Fireshaper's Doom (42 page)

His neck began to itch, and he scratched it awkwardly, until he realized that there was no longer any reason to go about with so much clothing on. He unclasped his cloak, let it fall, then pried the lizard from his shoulder long enough to strip off the soiled and tattered remnants of his surcoat. The mail was harder, but he managed, and finally the sweat-stained gambeson and remaining muddy boot joined his other accoutrements on the deck.

Now clad only in shirt and hose, David felt forty pounds lighter and immensely cooler. He reached down to pick up the lizard, but the creature had scampered up his leg and was nosing about the arrow wound in his calf. Its tongue flicked out, touched a drop of blood that had trickled from the opening.

Then, to David’s surprise, the lizard was licking around the wound, and as it licked, the wound shrank, until a minute later a tiny red slit was all that remained. David rolled over to give the creature easier access to the other side of the injury, and almost before he knew it, that too was closed, and his lizard friend was scrambling up to lick his knee wound. He grinned wryly and let it choose its seat, reaching down to relocate the tiny claws ever so slightly when they tickled.

So intent was David on his scaled physician, in fact, that he scarcely noticed when the ship began to slow. But a flap of sail behind him caused him to raise his head, and he saw the billow falter, go limp for a moment. He jumped to his feet
—No pain. Thanks, lizard
!—and scanned the shore anxiously. The formations were becoming familiar again—he remembered the peculiar double point of those salt thorns over to the right.

But where was Morwyn? He stretched farther, straining onto tiptoes, eyes shaded by his hands.

No Morwyn.

But there was the Track, a line of pale yellow across the whiteness of the plain.

“Where
is
she?”

The lizard clambered up the front of his shirt and trilled in his ear.

The intersecting Track drew nearer; he could see where it lay above the water just ahead.

The boat slowed, stopped.

Still no Morwyn.

A timber creaked.

David risked a glance at the carved dragon, thought he saw the wooden nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, the neck shift slightly to the right.

A shudder ran through the hull, and the sails billowed fitfully.

Suddenly the deck lurched beneath his feet—
tilted
!

The ship was slewing around—turning over?

David cried out as he lost his footing, and slid toward the mast. The prow rose above the surrounding banks, then leveled again.

They were floating in the air, describing a shallow climb above the level of the river.

Over the bank now, and there was no longer doubt about it: they were flying!

David felt his stomach flip-flop as the ship rose into the heat-charged skies, the sail now straining at its ropes behind him.

Carefully he crawled to the railing and looked down, saw the world speeding by perhaps a hundred feet below, saw the narrow shadow of the ship as it fled across the empty plains, sometimes distorting fantastically over one of the salty excrescences.

He swallowed hard and crawled back to the cabin, where he found a flask of red wine. He drank a long draught.

A trickle spilled to his chin, and a flicker of tiny tongue was there to taste it. He laughed, and reached up to once again find the lizard. He set it carefully on his crossed knees and offered it drops of wine on one finger as he stroked it gently with the other.

So green! Such a beautiful, beautiful color…

Something tickled David’s mind: an itching in his brain that made him want to scratch inside his head. Images spun there, mingling with sounds, sounds-becoming-words, then words in truth, and then the words acquired a strangely familiar voice.

You have fulfilled your quest very well, mortal lad
,
said Fionchadd
.

PART IV

EMBERS

Chapter XLV: The Secret of the Sword

(Lookout Rock, Georgia)

Ailill stared at the jeweled hilt of the sword he held point down before him. His eyes widened very slightly; his mouth curled in a wicked grin.

“The Horn of Annwyn,” he whispered suddenly, “is hidden in the hilt!”

Fionna’s head snapped around.
“
What
did you just say?”

“Hidden
as
the hilt, I should have said,” Ailill continued. “I am surprised I did not notice it sooner, yet ages have passed since the Horn and I were last acquainted, and my memory has dimmed a little. You have not really looked at it, have you? Would you like to? Now that you know what it is?”

He extended the blade hilt-first toward his sister.

Fionna virtually snatched the weapon from his hand, her face lit with triumph.

“You are certain?”

“Very.”

“And to think we drew on its Power for our summoning! Perhaps that is why it went so well—I
thought
we reversed Morwyn’s spell too easily, what with our wounds and Lugh’s accursed sealing.”

Ailill yawned. “But now that we have it, it will take little Power at all to maintain the binding, especially since most of them are mortals. Tell me, do you have plans for our unexpected visitors? Or shall we simply turn them loose and watch them panic?”

“I am certain I can think of something, brother. They might do as appetizers, for instance, until the other one gets here.”

“You intend to use the Horn, then?”

“Oh, aye. It is only a matter of ordering my victims. Silverhand is not here, for instance, nor is Lugh—though the Hounds can surely find them.”

“It is dangerous, Fionna. I have seen it work. Lugh does well to fear it.”

“It is a fool who fears Power, Ailill.”

“As you will, sister.” Ailill sighed. “I myself am far too weary to be much of a host just now. The Call has become quite persistent—though if you were to set the Hounds on Lugh first, that would cease to be a problem.” He sank down upon a boulder and resumed staring at the assembled company. The merest ghost of stiffness marred his movement.

*

Liz felt her heart skip a beat as the implications of the dark Faery’s words sank in.
That’s why Silverhand was so secretive about the blessed sword we had to leave behind! Lugh tried to smuggle something valuable to him disguised as the hilt.

The same hilt Fionna was now unscrewing.

Liz watched in helpless fascination as the woman’s fingers twirled, wishing desperately that she could move to stop her and knowing full well that there was nothing she could do with her muscles frozen. The Horn of Annwyn, was it? She wondered what that was. Even across the intervening several yards she could tell it was a thing of immense Power. But what sort of Power? Jewels sparkled there in bands. And between those bands were carvings of ivory, interlaced with gold and copper wire. At the small end was an opal the size of a quail’s egg.

