to see them off, with the promise of a briefing from Myra afterward) had appeared in their teens, when Myra was already in college. It wasn’t the same for any of them. As for Piper and LaWanda, they were nice folks, but they were flatlanders.

Yet LaWanda was going anyway, and he had to admire her for that: how a black woman from South Georgia would put herself on the line for residents of what was essentially an all-white county in a state that had made slaves of her ancestors. “People gotta be free,” she’d said. “Lugh’s people, and he’s gotta be free. You’re people, and folks are comin’ down on you, and you gotta be free, too.”

David blinked, having lapsed into one of those fits of dazed reverie that caught him now and then. He was suddenly aware of eyes looking at him—many eyes: those who were going, and those who’d stay behind. Calvin and Sandy had already departed. Alec, Liz, Piper, and Myra were packed and ready to hit the road. Dale and David’s ma and brother would watch to the end, as would Scott and Elyyoth—who looked god-awful strange in a set of David’s sweats that fit fairly well at waist and shoulders but were far too short at the cuffs.

Another deep breath, and David joined the voyagers: Aife, Fionchadd, Brock, Aikin, LaWanda, and Big Billy. Fionchadd wore the clothing he’d arrived in: tunic, cloak, hose, and high leather boots that looked vaguely fifteenth century. Aife (who was tall for a mortal woman, though not for one of the Sidhe), wore Elyyoth’s castoffs: armor, weapons, tattered surcoat; all of it. David had the armor and surcoat Fionchadd’s mother had given him all those years back, which blessedly still fit. Good fortune that: deciding that a suit of Faery mail was just too obvious a thing to go flashing around even in a town like Athens. The other four were in serviceable black as far as possible, but Fionchadd had promised more suitable outfits once they were under way. Each carried weapons, too, which Dale and JoAnne had spent half the morning cleaning. As best David could recall, they had at least two guns apiece per mortal combatant: five handguns, notably an heirloom Colt .45 that had belonged to Uncle Dale, a pair of Ruger Blackhawks, and Aikin’s brand-new .40 caliber Glock 22; four shotguns, and (in case they met
large
nonhuman opposition—like wyverns) a big-bore rifle.

Fionchadd cleared his throat again and gazed at the sky as though trying to read something unknowable in the angle of the sun and the thickness of the dispersing clouds. “Now,” he said quietly—and reached down to retrieve that which he’d carried in a cardboard box full of Styrofoam peanuts all the way from their last landfall in Athens.

A toy boat—as Darrell had just blurted out.

“No,” David whispered. “Watch.”

Fionchadd held out the object for inspection, looking a tad too resignedly tolerant, David thought. It most closely resembled a standard issue Viking ship—save that it was no more than a foot long. Certainly it had the low, slim build, high carved prow and tail, and central mast of the typical Norse drakkar. But there was also a tiny cabin amidships, and certain other details were not quite the same. And of course every seam, bolt, nail, peg, and rivet was absolutely perfectly made and installed with a precision that would’ve done Rolex proud.

Without saying a word, the Faery turned and marched with calm deliberation to where the lake whispered against the shore. He squatted there, his cloak a fan of gray around him, and set the vessel in the water. Then, in one deft motion, he extended his right hand. A ring gleamed there: twin serpents twisted around each other, one of silver, one of gold. A stroke to the golden head, and a tiny spark of flame shot from its mouth, just far enough to brush the crimson sail furled around the spars atop that pencil-thin mast. The boat caught fire at once, and there was more than one gasp of protest before those who didn’t know what to expect realized what was occurring.

For the ship was expanding as it burned, arcane fires tearing atoms from the air and binding them into the vessel’s substance. “It’s like freeze-drying,” David told the awestruck LaWanda. “’Cept they take out the fire—the energy, you could say—instead of water. This just puts it back.”

“Whatever you say, White Boy,” LaWanda growled, patting the Colt at her hip.

And then, all at once, the ship loomed higher in the water, and then higher again, and with a final whoosh of green-purple fire reached its full size and stood waiting in the lake, just far enough offshore to prevent its keel scraping bottom.

