The Firehills Part 9

Something moved across the darkened turf of the hilltop toward them, a blur of deeper darkness that resolved itself into the figure of the Malifex. The smith pulled his hammer from its sling once more.

"Boy," began the Malifex, standing before them, hands on hips, "I don't know who-or what-you are, but you have powerful friends. Well met, Volund." He nodded to the smith, who stared calmly back.

"Your friend here," the Malifex continued to Sam, "is the son of Wate, the sea giant. Almost a G.o.d. But not quite, eh?"

Wayland shrugged.

"But you, boy, you are a puzzle. My brother's stench is all over you, but he is not one for meddling in human affairs. Strange. . . . There is clearly a tale to be told here. Sadly, though, I fear I will have to kill you and leave it untold."

He drew back one hand, fingers clawed.

"Sam!" shouted the smith. "Into the fire!"

"What?" Sam looked horrified.

"The Gate of Fire! Quick!"

The Malifex unleashed a bolt of energy, violet lightning crackling through the air. Quick as thought, the smith's hammer flew into its path, deflecting it harmlessly to the side.

"You're a Walker Between Worlds, lad," called Wayland. "Just think of where you want ter go and trust."

Sam turned from the smith to the beacon fire, a blazing pyre of logs on the hill's summit, spitting sparks into the sky. His mouth went dry. The Malifex had turned his attention to Wayland now. The two of them were locked in battle, the smith huge once more and full of glee, glowing with his own power. The Malifex hurled bolt after bolt of malice, but Wayland parried with his hammer, occasionally lashing out to strike the Malifex with a force that shook the hill.

Sam looked back at his friend, and as he did, Wayland turned briefly.

"'Ere," he shouted, "don't forget this!" He threw a cloth-bound bundle to Sam. "Fare well, lad. And give they Farisees one from me!" With that he returned to his battle. Sam gazed once more into the heart of the fire, where the ragged remnants of branches glowed almost white. Then he closed his eyes and walked toward the blaze. As the heat grew, he heard the Malifex shout, "One day, boy!

This is not over!"

CHAPTER 7.

The Host of the Sidhe stared at Charly for a moment and then returned to their feasting. Charly stood panting, holding onto the door frame for support. The memory of horror made her spin around, but the long hallway behind her was empty, the torches flickering once more in their niches. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to slow her heartbeat. Her mouth was filled with thick, acid saliva, and her lungs ached. Swallowing with a grimace, she adjusted her hair and took a deep breath. Then, with as much innocence as she could muster, she strolled into the feasting hall.

Arrayed in their finery, the Hosts of the Air ate and drank to the sweet music of pipes and fiddles. At the head of the great table, Lord Finnvarr and Lady Una sat side by side, smiling indulgently at their subjects. They seemed oblivious to Charly, who kept close to the wall, circling around the tables, a look of studied innocence on her face. For a moment, however, she glanced to the top table and her eyes met with those of the Lady Una. But only for a moment. The Faery Queen broke the contact and turned her attention to some story being told by a courtier.

Charly tried to keep her face neutral, but the familiar feeling of hatred had welled up when she had looked into Una's eyes. She continued around the perimeter of the room, staying in the shadows. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her arm and her heart nearly stopped.

"Come!" said a rich, musical voice. "Sit here. The evening is yet young!"

Charly found herself staring into the face of a tall young man with flowing black hair and lavender eyes. "Um," she mumbled, trying to think of an excuse as she found herself propelled toward a chair. Feeling suddenly more shy than scared, she sat down. The young man began to load her plate with delicacies-slices of meat and strange fruit, rich cheeses, and soft white bread. Charly tried the bread, thinking that it, at least, ought to be safe, and found it was delicious. She began to try the other items on her plate and discovered that they were all exquisite. She washed the food down with a pale, golden liquid from a silver goblet. It tasted a little like honey, but refreshing rather than sickly, like cold spring water. The sweet voices of the faery host swirled around her as she ate, and the warmth from the huge fire burning in the hearth along one wall soaked into her bones, relaxing her aching muscles.

At the head of the table, a silent exchange took place between Lord Finnvarr and the Lady Una.