“Je…
sus” came Alec’s sluggish whisper beside her, the words stretched and muddied like a record played too slowly. His sentiment was matched by an attenuated
“Oh…my…
God” from Gary.

Liz dragged her gaze sideways to survey her comrades. Alec was apparently all right. Gary’s breath was coming in slow, shuddering gasps. Uncle Dale looked stoic, but his mouth was set in a grim frown, and the muscles of his face twitched and quivered against the binding-spell. As for Froech, neither his face nor his carriage betrayed anything at all, though his eyes were slowly filling with hopeless dread.
At least the Sidhe have some options,
Liz thought.
This could be it for us.

She tried to scream. “Nnnnnnnnnnnn—”

“Silence!” Fionna snapped, gesturing idly with her left hand.

Liz felt her tongue cleave to the floor of her mouth. She tried to swallow—failed. She shifted her eyes—all she could move now—back toward Fionna.

The sorceress looked extremely pleased with herself, striding purposefully among the boulders and fallen trees of Lookout Rock as if they were marble tables and oaken thrones. She reached the edge and stared briefly into space, a perilous step from the precipitous ledge that gave the place its name; then spun around and strode back to survey the semicircle of captives, pausing at last before Froech. She raised the Horn to her lips, poised it there a moment, mocking him with her gaze. Then she lowered it and flipped the opal closed as she saw the boy’s eyes widen with what Liz very much suspected was genuine fear. And if Froech was afraid, there was no hope for the rest of them.

Liz’s heart skipped another beat.

“You know what this is, don’t you, boy?” Fionna purred. “It
is
the Horn of Annwyn, isn’t it?—that the Powersmiths made and Arawn gave into Lugh’s keeping. But Lugh has not kept it very well, has he? Nor, it seems, has Nuada. Poor Nuada—does he still live? He will not for much longer, now that I have this Horn!”

Froech could not reply, but a glint of hatred appeared in his eyes.

What an absolute loonie,
Liz thought. In spite of the binding, she found herself shuddering: cold and then warm, cold and warm
again…

Warm!—a warmth that stayed!

A pulse of warmth against her hip where the ring was yet concealed: a momentary distraction from this hopelessly one-sided confrontation.

“Our last guest should be here soon,” Fionna continued, raising the Horn again to gently stroke the opal along the angle of Froech’s jaw, then following it with a lacquered fingernail so that a fine line of blood showed against the smooth, fair skin. “I doubt you know her, boy. She sought to trap my brother, but we trapped her instead. Even now she answers the summoning we two have laid upon her. It will be she, I think, whose flesh will be the first to tempt the Hounds of Annwyn. Her body…and then her soul. And then
you,
Froech”—she carved a matching cut along Froech’s other jaw—“and
then…
we shall see. Perhaps Silverhand and Lugh. And when I have finished”—she turned toward Liz—“I will seek out David Sullivan. But
his
pain will last much longer.”

Liz felt anger start to simmer, burning away the fear. She
had
to escape, for herself and her companions—and for David. There had to be something she could do—but what? Fionna’s spell had trapped her as surely as it had the others.
So much for the protection of David’s ring,
she thought.

As if in answer the ring pulsed again, almost painful this time, a vain reminder that the Sidhe were somewhere nearby—and threatening.

Or was it?

Fionna stepped sideways to stand directly in front of Liz, her eyes level with the top of Liz’s head.

Liz fought to raise her gaze to meet Fionna’s. It took all the determination she could muster, but she managed to lower her brows as well, matching her adversary glare for glare, hate for hate. And as she did, she felt the ring’s pulse grow hotter.

Fionna continued to stare hard at Liz, and Liz continued to meet that stare. Fionna’s face receded from Liz’s sight except for the sparkling black pits of her eyes—which expanded to fill the world.

No sound for five heartbeats…ten…

“Sister,” came Ailill’s careful whisper, “I think the last one comes.”

The air beyond the precipice brightened. Fionna whirled around eagerly. “Ah yes,” she said. “Are you ready to expand the binding? This one will be harder to hold than these puny folk, you know, for her Power is far greater than theirs. Once she is bound, you will not be able to relax for even an instant; if you do, all will be for naught. Are you certain you are strong enough?”

Ailill nodded. “With the Horn to draw on, I will be ready.”

Liz blinked—slowly, yet not perhaps as slowly as before—as the brightness grew in splendor. For a moment it seemed as though the sun itself had been summoned and now hovered in the morning mist just beyond Lookout Rock. A shape slowly took form within that haze of light: a woman-tall darkness stippled against the glare. And then a fire-haired figure stepped onto the ledge to Ailill’s right.

The Sidhe lord rose stiffly and strode with extravagant gallantry to extend a slow, mocking bow toward the mother of his child. A subtle movement of his hands preserved the binding spell; another expanded it to include the new arrival.

Fionna stared first at the Horn, then at the woman before her. Her eyes narrowed. A flick of her wrist set the woman walking.

Morwyn verch Morgan was in a fine rage: her eyes blazed, her bright hair crackled wildly about her head. Her movements were stiff and jerky, as though she sought with every forced pace to batter down that clutching fist of Power which dragged her step by step toward Fionna.

“Welcome to my gathering, Lady Morwyn.” Fionna smiled, then nodded toward Ailill. “You will remember my brother, of course.”

Ailill inclined his head slightly in mocking response and returned to his seat. His eyes again unfocused.

Must take a lot to hold up his end of the spell,
Liz thought
. He must not be able to leave it for more than a minute or two, or we’d have been free by now. In fact, I think I felt it slip a little just then, when he was talking to Fionna. I wonder what would happen if he were distracted for more than a moment.