Warstalker's Track (47 page)

“And how are we to choose which of us makes first claim?”

“We go together,” Lugh informed him. “You place your palm on the arm, I place mine atop it—or beneath, if you so say; it matters not to me. We then place our other hands on the dagger and stab through flesh into stone.”

“And that is all?”

“That is how it was done for me.”

“Well, then,” Turinne agreed, “let us do it.”

II

For the second time since arriving in Tir-Nan-Og, Arawn of Annwyn was late. That business in the Mortal World was troubling, too; and he’d spent most of the voyage hence cursing himself for not investigating those events more thoroughly. But he could already smell the sweet scent of the kingdom on which he planned to feast, and that, as much as that…
being’s
taunts, had urged him here in haste.

Nearly too late at that, because somewhere between their arrival at what was surely the mortal boy’s private Place of Power and their reemergence in Tir-Nan-Og, some fundamental change had wracked the Land. It spoke of Power applied subtly but in profligate amounts, and of a heretofore unknown brand of sorcery. Terms didn’t matter, though, when the end was the same. Tir-Nan-Og
had
moved.

So it was that he’d almost watched too long, then had to use Dana’s own skill to enter into the palace unopposed and unaccompanied save for Finvarra (and damn his hide for that: to wait until they were beneath Lugh’s roof—and therefore his protection—to acknowledge his presence here). But that was for later—a diversion perhaps, now, given that Lugh looked to be gaining ground fast. And if Lugh commanded the Powers Arawn suspected he did, this might
not
be a good time for confrontation after all.

They reached the hall from the door opposite that through which Turinne had entered, and were just in time to see both men kneel before that empty chair of earth-dark stone. A pause for breath, and Turinne placed his hand flat on the throne’s right arm. Lugh laid his atop it.

Another breath, and Turinne raised the dagger, high enough to reveal it to all who gathered there. Two of his guard, two loyal Sons of Ailill, applauded spontaneously, but Turinne silenced them with a glare. “At your will,” Arawn heard him whisper, the words still audible, courtesy of the room’s perfect air.

“Aye,” Lugh murmured back, and wrapped his hand around Turinne’s.

“At sunset precisely, a gong will sound,” Lugh advised his adversary. “When that stroke sounds, we stab.”

For five heartbeats they waited: the claimants to the crown; their friends, warriors, and seconds; and two rival kings who had come to claim the bones.

Another pair of heartbeats. Then, so deep it was as though the palace itself resounded: a muffled, earth-deep
bong.

Lugh’s hand tightened; Arawn saw the tendons stand out there. Clutched in two fists, the dagger swung down…closer…closer…almost touching the flesh of the topmost hand…

Lugh shifted his weight, which upset the forces on the blade. And in that instant of wavering indecision, his grip tightened again like a spring-trap, and he acted.

It was over before Arawn saw. The dagger had indeed tasted flesh, but that moment’s uncertainty had cost Turinne his life. Lugh’s ploy had been simple: confuse his opponent at the most critical moment, then make him relax, then strike—not down through the hands but inward, suddenly, with Lugh’s greater strength, into Turinne’s heart.

Arawn heard the sharp gasp, the hiss of incredulous anger, that filled the Sons of Ailill. But the word he heard most clearly, and from Turinne, was “Forsworn!”

“No,” Lugh snapped, as he casually removed his blade from Turinne’s body and let it slump aside. “You yourself named your doom.”

“I…do not understand.”

Lugh grinned a malicious grin. “My precise words upon proposing this were ‘we will proceed with the dagger.’ I did not say with what we would proceed. My words upon agreeing were ‘I have said it’; yours were ‘so be it’ and ‘let us do it.’ I
never said what ‘it’ meant, nor did you, leaving me free to choose what sense I would.”

“It was implicit,” Turinne gasped.

“Ah, but only the
explicit
can be true.”

“It is trickery! I would have thought better of you.”

Lugh regarded him coldly. “You tricked me as well: with poison from the Mortal World, when the Laws of Dana gave you the right to call me out. And do not forget, you are a traitor: be glad I
do not scour your soul with iron!”

He rose then and turned toward his followers, leaving Turinne to die where he fell. He would return, of course; his
soul
would. But it might take ages for him to build another body, and Lugh, Arawn knew, would be watching.

