Warstalker's Track (11 page)

Nuada eyed Big Billy askance. “Aye…perhaps. Perhaps, indeed, when the time comes for them to set up their new king there will be nothing left for him to rule, whether we free Lugh or not.”

“Who
is
their new king, anyway?” David asked abruptly.

“His name is Turinne,” Nuada muttered. “He is young and rash, but very, very canny, or I would know more of him than I do, which is almost nothing.”

David’s hands were starting to sweat on the stock of his shotgun. “Would bullets do anything at all against that?” he murmured to anyone who would listen.

Iron will wreak little harm against Powersmith vessels,
came the quick flash of Fionchadd’s thought.
Save your strength for living foes.

How many?
David thought back at him, desperately hoping their conversation was masked.

Enough for this place—and more than we command.

And then David felt a dull, alien buzzing in his mind that was surely the approaching vessel bespeaking the Faeries that crewed their own. Other consciousnesses brushed his too, and he cringed, so full of contempt were they. “Don’t think,” he rasped to his mortal friends. “They’re tryin’ to read our minds.”

At least Aife’s ploy was working—maybe. But David’s fingers were sweating more, and the cursed, pervasive heat was a constant distraction, given how liquid was starting to pool on his forehead, run into his eyes, and make tickling forays the length of his body. He prayed nobody had an itchy trigger finger.

And then the steam cleared enough for David to glimpse the insignia emblazoned upon that approaching sail. Lugh’s device was
argent, a sun-in-splendor, Or;
or sometimes that sun on a field
murry, sable,
or
gules.
This was a parody of that: a golden field; a white sun impaled on a sword, the sun releasing a rain of scarlet drops across the lower half of the field
—goutee de sang,
in the jargon of heraldry.

Only then did he pause to wonder what device their own vessel bore. Earlier—last week—the sail had been crimson, displaying a silver American chameleon or anole, in reference to Fionchadd’s Cherokee name, Dagantu. If that still billowed above them, they were in trouble.

Unable to resist, David looked around, but the sail was mercifully furled, a bound cigar of red fabric decorating the spar atop their mast.

But would that itself be read as a sign?

Closer now—the ship had covered half the distance between the two of them, and still no words had been spoken, though the troubling buzz half in his head, half in his ears was neither comforting nor intelligible, for it was entirely in the incredibly complex Faery ceremonial speech, which was distant kin to the most formal and highly inflected Gaelic.

Closer, and the dragon prows bobbed in the seething vapors, as though they too sought recognition.

Closer yet, and he saw their opponents clearly for the first time: tall, hard-faced men in golden surcoats ranged along the deck, with as many more of rougher shape, if not more roughly clad, among them, every other one, with a final Faery at the tiller.

David wondered if those mortals were there by choice and from what lands and places they hailed. He didn’t want to
kill
them, but knew he would if pressed: his death or another’s. But did these foes—the mortal ones—have family and friends who would mourn their loss with soul-wrenching regret? Or were they solos, soldiers of fortune recruited to a stranger war than any of them could ever have anticipated? Elyyoth hadn’t known, and Nuada had only ventured guesses: that they were not all men of David’s land or time. Aife had no idea at all; the utilization of mortals having come about after her departure from the Sons of Ailill.

Closer yet, and then, for the first time, David heard voices and the slow, heavy beat of some vast brazen drum.

Nuada’s warning was like lightning through David’s brain, and it took a moment to sort out the words.
Should you seek to board that vessel, be very sure of your footing, for if you fall into the cauldron beneath us, mortal flesh will die!

And that was it. David’s only recourse now was waiting. A billow of steam washed between the vessels, and when it parted again, and he blinked the latest runnels of sweat from his eyes, the vessel was suddenly alongside, the shields along both gunwales not a dozen feet apart.

David’s companions faced that other crew in two grim-eyed lines, one before the other. The back—Aife, himself, Fionchadd, and Nuada—wore the guise of Faerie, all in cloaks and mail. Nuada and Aife, at either end, sported bared swords; Fionchadd kept his hands hidden, as did David, who gripped his double-barrel in sweating fingers beneath a close-drawn cloak. Before them ranked the mortals in deliberately disarrayed mortal togs: Aikin in front of Aife, Brock ahead of David, Big Billy before Fionchadd, and LaWanda in Nuada’s van. It was a deliberate arrangement: three of the most distinctive mortals from the Sons’ attack on Lugh’s guests displayed to the fore. If they were lucky, their opponents would focus their attention on them, not on their all-too-lightly-englamoured “captors.”