So our pets have brought us a gift-the mortal girl, thought the Lord of Sidhe. We will have good sport with her. Perhaps as a finale to the feast.

No, my lord, replied Lady Una. Spare her, I beg you!

Finnvarr raised one eyebrow. You feel pity for this . . . mortal?

No, my lord. Unfinished business lies between us. Finnvarr threw back his head and roared with laughter. Ah, my queen! Take her then, my gift to you. But be swift. We must make ready for war.

Before long, Charly began to feel a little dizzy. The sounds of merrymaking seemed to grow distant, and she had trouble keeping her eyes open. She let her head slump down onto her chest and stared at her plate. It was littered with the remains of her meal-puddles of congealed sauce, unidentifiable bones and sc.r.a.ps of meat, cheese rind, shining globules of fat. Charly felt ill. Dreading the thought of being sick at the table, she willed herself to rise, but the heat and the incessant music wrapped around her brain. She felt removed, distant from her own body. With an effort, she turned her head and looked up the length of the long table. She found the Lady Una staring right back at her. The smirking face of the faery sent a cold surge of fury through Charly, clearing her head. With an effort of will, she mumbled "'Scuse me" to the man with the lavender eyes and got to her feet. Unsteadily, she made her way around the room and through a door into the fresh air of the corridor beyond.

The day of the festival dawned cold and gray, a thin overcast moving in off the sea, threatening rain. Megan dragged herself from her bed with a feeling of dread. Today she would have to set up her stall in the castle grounds and go about her business, not knowing if Charly, Amergin, and Sam were alive or dead. And if Mrs. P. was right, something terrible would happen before the festival was over. She set off early, leaving Mrs. P. to bustle around the Aphrodite, cooking breakfasts and telephoning her friends, warning them of the day's coming threat. Her car labored up the steep streets of the Old Town, onto the top of West Hill. There Megan was relieved to find a parking s.p.a.ce close to the castle entrance. Taking a fold-up table from the trunk, she walked up the long entrance track, waved her stallholder's pa.s.s at the woman in the ticket office, and made her way out into the ruins of the castle. The castle, built by William the Conqueror to commemorate his victory over the English in 1066, was destroyed by King John just one hundred and fifty years later. Time and the elements had continued his work, until all that remained were a few tumbledown walls and the roofless sh.e.l.ls of buildings surrounding a bowl of gra.s.s, perched on the lip of the cliffs.

A few people were already at work, setting up their stalls or ferrying food and drink to the big white tents along one wall. Megan exchanged greetings with a few of the other stallholders, regulars like herself, and began to set up her table. Several trips later, the stall was complete, the pottery arranged neatly on a brightly colored tablecloth. Megan wandered over to the seaward side of the castle, where a low and ragged wall separated the gra.s.sy arena from the steep cliff face. From there, she could look out over the town. Far below, a long car park on the seafront had been taken over by motorbikes, hundreds of them in gleaming rows. The ma.s.sed roar of their engines drifted up to the castle on the damp salt wind. Beyond the bikes, the flat gray expanse of the sea merged seamlessly with the sky. Tracking across the rows of bikes, Megan's eyes found a knot of color and movement: the beginnings of the festival. Down on the promenade, out beyond the car park, the procession was forming. Megan could just make out the straggling line of Jack's followers, dancing figures in green and black and, at the center of the procession, the towering shape of Jack himself-the Green Man. Megan smiled a small, tired smile. Through the cold and damp of spring, the May King was coming, bringing in the summer. There was always hope.

Charly paused for a moment. The fresh air, after the heat and noise of the banqueting hall, made her head spin, and she had to press her hands against the wall to stop herself from falling. She leaned her forehead against the cool rock, waiting for the feeling of dizziness to pa.s.s. When she felt more in control of herself, she wiped the cold sweat from her face and set off along the corridor. The stronghold of the Sidhe was a maze of tunnels and pa.s.sageways, with countless rooms opening off left and right. She pa.s.sed kitchens and mess halls, dormitories and storerooms, as she wandered aimlessly in the half-light. After some time, with no clear idea of where she was going, she stopped. OK, lady, she thought, this is no good. I could blunder around down here for hours. Time to flex the old thinking muscle. Placing one hand on the stone of the pa.s.sage wall, she tried to send her mind into the rock, seeking some hint of Amergin. At first, her consciousness stopped dead at her fingertips. She could feel only the gritty texture against her skin, the sheen of moisture. The more she concentrated, the more clearly she could feel each tiny grain of rock like a pebble against the spiraling patterns of her fingertips. And suddenly, as if a window had opened in her mind, she felt beyond her fingers, into the stone itself. Pushing outward, her mind expanded into the huge mineral bulk of the hillside.