“Long live the King!” Nuada shouted. “Long live the Ard Rhi of Tir-Nan-Og! Long live High King Lugh!”

Arawn stared Finvarra straight in the eye, grimacing sourly. “Long live,” the two cried together. “Long live High King Lugh!”

Lugh turned to face them, smiling far too smugly. “Greetings, brothers!” he cried graciously. “And welcome to my court! One boon alone I claim of you, which is that you re-acclaim me, and the words be, ‘Long may Lugh Samildinach reign as High King of
all
the realm of Tir-Nan-Og.’ Or, you may face iron too.”

As one, they blanched. As one, they also responded.

“Now,” Lugh sighed, turning once again to sit on his throne, “would someone please tell me why my Land has moved?”

III

(Sullivan Cove, Georgia—Monday, June 30—just before midnight)

Little Billy stared at his father’s face. At his nose, more specifically, wondering if the bristly hairs in his nostrils still stirred. They did, which was a relief. Big Billy really was breathing; he could hear the soft, whispery, hiss—hear it when his mom hushed, anyway, which wasn’t often. She was in the kitchen now, making up another pot of coffee to divide among herself, Uncle Dale, and him. His dad was beyond drinking, and had been ever since he’d woke up with a wild-eyed start, made that comment about killing boys, and started crying, then gone back to…sleep. That had really put the wind up Little Billy, too, because it was full of—what was that word David used? Oh, yeah:
symbolism.
For sure there was more to it than just a dream.

And the howling—wailing, or whatever—that was still going on too, though it had kinda subsided into a distant sob like a big diesel engine very far away. Once, he was certain it had ended, and his heart had all but stopped because he had a strong suspicion that its ending meant his dad was dead. He hadn’t been. Thank God. But the whole thing still freaked him because he knew something magic was going on close by; he’d learned to sense such things, or else it was in his genes the same way it’d been in David’s
and
David-the-Elder’s. In any event, it was like Life and Death fought some enormous battle that sent ripples even here, and that the wailing ebbed and flowed with the tides of that weird-ass battle.

One thing was certain: nothing would be the same after tonight. In the meantime, maybe he should—

He froze in the act of rising and stared transfixed at his father. The wailing had returned, louder than it had ever been. Louder again, and the nose hairs slowly stopped moving, and an unmarked tension along Big Billy’s jaw relaxed as his mouth fell open with a rattly hiss. And then the hairs stirred again.

“No!” Little Billy gritted. “This
isn’t.
You
aren’t—not yet!”

And with that he rose and stalked through the kitchen door. His mom, who was at the counter making sandwiches, raised a brow as he passed. Uncle Dale was snoozing in a chair. “Goin’ to check the rain,” Little Billy announced, easing out the screen door.

He
was
gonna check the rain, too: up on Lookout Rock, the place where something told him the only remaining chance of helping his father lay. Funny, though; it wasn’t raining now, and the sky had gone utterly clear, as though the thunderous cumuli had never existed. There was also something screwy about the western horizon, too, but he couldn’t figure out what. Nor did he care. Not remotely.

Chapter XXII: Going Home

(Lookout Rock, Georgia—Tuesday, July 1—the wee hours)

“Oh, my God!” David groaned, staring at Fionchadd through sodden, bloody hair. “You’re cut off here, aren’t you?”

“What?” Kirkwood grunted, drifting over to join them, atasi in hand. One of the few who’d survived the night unbloodied, he was more alert than most of their cadre, a couple of whom, notably LaWanda, seemed dangerously close to shock. David doubted he was entirely in his right mind himself, and knew he wasn’t when he thought about Brock. He scowled at his Faery friend, who looked like something the cat had dragged in after gnawing on it a while.

“Madness,” Fionchadd mumbled as though to himself, beginning to pace. “As best I can tell, I am indeed cut off from Faerie, yet my body is substance of that Land, and that link is never severed. Faerie will begin to draw on me. It will be subtle at first, a minor irritation, but will grow stronger day by day. Eventually…one goes mad. No one knows what happens then.”

David shrugged helplessly and picked up his atasi. “Christ, Finno, I don’t know what to say. I mean, you knew the risk. You should’ve covered your ass.”

The Faery regarded him levelly. “Would you have?” Another shrug, a wary smile; the first in what seemed like hours. “Probably not. But hey, we’ll figure out something.

