The Firehills (18 page)

“What are they?” asked Sam. “Pirates?”

“Smugglers,” replied Charly, leaning on one of the wax
dummies, a man in a baggy white shirt and leather waistcoat.

“Smugglers? But . . . Oh, the Smugglers Caves.”

“Can somebody tell me what’s going on?” asked
Amergin forlornly.

“We’re in the Smugglers Caves,” explained Charly.
“It’s a tourist attraction, exhibits of what the place looked like when
these caves were used by smugglers to store their contraband. It’s just by
the—”

“The castle entrance!” exclaimed Sam. “We’re right
by the castle! Come on!”

Minutes later, the ticket attendant of the Smugglers Caves
looked up from her newspaper as three ragged, dusty figures, one with blood on
his face, hurtled up the long passageway and out through the exit. As the
turnstile clicked to a halt, she sat in bewilderment. She was sure that the
last few visitors had left about fifteen minutes earlier.

As the Host of the Sidhe rode into the castle grounds,
Megan, Mrs. P., and their fellow Wiccans had moved into position. Pushing
through the frightened crowd, they formed a circle around the center stage,
backs to the towering figure of Jack-in-the-Green. To their credit, his bogies
had stayed by his side, clustered together on the stage, shooting fearful
glances around the amphitheater. Mrs. P. went to them and spoke with their
leader, who nodded several times, his mouth set in a grim line. Then
she returned to the circle of Wiccans. Megan, meanwhile, had gone in search of
the girl who had sung the song that welcomed the coming summer. She found her,
pale-faced and shaking, over by a blue-and-white striped pavilion. After a few
seconds of intense discussion, Megan led her by the hand back to the stage.

Sam, Charly, and Amergin ran up the sloping track that led
from the Smugglers Caves and clattered up a flight of steps onto the windy
summit of West Hill. In front of them was the green expanse of the Ladies
Parlor. To their left, unseen, was the entrance to the castle. Screams carried
to them on the breeze.

“Come,” said Amergin. “We may yet be in time.”
With that, he disappeared, and in his place was a bird of prey, steely blue
gray above, palest buff below, flecked with dark markings. With a swirling
feeling of dislocation, Sam and Charly found themselves transformed, and
together the three merlins took to the sky.

The frightened crowd pulled back as Lord Finnvarr walked
his horse forward toward the stage. Behind him came the Lady Una and the rest
of the Host, the hoofs of their mounts clicking softly on the ancient stones.
By the stage, Megan whispered, “Now—sing!” and the young woman began her
song once more, her voice quavering at first but growing in strength. Into the
silence she poured the words, a challenge to the forces of winter, a
hymn of praise to the coming May King.

Finnvarr smiled.

High above the castle, Amergin paused in his flight,
hovering for a moment on the wind from the sea. One obsidian eye took in the
scene below. With a fierce cry, he folded back his wings and plunged, arrowing
down toward the circle of stones below. Close behind him came Sam and Charly.

The song ended, and the time had come to release the
summer. “Now!” shouted Mrs. P., gesturing to her fellow Wiccans. They moved
toward the figure of Jack, to take apart his body, leaf and branch, and
distribute them to the crowd.

Finnvarr swung one leg over his horse’s broad back and
dropped to the ground. The slap of his boots on the hard earth rang out in the
silence. Striding toward the stage, he called out, “No, old woman! Not this
time. This time, the job falls to me.” And he drew a long, bronze sword from
a black leather scabbard at his hip.

Behind him, twenty or so of his followers dismounted and
drew their blades. Those who remained on horseback moved off into the crowd,
spreading out around the central stage, forming a circle with Jack at its
heart. The crowd scrambled to get out of their way, screaming as the fiery
breath of the horses moved among them. The Wiccans on the stage froze with indecision, looking from
Mrs. P. to the approaching faeries.

A shriek rang out, high above. Three sleek shapes
plummeted toward the earth, wings arched back, talons outstretched. At the last
moment, when it seemed they must surely hit the ground, there was a shimmer of
air, and there stood Amergin, Sam, and Charly.

“Finnvarr of the Sidhe,” called out Amergin, “That
power is not yours to take. Leave it be.”

Finnvarr threw back his head and laughed. “You? Once
more you come to meddle in the fate of my people?” He turned to Amergin.
“Have you not caused us enough hurt?”

Amergin shrugged. “What is done is done. But for this
moment, I will do what I must to stop you.”