Everywhere, Charly sensed the taste of the Sidhe, the faint p.r.i.c.kling feeling of wrong she felt when in their presence. Furrowing her brow, she brought more and more of the three-dimensional landscape of stone into her mind's eye, until it hung in s.p.a.ce before her. Then she saw it: a tiny pool of otherness, a place where the stink of the Sidhe was replaced by something else, something familiar, comforting. Amergin. Smiling, Charly set off in search of the wizard.

The feast was over. Lord Finnvarr sent his followers off to make their final preparations, stirring promises of glory and power ringing in their heads. In the confusion, Lady Una slipped from his side, making her way around the room and out through a side door. With a look of mischief on her delicate features, she stepped lightly along the corridor. The last of the Host dispersed, and silence fell in the great banqueting hall. The fire in the broad hearth was dying down now, the last few logs glowing in the gloom.

Suddenly, a figure burst from the heart of the fire, appearing out of the heat shimmer with a gasp. Sprawling onto the floor, Sam rolled, one hand still clutching the package Wayland had thrown to him, and came up hard against a table leg. He lay still for a few moments, colored lights wheeling behind his eyes and smoke rising from the soles of his shoes. Scrambling to his feet, he surveyed the long table, which was littered with the remains of the faery banquet. His stomach wrenched with hunger, and he grabbed a handful of fruit from a bowl, stuffing sweet berries into his mouth. Next, he ripped off a hunk of white bread and chewed greedily on it as he poured a gobletful of golden liquid from a silver pitcher. Perhaps it was the intense hunger, but the food was the best he had ever tasted. He gulped at the golden drink and then surveyed the table. Making his way along its length, he picked and nibbled at the leftovers, a piece of creamy white cheese here, a slice of meat there. Finally, his hunger satisfied, he slumped into a chair and swung his feet up onto the table. Then he remembered the package. Opening the wrappings, he saw the knife. Wayland had polished the blade of the athame to a soft sheen, bringing out a delicate spiraling pattern, like repeated snowflakes, deep within the metal. A black wooden handle was bound in place by bands of bronze and topped off with a disk of iron. Looking more closely, Sam could make out something engraved on the circle of metal. He smiled. It was a human face surrounded by leaves, tendrils of foliage emerging from its mouth and nose. Standing up, Sam flipped the knife into the air and caught it, unfortunately by the blade rather than the handle. With a yelp, he dropped it and looked at his hand, but it was unmarked. From a silver salver he chose an apple, huge and artificially red, and tested the athame against its skin. The knife slid through as if through water. Sam peered at the blade, tested it with his thumb: blunt. He glanced back at the two halves of the apple, lying on the table. They seemed to have shrunk and to have aged dramatically. Brown spots marked the wrinkled skin. That's odd, he thought. It was as if the apple had been enchanted, and the magic had vanished at the touch of iron. Sam felt queasy as he wondered exactly what he had just been eating. He tucked the athame into his belt. Looking around the room, he spotted a door off in the shadows and made his way toward it.

Amergin sat with his head bowed, staring into a darkness that was as much in his mind as in the room around him. He had been foolish. He had thought, when Sam defeated the Malifex, that his long quest was over, his task completed, and he had relaxed. With his head full of television and flying machines, he had turned his back on the old ways-on his heritage-and fallen into folly. And this was the result, trapped like a fly by the webs of his ancient enemy. What would his old mentor, Merlin, say if he could see him now?

Actually, came a voice in his mind, not a lot, under the circ.u.mstances.

