Warstalker's Track (26 page)

Instead, Uki merely clapped his hands. A tiny bolt of lightning exploded from that juncture, flashing down to strike the water before continuing on to smite the salmon. Steam hissed into the cool, clammy air. The air stank of ozone and, ever so slightly, of cooking fish.

Nor did the steam show any sign of abating. Instead, it swirled higher, grew thicker, acquired a man-sized darkness in its heart; which clarified a moment later, when Lugh Samildinach, magnificently and unconcernedly naked, and with anger in his eyes like black ice, rose from the pool. Calvin scanned that smooth, firm flesh in search of the angry weals that had marred it. And found none.

“Nor will you, Red Man,” Lugh spat gracelessly. “Why thought you I changed my shape? Here, in this Land, I could draw on Power as I could not in your rude World. I used what I could to adopt a form that had no hair, thereby disposing of the last of the iron caught within it; a form that likewise had gills, so that the iron I had inhaled could be washed from my lungs. I am free of pain, now. Free to be myself.”

“Free to offer thanks to one who freed you,” Uki added dangerously.

Christ, what a screwy situation,
Calvin thought. Sun-god and thunder-god, facing off inside a cave behind a waterfall. David cleared his throat.

Uki’s gaze never wavered, nor did Lugh’s.

“Thank you,” Lugh growled at last, inclining his head minutely. “Never let it be said that courtesy is absent among the many skills I claim.”

Uki merely extended a hand to help Lugh onshore. Calvin was struck by how alike they were, not only in having pale skin, dark hair, and sleek but efficient muscles, but also in the way they carried themselves and their eyes flashed and sparked at every thought, word, and idea. “Many-skilled,” Uki mused. “In my tongue that would be—”

“Samildinach,” Lugh finished. “I would not seek to rename you in my realm, Thunder Lord. Respect me as much in yours.”

Uki raised a brow, then motioned Okacha forward with another deerskin loincloth, which Lugh proceeded to don. A fabulous, floor-length cloak of iridescent feathers followed, fit for a king of any World.

Calvin eased aside to watch, exchanging occasional glances with David and Sandy, who seemed as overawed as he. Clearly, Uki and Lugh—and maybe Okacha—were the big guns here. And equally clearly, each had a separate agenda.

“Welcome to Galunlati,” Uki said at last. “I have sent for food.”

“I would welcome it,” Lugh replied with an easy smile, which made them all relax. “First, however, oh Chief of Walhala, I would withdraw for a time to compose myself. My mind has been much confused of late, and my body in constant torment. A moment of silence, of peace, of the coolness that lies without, would render me better company.”

Uki smiled tolerantly. “Of course. The opening by which we entered leads outside. I have often found peace there, with the earth to my back and water pouting before me, while the sun beams through to color both water and air.”

“Exactly what I sought,” Lugh affirmed. “By your leave?”

Uki stepped aside as Lugh made his way among the stones, shells, and other excrescenses that littered Uki’s chamber as artfully as rocks in a Japanese garden. He paused at the cavern’s entrance to sketch a bow and murmur, “Thanks to mortal and Faery alike,” then disappeared into the moist darkness there.

It was almost an hour later, with the feast Okacha had spread before them growing cold upon the sand, that Liz first raised the notion that perhaps Lugh was not returning.

“No,” Fionchadd informed them a moment later, having scoured the land about with his mind. “Nor is he anywhere close at hand.”

Chapter XII: Tossing the Dice

(Tir-Gat—high summer)

“A challenge,” Aife mused, rolling the word around her tongue as though it were the most savory of morsels. “I have not been challenged in a very long time indeed.”

LaWanda, who’d been observing with keen (if nervous) interest, felt her adrenaline fix kick up another level. Which might be just as well. She’d been walking a ragged edge for a while, poised between the cool common sense she prided herself on and the hard edge of take-charge, you’re-gonna-wind-up-fighting-anyway-so-why-not-get-it-over-with forcefulness. The same determination that empowered her music when she really got going. Shoot, she’d already fought one battle in the last two days and had done herself proud in it too. There’d almost been another last night, and her main regret there was that she’d missed it, otherwise she’d have been out there in the yard with David and Aikin, beating Faery butt.

But now another challenge had been called.