“You are alone now, old bard,” sneered the Lord of the
Sidhe. “The heroes of Mil are long turned to dust, and your time is past.
Leave the future to such as these.” He gestured around. “Frightened cattle,
with their trinkets and superstitions. They deserve to be led.”

“Not by such as you,” replied Amergin quietly. “Like
me, your time is past. Go back to your hills.”

“Oh, no.” Finnvarr shook his head. “We will hide no
more!” And with that, he thrust forward his left hand. A gust of wind,
tightly focused, hit Amergin square in the chest, sending him sprawling.

Over by the stage, Megan cried out, “Amergin!” and
began to push her way through the crowd toward him. The Faeries who were on
foot began to move, some rallying to the side of their lord, some moving toward
the stage. Sam decided to take advantage of the confusion and made his way through the crowd, heading for the silent
figure of Jack-in-the Green.

Charly, hearing her mother’s cry, set off toward her but
found her way blocked. “You,” she sighed.

“Not pleased to see me, girly?” asked the Lady Una
with a smirk. She hit Charly with a blast of air that sent her skidding across
the ground. Charly scrambled to her feet, desperately trying to think of a way
to defend herself. But she was still very new to her powers. Shape-shifting was
an effort, and she had no experience at all of protective magic, never mind
spells of attack. She put out a hand before her, trying to picture in her mind
the sort of defensive shield she had seen Amergin use. But no sooner had the
image formed than she was knocked backward once more. The Lady Una smiled to
herself.

Sam pushed his way through the crush, trying to keep Jack
in view. But the Sidhe had spotted him. From all sides, tall Faeries were
heading in his direction, kicking and elbowing frightened onlookers from their
path. Sam glanced back. One Faery was very close, a leaf-shaped bronze dagger
drawn in readiness to strike. Turning once more to the stage, Sam gasped as a
bulky figure stepped in front of him. “You!” he gasped. “I knew it!”

It was Mr. Macmillan, the sinister guest from the
Aphrodite Guest House. Beneath his greasy black hair and bushy eyebrows, his
face was lit up with fierce glee. But to Sam’s confusion, he was wearing the
costume of a morris dancer, crisp white linen and silver bells, ribbons at his
knees and elbows.

“What—?” began Sam.

“Duck!” shouted Mr. Macmillan and lunged over Sam’s
shoulder.

Sam felt a gust of wind against his neck and turned, but
there was nothing there. Looking back, he found Mr. Macmillan wiping a steel
kitchen knife on the leg of his trousers.

Still grinning, Mr. Macmillan said, “It works,
then—the iron trick. Now, get going, lad! Save Jack. Save the
summer!”

Sam stumbled past, mumbling, “Thanks! Sorry . . .”

Rather too late, he remembered Wayland’s athame, tucked
in his belt, and drew it.

All around the stage, the Wiccans of southern England were
defending Jack. With kitchen knives and iron pokers, with bunches of herbs and
wands of rowan wood they beat back the Sidhe. Mrs. P. ran to and fro, shouting
out orders, sending her friends and colleagues to block gaps in their defenses,
distributing bunches of herbs: vervain and SaintJohn’s-wort. Whenever one of
the Faery Folk fell to the bite of iron, his passing was marked by a gust of
wind and a high, thin scream. But weight of numbers was on their side, and
slowly they closed in toward the figure of Jack. Amergin and Finnvarr were
locked in a battle of their own. Oblivious to the activity by the stage, they
thrust and parried, bolts of crackling energy and blasts of air detonating
around them. Then something came into the corner of Finnvarr’s vision, and he
paused. Whirling around, he seized Megan and pressed the blade of his sword to
her throat. “This one means something to you, I think,” he growled to
Amergin. “Let this be a lesson to you, bard.

Never become too attached to mortals. They are so very . .
. breakable.” And with that he began to edge toward the stage, the blade
against Megan’s neck and one of her arms wrenched painfully up her back.
Amergin looked on in despair.