Amergin spun around and caught a faint glimpse of movement, but when he looked more closely, there was nothing there. He sighed, fearing that, at the bitter end, his mind was failing him.

What with all the business about that witch Nimue, continued the voice, you know, imprisoning me all these years, I'm not really in a position to comment about folly.

"Merlin?" Amergin called into the dead air. He thought he heard a chuckle.

I suppose what I'm saying, said the voice, is that we all make mistakes, let our guard down. With me, it was the ladies. With you it was-What is Buffy? Never mind. Amergin was on his feet now, eyes darting around the room. In the faint light from the webwork of energy across the doorway, he thought he could see movement, as if someone was constantly stepping out of the edge of his field of vision. But whenever he turned to look, there was n.o.body there.

The important thing is to get over it. Move on. The voice seemed to draw closer. My friend, you once called yourself Wisdom. Use your head, wise man. The story-the voice was so close now-never ends. The circle, remember?

Always turning. Down through all the years, evil will rise and fall, and always the wise and the brave will stand forth to oppose it. Your task is not over, no more than mine. The power that was in the Malifex cannot be destroyed, merely weakened for a time. And you and I, old friend, we will fight it whatever form it takes.

The voice seemed to recede. "Merlin!" cried Amergin.

"I . . ."

Go, Bard of the Milesians. Your young Arthur needs you. And the voice was gone.

Amergin sat for a moment, lost in thought, then scrambled painfully to his feet. Merlin was right. His labors were not yet over. He took a deep breath, shaking off the despair that had sapped his will. Reaching inside, he found a hidden core of strength that the Sidhe had not broken. With a glint of anger in his eye, he turned and hurled a bolt of energy at the doorway. It shattered the web of the Sidhe into a million fragments. Writhing worms of purple energy glowed and sparked on the ground for a moment and then were gone.

Charly moved quickly along a dark pa.s.sageway that angled down into the earth. She had left behind the storerooms and kitchens, the barracks and armories, and entered an area that seemed almost abandoned. She had seen no one since leaving the banqueting hall, but here the dust and the infrequent torches suggested that the Sidhe seldom ventured this way.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her and spun around. "You!" she exclaimed. It was Sam. She took a few steps toward him, grinning with relief, before she remembered herself. Planting her hands on her hips, she snapped, "You left me. You absolute, steaming, twenty-four carat boy! " She spat the last word as if it was the worse insult she could find.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and gave her an embarra.s.sed grin. "Sorry?" he tried.

"Sorry? Is that the best you can do?" she exploded. "You go tearing off into the hills, without so much as-"

"Well, I'm here now," interrupted Sam. "Let's go and find Amergin, shall we?"

With that he pushed past her and headed off down the pa.s.sage. Charly stood with her mouth working for a moment, then set off after him. "Don't you even want to know if I'm OK?" she demanded as she caught up.

"You look fine to me," replied Sam, not looking round.

"Come on-this way."

Just then, Charly heard footsteps once more, running this time. "Watch out," she hissed to Sam, "someone's coming."

They hurried around a corner and found themselves in a chamber where four pa.s.sageways converged. Sam stepped into the darkness of one of the side pa.s.sages and dragged Charly after him, motioning for her to be quiet. From the shadows, they saw a figure stumble to a halt in the torchlight, looking around in confusion. As he turned toward them, Charly saw it was Sam. With a cry, she stepped out into the chamber.

"Charly!" said the second Sam. "Look, about leaving you . . . "

"Don't listen to him," said the first Sam, stepping out of the shadows. "It's some trick of the Sidhe. Look, he's got some sort of knife."

And Charly saw that indeed the newly arrived Sam was holding a long dagger limply by his side. "Charly?" he said. "What's-"

"Now hang on a minute," demanded Charly, "you can't both be the real Sam. So we need to sort you out. Any suggestions? You . . . " She pointed to the second Sam.

"Um, I dunno . . . how about-"

"A test," b.u.t.ted in the first Sam. "Ask us some questions, something that only I would know, something that the Sidhe could never have found out."

Charly was edging toward the first Sam as he spoke, casting worried glances from face to familiar face.

"How about, instead-" and with surprising speed she pivoted on one foot and kicked the first Sam firmly in the stomach. "Kill it!" she screamed.

