Sunshaker's War (42 page)

“Jesus, man, it's good to have you back,” David panted when he finally regained control.

“Not as good as it is to
be
back, I'll wager,” Calvin replied. “Now what's the deal? Last time I knew anything we were in a high hurry to rescue Finno. Obviously that worked. Last thing I remember clearly was something about a lion-faced fish—that and bein' cold as a witch's titty.”

“In a brass bra, after being dead twenty years in Antarctica.”

“Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”

“But seriously, man; I guess I'd better brief you.”

“Do,” Calvin urged. “And while you're at it, why don't you pick us some of those blueberries?”

David looked puzzled for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder to see a low bush crammed full of the largest ones he'd ever seen, sprouting from the stones behind him.

He needed no second prompting and filled his mouth with them at roughly the same rate he filled Calvin in on the facts.

“Yeah,” Calvin said, as David inspected the suddenly inadequate-looking broth an instant later while Calvin was dressing in the shorts and T-shirt he'd found in his knapsack. “Sounds like you did all you could, considerin' the circumstances. Dad'll probably be pissed to find the fence down and the pups out, but it won't be the first time he's been that way. Besides, just imagine the alternative.”

“What alternative?”

“Suppose you guys had taken shelter in the house and claimed sanctuary, and then the parental unit had come home and found the Sidhe outside masqueradin' as Hari Krishnas or something. Can you imagine that? Like what happened last year at your Uncle's house, only with nosy neighbors in the loop. I almost wish we'd done it.”

“Give me a break, guy, we've got serious problems.”

“Two, I make it—besides reconnecting with our folks: Gettin' old Finno where he's supposed to go, and somehow meetin' up with the Powersmiths. We never did really work any of it out, beyond a few vague ideas.”

“As I recall we had a lot of other things on our minds,” David said dryly. “The thinking was we'd work on that as we travelled; thereby, to quote Mr. McLean, ‘making maximum effective use of available temporal resources.'”

Calvin giggled. “And you sound like him too.”

“But seriously. Any suggestions?”

Not with Finno like he is. I suppose the only reasonable thing is for us to go on like we have been, if Finno's ambulatory. See if we can find water and make a raft or canoe, or simply float.”

“To
Savannah
?
That's five hours by car from Atlanta!”

“It's faster'n walkin', though, and not as tirin'. Remember, we've only got a couple of days, max, and probably a lot less. It'd take weeks to walk to there.” David's heart sank. “If only we could teleport or something. I still can't believe we lost the rest of the blasted scales.”

“
I
can't believe it either,” Calvin replied pointedly.

David paused thoughtfully. “What about this?” He indicated the scale that had worked the change.

Calvin shook his head. “No go. Like I said, they haven't been activated. Also we've only got two and there's three of us, and they require the blood of a sorcerer—that business with the deer was unique to the ulunsuti, and even then we had Alec helpin' out—who
is
a sorcerer, kinda, though he won't admit it. And anyway,” he added, “we don't have enough to do the amount of World hoppin' we'd need to do.”

“There's an easier solution, of course,” David noted carefully. “If you're willin' to risk it.”

Calvin raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You're not gonna like it. And I promise I won't blame you if you say no.”

“I'm better at listenin' than readin' minds.”

David took a deep breath. “Okay, then: You use your scale to change shape to something that's fast, a bird maybe; and fly north, and try to find Uki and get him to help us. We know he's got more scales, maybe he'll lend us some.”

Calvin's eyes widened in horror. “Uh, no way man. I just did that and it scared the hell out of me. I'm not about to change again so soon. I might never come back.”

David shrugged and looked away.

“Why don't
you
go?” Calvin said finally. “You're better at it than I am.”

“Maybe so,” David replied. “But it scares hell out of me too. Besides—and I'm tryin' to play Alec and be logical here—I need to go with Finno in case we have to deal with Faerie. I mean, this is your World, the one you know most about. That's mine, I'm therefore the logical choice.”

“
Damn
logic!”

“I'd have said that once too,” David replied. “But then Liz gave me this.” He reached into his neckband and pulled out the medallion. “‘Head and heart,' it means. Logic and emotion. Right brain and left brain, or whatever. Everything you do's a conflict between 'em.”

“And this is another, right?”

“Right. Heart says you don't wanta, says you're scared, and with good reason. Head says you oughta, says you can do it if you try, says you can always stand one more thing.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You can stand
anything,
Calvin—long as you know for how long.”

“Your philosophy?”

He shook his head. “Myra Jane Buchanan. You know, Runnerman's sis?”

“Good lookin' blonde in the picture on his dresser?”

“
Calvin!”

“Right.” He frowned then, fell silent, stared at the ground a long time. Finally he looked back up at David. “I'll do it,” he said. “If I didn't, and things go wrong, I'll always wonder if they'd have gone better if I'd done something else. This way I won't have to worry.”

David rose, embraced him impulsively. “Good man.” Calvin shrugged. “Yeah, well, I guess I decided you had a point, too. You go south and try to cover as much territory as you can. I go north and try to bring help. That way we're both workin' on different facets of the problem, and one or the other of us is more likely to have some luck. So…when do I fly?”

“How 'bout as soon as we've choked down this blessed broth. Probably need your help to feed Finno anyway.”

Calvin's grin was almost rival to the sun. “I'm afraid you're right.”

*

The broth was awful, thin and weak, but with Calvin's help David managed to get a fair bit of it where it would do the most good: inside their Faery friend. David tried once or twice to wake the boy, but had no luck.