Yd shifted his weight, which made his sword gleam wickedly without his flourishing it, which subtlety LaWanda noted even as he inclined his head in acknowledgment and spoke once more. “You have challenged, I have accepted, you have confirmed your intent. But though the rules that bind such things give choice of weapon to the challenged, I defer that choice to you, Lady Aife.”

Aife bowed in turn, her face, though beautiful, at the same time hard and grim. LaWanda was vastly proud to have such a woman on her side. Perhaps even as a friend—if they survived. Warily, she eyed her comrades. Myra was very still, which could mean anything, though her artist aspect was certainly filing away images for future reference. Alec was tense as a bowstring, sweating and swallowing hard, and Aikin beside him wasn’t much better, though he disguised it. And Piper—Aife wasn’t the only one with a strange, sweet, nonassertive lover.

Aife cleared her throat. “Very well, Lord Yd, I accept the challenge. I also accept the choice you have set me. But tell me: is that not the lilt of Annwyn in your voice?”

Yd’s eyes twinkled. “Aye, Lady. I was born of that land and fostered at the court of Annwyn’s king.”

“And is it not true that in Annwyn, as in Cymru, which that land overlaps in the Mortal World, things that come in threes hold significance and Power?”

Yd nodded. “It is. Do not forget that even the Trial of Heroes has as its base three trials: one of knowledge, one of courage, one of strength.”

“I have not forgotten,” Aife informed him. “What say you then to three challenges in lieu of one, each with a different weapon, wielded”—she paused for effect—“by a different warrior?”

LaWanda’s heart skipped a beat. Not at the notion of fighting, but that Aife would so casually commit the rest of them to something they neither desired nor might survive. It was Faery conditioning, she supposed: mortals—any mortals, even de facto friends—were ultimately expendable, like lab animals or pets. Still, it was an intriguing concept. She shifted her weight in turn, letting the uncertain light inside the blasted tower glimmer along her own blade: her trusty heirloom machete. And then she grinned ominously, straight at Yd, fingers moving slyly in a charm of intimidation.

Fortunately, Aife missed her machinations, yet it was clear the woman had been thinking fast and hard, and without caprice at all.

“So be it,” Yd murmured with a lifted brow and a quirky smile. “Lady, name your weapons and the warriors who will wield them.”

Aife drew herself up very straight, one hand on the hilt of the sword at her waist. “Hear me, Yd of Tir-Gat, and heed my voice. Three challenges you have accepted, and three weapons I have in mind. Yet if you will, Lord, I would name both weapons and warriors one at a time.”

“So it will be,” Yd acknowledged. “Declare your first.”

“Very well,” Aife replied with what had to be pride. “I name first of weapons, the blade. I name as wielder…LaWanda Gilmore.”

It was all LaWanda could do to retain a straight face, though from fear or relief, she had no idea. Part of her was crazy-eager to burn off a week’s worth of angst and kick some serious ass. Another part realized that it
was
serious ass, and more than her own fine black skin rode on the outcome. Like her friends’ lives. Like the fate of Sullivan Cove. Like the fate of the whole Mortal World, if worse came to worst. Still, it wasn’t like folks hadn’t confronted similar pressure before. Besides, Aife had turned toward her, and no way she could be less than all she was before a woman like that. She pointedly avoided catching Piper’s eyes, however; though she could hear him softly reciting, “No, no, no, no…”

“Yes!” she answered, as much to Piper as to Aife or Yd. Then: “I accept. But I don’t have a sword.”

“I said
blade,
not
sword—and
you have a…machete, is it?” Aife retorted. “It rides in your hand as easily as a Damascus blade, is longer than some, and made of steel. Yd, I am certain, would prefer both a fair fight and a well-matched one. He has experience and skill. You have a weapon he does not know, and steel.”

“Fine,” LaWanda snapped. “Let’s do it!”

It was Yd’s turn to clear his throat. “There is still one inequality here,” he observed. “You have matched our weapons somewhat, but what of armor? The lady has none; I have enough to challenge Lugh himself on the tourney field.” He turned to face LaWanda. “Would you have armor, Lady; or would you have me fight with none?”

Well, that’s easy enough!
LaWanda thought. “I’m not used to armor,” she replied civilly, “and if you’ve practiced as much as I suspect you have to have got where you are, I imagine you’re used to doin’ without. So no armor.”

“So be it, then,” Yd agreed, already reaching for the complex penannular brooch that confined his cloak, just to the right of his chin.