The newly arrived Sam stood blankly for a moment, looking from Charly to his double to the knife in his hand. Then he grunted, "Oh, right!" and took a couple of steps forward.

The Lady Una straightened up, rubbing her stomach, eyes fixed on Sam's athame. Edging toward the mouth of the nearest tunnel, she hissed to Charly, "You will pay for this, mortal. You and all your kind." And then, as Sam lunged toward her with his blade, she cast a fold of her black lace skirt before his face and vanished in a vortex of air.

"Oh, well done, Zorro," said Charly as the dust settled.

"That showed her."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, then paused.

"How did I know which one was you?" asked Charly.

"Er, yeah."

She smiled, shaking her head, "Sam, you stood there with your mouth open, grunting 'dunno,' holding that knife as if somebody had handed you a wet fish, and you ask me how I knew?" She chuckled. "Come on, let's find Amergin."

Sam closed his mouth, then ran to catch up with Charly as she strode off along the tunnel.

"Hey," he shouted, "that's not fair! I came to rescue you! I didn't have to, you know!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," breathed Charly, still smiling.

Jack-in-the-Green bobbed and twirled through the streets of the town, accompanied by his bogeys and followers and by a growing crowd of tourists. The sound of the accordion and a jingle of bells, the stamp and clatter of the dancers' clogs followed him.

High above, in the sh.e.l.l of the old castle, the Wiccans of Hastings were gathering, their faces grim. The craft stalls were set up now: books and pottery, T-shirts and cards laid out on trestle tables, striped awnings flapping in the breeze off the sea. The followers of the Craft moved among the tourists, nodding to each other, touching an arm here, exchanging a word of encouragement there. The sloping banks of gra.s.s around the amphitheater were dotted with spectators now, and a growing crowd surrounded the stage in the center. Morris dancers rubbed shoulders with bikers, New Age pagans with tourists pointing camcorders at the strange sights. A girl dressed as a fairy, shocking pink hair to match her tutu and fishnets, chatted with a man dressed entirely in silver, his skin painted to match. A man in medieval costume and a cloak of green cloth leaves wore the head and pelt of a stag as a headdress, skin and antlers intact, gla.s.sy eyes staring. The atmosphere was festive, as befitted a holiday, tinged with the antic.i.p.ation of the coming of the May King. Over by Megan's stall, Mrs. P. looked around at the happy, harmless, eccentric brew of humanity swirling in the cauldron of the castle and smiled.

"Are you OK?" asked Megan.

"Sorry? Oh, yes, dear," replied Mrs. P. dabbing at her eyes. "Just nerves. I'll be fine."

Megan flashed her an uncertain smile and returned to her own worries. On the far side of the castle grounds, Mr. Macmillan watched them with dark intensity.

Charly and Sam stayed close together, fearing that at any moment the Lady Una would return. The flickering light of the spa.r.s.e torches made shadows leap and dance in every corner, sending their hearts racing as they moved deeper into the earth.

Suddenly, Sam stopped dead and held a hand out behind him, motioning for Charly to do the same. Then she heard it-footsteps, a single set as far as she could tell. Sam raised the athame before him, trying to hold it with authority. The steps grew nearer, fast and purposeful. An elongated shadow played on the wall in front of them. Then, around the corner, a figure came into view, silhouetted against the light of a torch.

"Ah, there you are," said a familiar voice. "You're going the wrong way. Come along!"

"Amergin!" shouted Sam and Charly simultaneously. Charly ran forward and hugged the bard, almost lifting him off his feet.

Disentangling himself with difficulty, Amergin said, "There's no time for all that. We must return to Hastings.

I have been very, very foolish."

"Did you hear that?" asked Charly. "Foolish. He said so himself. Make a note."

"Yup," replied Sam, "heard it with my own ears. It's official."

"Oh, come along, you two," said Amergin, smiling despite himself. "The Sidhe are heading for the castle to sabotage the festival. We have wasted too much time already."

As the wizard led them through the labyrinth of tunnels, they chattered excitedly, recounting their adventures. Amergin muttered with concern as they described the opening of the Gate of Air.