If
they were lucky.

More orders stabbed David’s mind, quick and brutal with haste: a plan Nuada had clearly formulated on the spot and had no time to finesse into their minds, no time to debate or delay. For an instant, David’s brain went utterly blank; the next, he was certain he’d been struck blind. Yet his body was already responding to commands his brain knew but could not express.

“Now!”
Nuada roared. And battle was begun.

The four obvious mortals knelt as one, hands still behind them as though joined by chains in forced submission. But even as they stumbled onto their knees, even as eyes in the opposing vessel swung their way, hands that had
not
been bound swept around and four sets of gun barrels belched lead and steel, noise and pain.

Distraction. Maximum damage. First offensive.
David flung his cloak aside and leveled his shotgun at the center-most rank of warriors, not ten yards across from him, fixed on a red-haired Faery man, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. He felt the kick, but the report was lost within an explosion of other sounds: startled cries, some of them clearly of pain or surprise and
not
in English; a blast of alarm and rage in his head; the rapid rattle of small-arms fire as those in the front rank peppered their opponents with bullets and shot intended to shatter joints, blind eyes, and distract mortal and Faery alike with as much pain as possible.

David got off the requisite two shots and saw the red-haired Faery fall, clutching his belly, where an enormous red cavern gaped. His own stomach promptly revolted, but he fought it down as the mortal beside the redhead turned to gape at him, half dazed, half furious, hands diving to his waist, where a pair of pistols waited.

And then noise gave way to movement, as the bogus captives hurled themselves forward to crouch behind the gunwale: smart, given they wore no armor and had surprise alone on their side—not that David approved Nuada’s plan. It was too hard on the mortal faction—like the British sacrificing the Aussies at Gallipoli.

Which burst of anger ate maybe half a second before David too lunged forward, aiming for the narrow gap that had opened between Big Billy and Brock. More movement caught his
eye
as he hit and rolled: Nuada, to his left, had raised his sword and swung it in a smooth arc before his body, and as he did, flame roared up before it to slash across the gunwale of the opposing vessel. Shields charred in its wake, and a whole vast section fell away, revealing the vessel’s ribs, thereby depriving their opponents of half their cover.
So why didn’t he sink it entirely?
David wondered as he fumbled frantically for ammo for the twelve-gauge.

Prisoners.
Nuada’s thought whipped into his own. He glanced that way reflexively, and felt his heart all but stop as Nuada charged screaming toward the railing, poised there a moment, then leapt across that boiling, seething rift to the other vessel. A hard pounding to his right was Aife likewise running—leaping—vanishing into steam, a coil of rope clutched beneath the arm that didn’t wield a sword. David assumed she touched down, but Aikin’s irate grunt reminded him that this was no time to gawk and ponder. For now his business was simple: reload as soon as possible, shoot as accurately as he could, and try to keep his own skin intact. For a bare instant all he knew was his father’s face to his left, white as death; Aikin jumbling through his cache of ammo to his right; and Brock crunched up before him, unable to move at all.

Reflexively, he eased back—as a deadly rain of objects thunked into the deck.
Daggers:
the first weapons easily at hand to warriors who, for what was hopefully a crucial moment too long, had not expected attack. Somehow he managed to reload, swallowed hard, and thrust his head above the gunwale between two shields in hopes of getting off another pair of shots—only to jerk it down again as, with unbelievable speed, one of his foes flung a dagger that rang off the earpiece of his helmet. A fractioned second slower or faster for either of them and he’d be sporting a hand’s length of metal in his eye.

More thunks. More shots—some coming
toward
them now—and more cries of every kind, and he had barely time to note that Nuada had engaged the vessel’s captain one-on-one, and that Aife was doing likewise with a rangy mortal at the other end, all the while tugging hard on the rope to draw the vessels together. Too many things at once, though, and she hadn’t noticed the helmsman sprinting toward her, sword upraised.