“Well,” Aikin muttered to LaWanda, “I guess we’re in it now. So thank you, good luck, and whatever you do,
don’t
break a leg.”

“Hadn’t planned to.”

“I’m counting on you, Juju Woman,” Alec added.

LaWanda glared at him. “That stuff won’t help here. Takes time to set up, then works slow and subtle. Don’t help in a fight when you’ve gotta work fast, ’less you’ve done stuff by yourself beforehand. Whatever happens here’s just gonna be me.” And with that, she sat down on a chunk of fallen column and calmly removed her boots.

*

However long it took to ready themselves for combat, it was way too long for LaWanda, with far too much discussion of picky things which nevertheless had boiled down to two: locale and rules.

Locale was simple: the more brightly lit side of the mossy greensward outside, which was maybe fifty feet across at the widest. Rules were more complex, but amounted to determining fair target zones and what would constitute victory. Yd, reasonably enough for a Faery, wanted to fight to the death, until Aife pointed out that death was one thing for him, another for LaWanda, but if it
was
death he was talking about, it was the Death of Iron for him, because that was what LaWanda wielded. He’d blanched at that and settled on third blooding. Which suited LaWanda fine. She’d done a bit of fencing and fooled around with the Society for Creative Anachronism, and while a machete was neither an epee nor a rattan sword, she doubted Yd had had much contact with the nuances of either form, if what Myra had said about Alban and Annwyn being “behind” the Mortal World in time was true.

In any event, she was ready. There was no out-of-bounds save the tower itself and the mirror-sand. To contact one or step into the other meant a restart equidistant between. Per agreement, LaWanda had wasted no time stripping down to her jeans and red tank top. The rest, jewelry and all, was piled neatly on the surviving table inside. The moss felt great against her bare feet: soft and tingly. It released a faint spicy scent when trod upon.

As for Yd, true to LaWanda’s admonition, he’d replaced his bronze armor with a pair of what looked like sweat pants made of checked wool, purple and gray. He was barefoot and bare-chested, and had tied his hair back in a tail. And when he’d removed his tunic, his body had proved to be covered with intricate knotwork tattoos rendered in a brown that was scarcely darker than his golden skin. The effect was between vellum and damask, and not at all unattractive. Or maybe that was the body beneath: as fine a piece of manflesh as LaWanda had ever seen. Not that Lugh and Finno were hard to look at bare, nor David, Calvin, or Aikin—or even skinny little Piper. But this guy was more filled out than the best of them yet still as sleek, representing as close to her aesthetic ideal as she’d ever encountered.

An ideal it was her duty to despoil.

“At your pleasure,” Yd declared abruptly, gazing at Aife, who would act as marshal. Just as well he’d spoken first, too; LaWanda had feared that to do so herself would betray an apprehension she didn’t want revealed.

“Ready!” she called in reply.

Aife motioned them to where a single flat paving stone carved with a rising sun marked what passed in Tir-Gat for east. Which, she recalled from talking to Calvin, was the direction of victory. She wondered if Yd knew that.

Not that it mattered when she was standing a yard away from a far larger, more experienced warrior bent on doing her harm, with only a wooden staff Aife had found inside and proclaimed a marshal’s baton thrust between. Yd was a lefty, she noted.

Aife regarded them levelly, her eyes hard as LaWanda’s well-used steel. “My lord, my lady; you know the rules. For honor and glory”—and here she stepped back and withdrew the baton abruptly—“lay on!”

LaWanda shifted back instinctively, tried to assume a standard fencing guard, then quickly changed her mind when she saw Yd’s more aggressive stance.
What then?
as she tried to recall the blocks and blows Scott had taught her in his days in the SCA.
Perhaps a feint… Whang!
As Yd’s blade slashed in from her right, and she met it—barely. The blow made her arm vibrate and her hand hurt, never mind her wrist, which she’d had to twist to an unreasonable angle in order to block him. His sword smoked.

Whang!
Again. Blind reflex that time. Scent of hot metal.

She danced away, let the recoil carry her blade around and down, aiming at Yd’s sword arm. He met it, of course, but the force of her blow bent his blade so far back that one final twist nicked his forearm just below the elbow.

“First blood!” Aife called.

“Well done,” Yd conceded.

Alec and Aikin applauded. Piper was nowhere to be seen. A pause for breath and to reposition themselves above the stone, and Aife withdrew her baton. “Lay on!”