In the meantime, you can stay with me and Alec down in Athens.”

“Or me,” Kirkwood chimed in. “Wouldn’t mind pickin’ this boy’s brain a while.”

“I was fixing to suggest the same thing,” Sandy inserted, ambling up with Myra, with whom she seemed to have bonded. “Sit on the porch, drink beer, and discuss Faery physics. Like what’s this stuff about changing ‘substance’ mean, anyway? Best I can figure it involves one of those quirky subatomic things like charm or spin, or something. Like positive to negative, only you don’t get antimatter or anything.”

Fionchadd regarded her woodenly. “I would be glad to discuss these things. But still—”

“Guy wants to go home,” Calvin said from where he was inspecting the nearest body.

“We already knew that,” David grumbled.

“No big deal,” Calvin replied easily, flopping down beside Sandy. “He’s still got his boat, right? It’s in splinters, but maybe it could be fixed. Plus”—he squinted at Fionchadd in the uncertain light—“correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you part Powersmith? But that’s not the same as Faery, right? So can’t you still get to their place from Galunlati? And from there to Faerie?”

“Right!” David took up eagerly. “And we
know
how to get to Galunlati!”

“Unless,” Liz cautioned, “we moved those places along with Tir-Nan-Og.”

Fionchadd shook his head. “We did not. I learned the spell as Aife did. It was quite specific.”

“Well then,” Kirkwood concluded brightly. “You’re okay! You hang around here a while, put some meat on your bones, and when you start gettin’ antsy, Cal here ships you off to Galunlati, and you make your way back home from there.”

“Yes,” Fionchadd considered. “That actually does sound possible.”

Liz nudged David with a knee. “What about Alec?” David looked up from scouring the atasi with a rag he’d picked up somewhere. And saw his friend—his
best
friend—squatting by the edge of the pool farthest from the mass of floating bodies, staring into that cold, wet, mirror-darkness, sometimes stirring it with a stick. Aife was where they’d left her, floating on her back as though she had no weight at all. No one had touched her, though Fionchadd had flung the remains of his cloak over her face, through which, by what couldn’t be entirely luck, some of her beauty still showed.

Again, David sighed. “He’ll be okay. I think he really has given her up now. In fact, I think he had a pretty good idea beforehand it’d never work. He needs to be his own man for a while, and never would’ve been with Aife. No way they could’ve ever been equal partners.”

Liz nodded. “Better keep an eye on him, though.”

David nodded back. “Never fear.”

“I, uh, hate to mention this,” Scott drawled, “but we really do have to figure out what to do about these bodies.”

“Anyone make a count?” Sandy wondered.

David craned his neck. “Aik’s doin’ one now. Prob’ly pilferin’ everything in sight for weapons, too; not that I blame him. Somebody oughta get something out of this.”

Liz snorted.

David rose, aware as he pressed down how sore his arm was, like his headache, which reminded him of his possible concussion every time he moved. His arm really was a mess, too, with a deep oozing furrow four inches long in his left biceps, where a bullet had winged him pretty damned solid, with a sword-scrape right on top of it. Probably should’ve bound it up a long time ago. Except, Christ, he’d only had it maybe ten minutes! Which seemed impossible. He ripped at the sleeve—and winced. As soon as they got things squared away here, he’d…

What?
By all reasonable standards, this whole cruddy mess was over. They’d achieved their goal: had moved Tir-Nan-Og, so that it was no longer threatened by the new resort down at Sullivan Cove. But
that
problem still remained: the rape of his ancestral land, and he doubted Mystic Mountain Properties would be sympathetic.

And there was still the matter of his pa. A nap would be nice too. Food. A bath in very hot water. At least it wasn’t raining, though it might as well have been, for a thick summer fog had risen, completely veiling the world beyond the ledge. Which was just as well; he didn’t want to contemplate the last thing he’d seen out there. Shoot, for all he knew, Arawn’s crowd could’ve escaped…whatever, and be on their way back now. Maybe they should post another guard.

In the meantime, they really did have to do something about the bodies. And since calling the authorities was not an option (no way they’d be able to deal with those sorts of questions), he supposed they’d have to consider arcane alternatives. In any event, they had to get ’em out of the water and try to identify ’em, especially the mortals—not that he expected to find IDs.