“Aik, there!” David yelled, pointing with his gun, feeling rather than seeing his friend twist around and fire, his position giving him better odds of missing the Faery woman.

A third round of thunks, more opposing fire, two more possible hits of his own, and then his blood turned to ice as he heard a strangled cry at far too close range. “Finno!” someone yelled—LaWanda? But he had no time to check, as a new hail of bullets sprayed across the deck inches behind his feet. He drew them up instantly, huddled into an awkward ball as random fire exploded and at least two bullets made it through the thick bronze shields. Shrapnel grazed his fingers, and he felt a wash of heat he suspected was Faery flame not unlike Nuada’s being brought to bear on their vessel.

Two more reports, right beside him. “Got ’im!” Aikin crowed abruptly. “Go, Aife!” And then silence for an instant—and a hard, crunching thump as the vessels slammed together. The impact knocked David back from his shelter, as Nuada’s command slashed his mind again.

“Over!”

What did Silverhand
mean,
“Over”? This wasn’t part of the plan—

Nor was encountering our foes afloat,
came Aife’s terse reply.

“Over, you mortal fool!”

The command carried the force of compulsion, and before David knew what he was doing, he’d leapt to his feet and was hurling himself across the now-narrow gap between the vessels. Steam washed his face with a bath of wet agony, and he had a moment of horrible, frozen panic as he saw nothing below but churning, boiling water, and ahead, a sweep of charred deck littered with shards of wood, scraps of bronze, a splatter of blood, and the sprawling shapes of warriors scrambling to their feet.

Somehow he was on his feet as well, traction uncertain upon the slippery deck, shotgun—empty again—a dead weight in his hands.

“Dave! Look—”
came Aikin’s desperate shout. But before he could react, something heavy slammed into his back, flinging him hard across an inert body, to fetch up short against the raised metal boss at the base of the mast. He twisted as he hit, trying desperately to maintain any hold at all on the twelve-gauge, wondering if he ought not to forget it now and trust in sword or pistol.

Traitor!
came his assailant’s thought—Faery speech, yet intelligible—then:
Mortal scum!
as David’s thrashings shook his helm aside, revealing his all-too-obvious features. He kicked savagely—all he could do—and continued twisting, and somehow found himself half upright, facing the largest Faery male he’d ever seen, scrambling toward him, sword upraised. David rolled as the sword arced down, but managed to knock the weapon from its goal with the shotgun swung one-handed. The stench of hot metal scorched the air; the sword flew from startled fingers—and then the man fell full upon him.

But not a man any longer: an enormous catlike creature, sleeker than a lion, black as a melanistic puma, fanged like a saber-toothed tiger. Twice his size, too, and easily thrice as heavy.

Thank God for mail!—
as
claws slashed his chest, rending his surcoat to ribbons and sending metal rings popping. Another like that, and—

There’d better not
be
another! And then his field of vision narrowed to a mouthful of teeth bearing down on his head. He batted at it desperately—and was appalled at the roar that ensued, and only then recalled that he still held the shotgun in one hand and had a pistol at his waist. The first was empty, the latter wasn’t, but at these quarters, what you could wield most effectively was what mattered.

“Fuck you!” he snarled as he smashed the twelve-gauge down on the creature’s back. The thick, acrid stench of burning hair filled the air, and the beast’s growl became a scream as it leapt aside. He leapt after and managed to fumble the automatic free, even as he used the shotgun as a combination sword and cattle prod to force the beast farther away. A breath, a pause to check for impending assault from other quarters, and he thumbed off the Beretta’s safety and fired point-blank into the cat-beast’s maw. It screamed again and blood gushed forth. David got off another shot, this time in the chest.
You better have a heart in there!
he raged through a third.
Better not be able to fight with the fuckin’ thing stopped!

“Fool!” the beast snarled back, in dreadful parody of mortal speech.

“Who you callin’ fool?” came LaWanda’s shriek from somewhere behind, followed instantly by a shotgun blast.

The beast fell silent—possibly because it lacked a head. Yet even as David watched, that shape altered, reverting to the man-form that was its proper state. Already queasy, he gagged, turning hastily away, hand across his mouth, propped against the mast while he got his bearings, already seeking another foe. “Thanks, Wan—” he began, but his savior was gone.