The Firehills (12 page)

“Now, ’ang on,” began Wayland, moving to block
Sam’s path. In an instant, the horseman had drawn his sword with a ringing
hiss of steel.

“One more step, smith,” he said coldly, “and you
will rue the day you forged this blade.” He leveled the point at Wayland’s
chest. “Child, I will not ask again.”

Sam stepped toward the horse and was suddenly hauled
upward with surprising force. He found himself on the bony spine of the animal,
his face pressed against the man’s back. As the horse lurched into motion, he
flung his arms around the man’s waist and hung on for his life. He had one
final glimpse of Wayland, standing like a statue outside his forge, as the
horse thundered out of the clearing.

Charly stood in the darkness of the cavern. The magic of
the Firehills had faded now, and she felt suddenly very alone. As she waited
for her eyes to adjust, she tried to shape a plan in her mind. Sam, she knew,
would just blunder off, picking a direction at random. Not her.
Come on,
Charly,
she thought.
Common sense. What would be the sen
sible way?
She couldn’t look for both Sam and Amergin.
She had to assume that Sam would make his own way toward the bard. And Amergin
would be wherever the Sidhe had their stronghold. So she needed to look for
signs of the Sidhe, to try and work out where they were most likely to
congregate.

One problem occurred to her right away: Her eyes showed no
signs of adjusting to the darkness. She needed light or to be able to see in
the dark. And she needed to travel quickly.
Got it!
she thought. Charly closed her eyes—not that it made much
difference—and concentrated on a shape. There was no crop circle here to help
her with its residual magic, but she had changed. Part of her, deep down, would
always be Epona, the horse goddess.

The change came easily this time. She let out a squeak,
too high for the human ear to detect, and its echoes lit up the cavern. She
saw—not with her eyes but with her ears—the stalactites and fluted columns
that hung from the ceiling, the tumbled boulders and shattered rock of the
floor. With a flutter of leathery wings, she darted through a stone arch and
headed off along the tunnel, a tiny bat in the echoing darkness.

Sam was exhausted, his arms like lead. After his efforts
on the bellows, there was little energy left in him, and the strain of holding
onto the man’s waist was unbearable. But the horse continued to canter
through the endless forest, and if Sam let go, he would hit the ground at quite a
speed. Even in animal form, he was not sure he would survive the fall
unscathed. They had galloped along rough paths and dirt tracks for what seemed
like an eternity. Once or twice, they had passed through farmsteads, huddles of
low buildings where the hens went squawking out of their path and the barking
of dogs faded behind them. But the settlements were few and far between.
Mostly, they traveled through trees—mighty oaks, ashes, and lindens marching
past in an unending procession.

Sam was debating whether or not to attract the man’s
attention and ask for a rest, when to one side of the trail, the trees began to
thin. Above loomed the unmistakable bulk of the Downs. They followed a broad,
well-worn track along the foot of the slope, through neatly hedged sheep
pasture that gradually gave way to fields of crops. Men were at work with
horses or plowing with teams of oxen. Plumes of smoke rose here and there from
clusters of buildings, and Sam could hear the distant sound of metal on metal.
The track grew steeper until suddenly, high above them, Sam saw a town. A great
fence of sharpened tree trunks circled a high point on the long ridge of the
Downs. Within it, Sam could see wooden buildings and pale, shaggy thatch. Smoke
rose from here too, a dark smudge across the blue sky.

They reached a broad road up to the town. Outside the
towering palisade fence was a deep ditch. The road crossed it on a bridge
before plunging between great wooden gates and becoming the main street. Once
through the gates, the rider drew his horse to a halt, and Sam slumped
gratefully to the ground. He knelt in the dust, massaging his
burning arms and groaning.

“Cease your whimpering, boy,” snapped the rider,
grabbing Sam by the arm and dragging him to his feet. “We go to see my king.
Come.”