“This is it,” David said, because somebody had to. And suddenly the sketchy shoreline was a confusion of hugs, kisses, and an endless series of “Best wishes” and “Take care of yourself” and “I love you” and “See you later, man.” David felt lost in the muddle, but made time for his mother, brother, and uncle, and for Alec and, most especially, for Liz. He hated going without her, but sometimes you had to let logic rule.

When his crew seemed inclined to linger, Fionchadd uttered a sharp “Enough! Those who would accompany me, board the ship and do not look back.”

David gave Liz a final kiss and turned. They had to wade through water up to their hips to reach the ladder that hung from the gunwale, but David had warned them about that, and everyone held their weapons and other gear clear. Climbing up was no problem; they were all young, supple, and in excellent condition—save Big Billy, who was huffing, puffing, and red in the face as he heaved himself over the rail. “Too much winter and too much rain,” he gasped. “I ain’t been out enough. Done lost my wind.”

“Watch it, then,” David cautioned as he helped him find his feet, leaning against the rail, with the line of decorative shields behind him. “Can’t afford to lose you, too.”

“I ain’t
that
old!” Big Billy snorted.

“Yeah, but you’ve smoked for thirty years,” David countered. Not adding that his pa also drank too much beer and would’ve eaten a hockey puck if it was deep-fried.

Fionchadd, meanwhile, had made a beeline for the bow, where the intricately carved curves, whorls, and spirals that marked the dragon prow loomed above their heads. David saw him there, busy with a scrap of fabric.

“What—” David began as he joined his friend in the vee behind the prow. But then he saw: torn white velvet stained with blood. “So that’s how we’re gettin’ there,” he murmured for Fionchadd’s ear alone.

The Faery nodded. “I would prefer the secret of navigating this vessel did not become common knowledge, but alas, there is only one way to accomplish this.”

David indicated the fabric. “Lugh’s blood?”

Fionchadd shook his head. “Nuada’s. I thought it wise to seek him first. He—”

David grabbed his arm. “What do you
mean?
I
thought this was all decided—and here you go changin’ the rules again! Whose side
are
you on, anyway? I haven’t forgotten what your friend said back in Annwyn about you havin’ tangled alliances everywhere.”

“I am your friend,” the Faery replied simply. “If I wanted to work harm to you or your kin, I could have done it ere now. As for my change in plans, it came to me while we were mustering our gear. I was telling Elyyoth that it would be useful to have something of Lugh’s to use as a focus for a scrying, and he said that while he had nothing that belonged to him, Nuada might, and Nuada’s blood was splattered along with that of many others on his surcoat. And Nuada, as you know, would be a valuable ally. Still,” he went on acidly, “if it looks as though a side-quest to seek the second most powerful man in Faerie will lead us too far afield, I will abort that mission and seek the Iron Dungeon at once.”

“Whatever,” David spat, and strode away. God knew he had friends on board to whom all this was new and amazing, and those people needed him now. Still, he couldn’t resist watching as Fionchadd uttered a certain
word,
whereupon the drakkar’s carved neck curved around—and kept on turning until the vast wooden beak was barely above the Faery’s head. Whereupon Fionchadd deftly inserted the strip of bloodstained fabric into the right-hand nostril. The head seemed to inhale, then slowly, with much creaking and groaning, returned to its former position.

Abruptly, they were moving. Big Billy staggered back a half step, but caught himself on the rail. Brock giggled at him—then had the tables turned as a lurch to the right upset the boy’s perilous balance and set him on his backside. He scrambled to his feet at once, rubbing his butt dramatically.

And then they were moving in truth: out of the sunlit cove and into the light mist of fog that drifted like ghosts upon the larger body of the lake. Already David could feel his eyes tingling, as Power awoke. A Power that manifested an instant later as a glitter of golden reflections on the water. And then more gold, and the reflections rose above that surface, and his friends joined him as they pondered the way ahead. The sun was behind them, yet no true shadow lay before, and then the fog began to thicken, and the mountains to dim, and all at once they were surrounded by thick clammy white, save where an indistinct light in the sky wove pink highlights through it.