Charly too was taking a beating. She had hit her head
against an ancient cobblestone and was having trouble focusing her eyes. And
while she struggled to rally her senses, Una laid into her again and again. One
particularly well-aimed gust of air hit her in the stomach and dropped her to
the ground, gasping for breath. She fell back, panting, staring upward. The
Lady Una came into view, standing above her with the familiar smirk on her
face. Something crystallized within Charly. It was the old, instinctive hatred
for Una, the cold loathing that had gripped Charly as she stood in the line for
the East Hill Cliff Railway. Keeping her face carefully neutral, she thought,
Right, lady—there’s more than one way to tackle
this.
If magic didn’t work, there were older,
simpler ways. Charly groaned and rolled her head from side to side, but she
continued to watch Una through slitted eyes. As the Faery Queen leaned closer,
Charly brought her knees up to her chest and kicked out with all her strength,
catching Una in the pit of the stomach. The breath hissed out of her, and she
staggered backward, sitting down with a heavy thud. Charly sprang to her feet
and brushed herself down, muttering, “See how you like it!” Then, as Una
fought to regain her breath, Charly closed her eyes and centered herself.
Casting her mind back to that night on the Firehills, she tried to recall how
it had felt when she had carried out the ritual of Drawing Down the Moon. There
was no time to go through the words of the ceremony now. She would have to try
to capture the essence. She struggled. So much had happened since then. Una was
on her feet again, a look of white-hot fury on her face. And then it came to
Charly—the smell of coconut, the fragrance of a million gorse flowers pouring
their scent into the night sky.

As if the memory of that smell had unlocked a door, the
sensation of heightened awareness came over her again, every nerve in her body
attuned to its surroundings. She could see, hear, smell, feel everything so
intensely it was almost painful. And with this sensation came a slowing down of
time. Una was drawing back one hand, preparing to strike at Charly with the
power of the gale. But she moved as if in slow motion. Charly had plenty of
time to turn toward the central stage, where Sam had spotted her. He cried out,
a long, low drone of sound, and raised a languid arm. Something left his hand
and drifted through the air toward her. She reached up and plucked the athame
from its lazy arc, then turned to Una. From the palm of the Faery’s upturned
hand, a vortex of air was spreading, shimmering ripples spiraling out toward
her. Casually, Charly threw up a shield, a shimmering web of green force that
deflected the blast of air with ease. With an effort of will, she returned time
to its normal speed. Calmly, she faced her enemy. She was Charly, but she was
also Epona, horse goddess of the Celts, and she was armed with iron. It was
time to fight back.

Sam looked around. Charly seemed to be doing fine now that she had his athame, but he was in a rather worse
predicament. The Sidhe were converging on him from all sides, despite the best
efforts of the Wiccans. Suddenly, there was a tug at his elbow. He looked down
into the wrinkled face of Mrs. P.

“Go to Jack, lovey,” she pleaded. “Set free the
summer.”

“But—” began Sam, gesturing at the advancing
faeries.

“Don’t worry about them. We’ll take care of them.”

And as Sam scrambled to the edge of the stage, Mrs. P.
made her stand against the Host.

Finnvarr had reached the edge of the stage now, the
frightened Wiccans backing away from the cold threat of the blade against
Megan’s neck. With difficulty, he scrambled up, dragging Megan behind him.
Close by, Sam too climbed up onto the stage. The Sidhe were almost upon him,
and he had given up his one weapon. Still, if he had to give the athame to
anybody, he was glad it was Charly. She seemed to be holding her own now
against Una, and somehow that gave him strength.

Charly and the Lady Una fought back and forth, oblivious
to events at the center of the arena. Charly had mastered her defensive shield
now, and she had begun to take the fight to Una, firing bolt after bolt of
energy at the Queen of the Sidhe. Also, to distract her opponent, she shifted
shape, from deer to boar to hare, flickering through a kaleidoscope of animal
forms. Una was weakening, her long black hair in disarray, her clothes dirty
and torn. Finally, she felt cold stone against her back. She was cornered,
pressed into the junction of two ancient remnants of the castle walls. But then
there was a cry, high and despairing. It sounded like the boy, Sam.

Charly turned from her opponent, distracted by the scream,
and Una seized her opportunity. A series of rapid blows slammed into Charly,
and she fell, tripping over a low stone wall and landing heavily. Una pounced,
launching herself at Charly with hands clawed, long red fingernails hooked like
talons. At the last moment, Charly brought up the athame. It took Una full in
the throat. With her eyes screwed tight, Charly felt a blast of warm air wash
over her and heard a long, furious scream that trailed away as if into the far
distance. She opened her eyes, and Una was gone. Struggling to her feet, she
turned to look at the stage. Finnvarr flung Megan from him, sending her
stumbling over the edge of the low platform, and raced toward Jack. Sam, who
had been closer, was there already, standing before the towering cone of
foliage and ribbon, one hand outstretched to pluck the first leaf that would
free the summer. Finnvarr moaned as he ran, a long, low desperate sound, and
lunged with his sword.