Leading his horse by the reins, he marched up the street,
pulling Sam behind him. As he stumbled along, Sam stared around in wonder. The
buildings were similar to those he had seen on his journey through the woods
but in a far poorer state of repair. Wayland, with none of the conveniences of
electricity and running water, still kept his home clean and well maintained
and his land in order. Here Sam sensed an air of decay. Children played in
puddles of filth in the streets. The thatches of the buildings were gray and
sagging. Sam saw rats scurry for cover as a pack of thin, yellowish dogs
trotted along the street. Up ahead, a group of men staggered out of a building
and began to brawl in the gutter, cursing and shouting. The rider picked his
way carefully around the rolling bodies and continued up the street. At the
very crown of the hill was an open square, an area of trampled dirt and
scattered household rubbish around the largest building Sam had so far seen. It
was low and circular, with a conical roof of thatch rising up to a central hole
through which pale blue smoke was drifting. Large wooden doors stood open, but
the interior was full of shadow.

As they approached, the rider barked a command, and a
young boy ran to take his horse. As the beast was led away, the man said,
“You are about to enter the hall of my liege lord, King Haesta. Show respect,
speak only when you are spoken to, and be sure to answer his questions.
Or . . .” He drew his sword a short way from its scabbard,
just far enough for Sam to see the glint of steel. Once more, the rider grasped
his arm and pulled him forward. It was as if Sam had walked into a vision of
hell. In the center of the great hall, a fire blazed, and the heat it gave out
was stifling. The smoke hung thick in the room, adding to the gloom. Rough
tables were arranged around the perimeter of the chamber, and men were
feasting. Bones were scattered across the rush-covered floor, and hunting dogs
snarled and brawled over the scraps. As Sam and the rider entered, the roar of
voices lessened until something approaching silence fell across the gathering.
Darting nervous glances from face to hostile face, Sam was drawn toward the
center of the hall. Beyond the fire, on a huge throne of wood and wrought iron,
sat an equally large man, his hair and beard blond, and his cheeks flushed red
by the heat and wine.

“My lord,” began the rider, “I found this boy at the
smithy. Wayland claims that this is his lad, his assistant. But he is like no
child I have seen before.”

The man on the throne leaned forward, one elbow braced on
his knee, and peered at Sam.

“Boy,” he rumbled, “account for yourself.”

But Sam said nothing. He was staring beyond the throne, to
a dark-haired figure almost lost in the shadows.

“You!” Sam said. “I don’t believe it!”

“Forgive me, boy,” drawled the voice of the Malifex, “but should I know you?”

Charly sped on leathery wings through the darkness of the
Hollow Hills, swooping between dripping stalactites. The echoes of her voice
bounced back to her from a million rock facets and were picked up by her huge,
sensitive ears. Her brain converted the echoes into a strangely colorless,
grainy image of the world but a precise image. She could judge distances with
millimeter precision, flying through gaps barely wider than her outspread
wings, darting through a maze of columns and arches.

Soon she saw the first signs of habitation. The floor of
the cavern became smoother, worn down by the passage of feet, and the outlines
of the archways more regular. Someone—or something—had been at work here,

improving on nature, widening and shaping to create
underground roadways. And then she began to see a flickering orange light. Up
ahead, a rectangular doorway was outlined by the glow of flames. She swooped
close to the ground and reverted to her human shape. Edging forward, she peeped
around the doorframe and gasped. Blazing torches in niches on the walls
revealed a chamber of wonders. Along one side of the room was a Viking longboat, perfectly
preserved, its dragon-headed prow casting a sinister shadow across the floor.
Along the facing wall was a row of suits of armor, some plain and functional,
others ornate and highly decorated. Swords and shields of all sizes and designs
hung from the columns that supported the roof. In the center of the chamber, in
pride of place, stood a huge cannon and its cannonballs, neatly stacked. Charly
realized that this collection represented a history of warfare spanning
centuries, but all the items looked as if they had been made only yesterday.