An hour passed, maybe, though it was still long before noon, but David was starting to get antsy. He put out the
fire, started gathering gear. “You ready, Fargo? I mean it's not like I'm tryin' to get rid of you or anything, but we probably really do need to get goin'.”

Another shrug. “No, I'm not ready—but I never will be. Any messages for old Mister Darkthunder?”

“Yeah,” David replied. “Tell him I said,
help
!”

“Will do,” Calvin replied, and started stripping.

He fell silent then, and David could tell he was psyching. Calvin had reclaimed his scale necklace sometime before, and was now wearing it around his neck. He turned and mounted the boulder behind him, stood clear in open air.

“Good luck…
Edahi
,”
David whispered.

“Good luck to you too, Sikwa Unega.”

And with that Calvin closed his eyes and clamped his fist hard on the scale.

David did not watch; something told him he did not want to see. But he saw the Indian's shadow, saw it spread and twist, and change. Not until he heard the harsh, shrill cry did he dare look again.

He wasn't certain what kind of bird Calvin had become, except that it was some kind of raptor. But he'd have bet anything it was fast. Probably a peregrine falcon.

“Take care,” David called—and then the falcon flapped its wings and was rising into the sky. It circled twice, and turned north. David was once more alone.

He gathered up his meager gear, and knelt beside Fionchadd (who had stopped moaning once he was fed). “Come on, Finno,” he sighed. “Best we travel.”

Fionchadd's eyes suddenly popped open. “No,” he said. “I think we ought to fly too.”

Chapter XXIV: Wooden Ships

(Orton Carlton State Park, Georgia—Monday, June 16—evening)

Somewhere around sunset Alec McLean stared down at his hands and realized they were no longer hurting. Oh, they were still chained together, of course, but the awful, burning pain was gone. He breathed a sigh of relief—and immediately regretted it, fearful one of the guards might hear him and investigate. He didn't know what they knew, but he certainly didn't want to have to answer any awkward questions—not when he hardly dared believe how the healing had been accomplished himself.

It had all been blind good luck. He'd spent most of the time since their capture combating pain, trying to conserve energy, and attempting to think, none of which worked very well. At some point he'd faded out entirely, only to come to again about the time that Y'Alvar fellow flew in and started going on about fleets, and ships, and rendezvous, and stuff.

And then they'd started talking about the ulunsuti.

They'd got it out, naturally, passed it around, examined it from every angle, poked it and prodded it and tried to scratch it with knives. It was magic, they all agreed, but of a kind they did not know. It would make a fine curiosity for Finvarra, might even get them off the hook for the loss of the prisoner.

Eventually, though, they'd tired of trying to figure out how to work it and put it aside.

And then had begun Alec's good fortune. They had not heeded precaution, had not returned it to its deerskin pouch or the pottery jar. Rather, Y'Alvar had simply stuffed it back in one of the packs—and left the flap open so that Alec had a clear view of most of it.

Now being the rational sort that he was, Alec had not intended to try any magic just then; his mind simply did not work in a way that considered that a prime option. But he nevertheless found his eye constantly drawn back to the ulunsuti. And as the sunlight waned, the desire to stare at it became ever more compulsive. Perhaps it was the way it had of gathering light—almost attracting it, so that as evening gloomed the land, the crystal continued to grow brighter. In any event, he soon could not tear his eyes away from it. It seemed to be trying to tell him something, too, but every time he thought he understood the vague tickling in his mind, his hands would throb again and he'd get distracted. Eventually he'd gotten so frustrated that the passive desire for relief became an active obsession.

And with that, the pain began to vanish. That was all it took: desire focused on the ulunsuti by its master. The more Alec wished the pain away, the faster it fled. Eventually he gained a fair bit of control. It helped to be quite specific, he found: concentrate on this joint of this finger, then the next, and so on. It took nearly an hour, but eventually he was healed.

He was just trying to figure out some way to indicate this to Liz when the ship arrived.

The sight fair took Alec's breath away. One moment there was clear sky to the southeast, its eastern fringe still fading scarlet between the tree trunks, but its higher reaches already a glorious midnight blue quickly awakening with stars. The next instant there was a spark of silver that he first thought was a meteor, except that it continued to grow brighter—and larger—and clearer—as it flashed and glimmered in and out of sight, until a very short while later a ship hove into view in the air above their tiny clearing.

Their captors rose as one, gathering possessions, straightening garments. An unintelligible order sent two striding toward him and Liz.

But he was not looking, for he was too caught up in the wonder of the Faery vessel. It was silver, though whether that was metal, paint, or simply “glow,” he could not tell. In shape, it was long and slender and low of draft like a Viking ship. Like one of them, too, it had a dragon prow and a mast and sails. These last were a little strange, for they were black emblazoned with red eagles that did not quite fit the color scheme of the rest of the vessel. He supposed, though, that if it were a ship Finvarra had captured from Lugh, those might well be sails the captors had added. There were oars, too: ten at least to a side, all stirring empty air. As he watched, they ceased their action.

Buzzing filled his head, making him blink and squint with a sensation that was not quite pain. It was an echo of the mind talk the Sidhe sometimes used among themselves, he knew. But he didn't like it because this way, when it was not directed at him, it was sort of the mental equivalent of white noise, disrupting all other language processes, as if those parts of his brain that made sense out of speech were receiving two sets of inputs at once and producing gibberish.