She moved on, past chain-mail shirts and racks of spears,
to a doorway on the opposite side of the room. Here more torchlight glinted
from golden plates and goblets, from open chests of jeweled crowns and
necklaces. Resisting the urge to stop and rummage through the chests, Charly
made her way through the treasure chamber and out by another door. This time,
she found herself in a broad hallway with a high, vaulted ceiling. Flaming
torches were arranged along the walls at regular intervals, fading away into
the far distance. Since there was enough light for her to see, Charly decided
to stay in human form. But she felt increasingly nervous. The chambers she had
passed through contained an unimaginable fortune—surely the Sidhe would not leave them unguarded? After a
moment’s thought, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was
clad from head to foot in black—a flowing black satin skirt over black
leggings and leather motorbike boots, a black leather jacket over a black
Tshirt. Even her auburn hair was now a glossy shade of midnight. With a satisfied smile, she strode off along the
chamber.

Amergin sprawled in the dust in the center of the room.
The circle of Sidhe who had kept him suspended in the air were gone, their work
done. He moaned and tried to push himself up from the floor, but the pain in
his shoulder joints was too intense, and he slumped back, exhausted.

So,
thought Finnvarr to the
Lady Una,
it was the boy
after
all. We have made a grave error.

I don’t understand, my lord,
replied Una.
How did the
spirit of Attis come to reside in this . . . this child?

That, I think, is a tale our friend
here,
he prodded Amergin in the chest with the toe of his boot,
has yet to tell
us. For now, it is
enough to know that the power of the Green
Man
survives, and it is all that stands between us and our goal.
Destroy the spirit of the Green One, and the power of the
Malifex will be ours.

So we seek the boy?

Perhaps. And perhaps not.
Lord Finnvarr paused for a moment, lost in thought.
The
boy is involved somehow, but
he is not Attis. No,
the power of the Green Man is dispersed,
like that
of the Malifex. It is strong in the boy, but it is not
rooted in him. It will manifest soon, though, for a
moment.
At the festival?

Indeed. I think we should pay a visit
to the castle and await
the coming of the May King.

And what of him?
Lady Una
nodded at the motionless form of Amergin, sprawled in the dirt before them.
Leave him,
said Finnvarr.
Seal the
door. And when all this
is over, there are stories
I would like to hear from our friend the
Milesian.

Sam stared in astonishment at the Malifex. “Er,
sorry,” he stammered, “you, um, reminded me of someone.”

The Malifex frowned back at him from behind the throne.
Sam felt a familiar prickling in his mind.
Boy,
said a voice in his head,
there is something
strange
about you. I’m sure we have never met and
yet, there is a hint
of my brother about you. . . .

The voice receded, and the Malifex bent close to the ear
of the king on his throne, whispering.

After a moment, King Haesta leaned forward and said,

“Boy, it seems my counselor has not only never seen you
before, he has never seen your like. And Counselor Morfax has traveled far.
What are you, boy?”

“Just a boy, sir,” replied Sam, casting his eyes to
the ground. “I work for Wayland, the smith, sort of an apprentice.”

The lord frowned and turned again to his counselor. There
was another whispered conversation.

“Child,” continued Haesta, returning his gaze to where
Sam stood, head bowed, “we have seen Wayland’s lad, and you are not he. Nor
do we know this word,
apprentice.
So it seems you
lie to us. Perhaps you are a foreign spy or worse—some fell creature of
magic. It will be amusing to find out. Bind him.”

Sam felt his arms seized from behind and began to
struggle. A coarse rope was looped around his wrists, biting into the flesh. He
felt a wave of panic sweep over him and almost instinctively shifted shape. The
two men who were attempting to bind his wrists found themselves wrestling with
a large and angry wolf. With cries of fear, they released him and fell back.
Sam stood in the center of the room, ears flat against his skull, the soft gray
fur on his spine bristling. A low growl came from his throat. Otherwise, the
room was silent. No one moved. And then Sam felt a familiar presence in his
mind.
I thought as much,
said the Malifex.
You stink of my brother.
I did not
know he had taken to training pets. Well, let us see
how well he has taught you.