Windmaster's Bane (38 page)

“Neat!” said Alec.

“And restful,” Liz added.

“Not for long, I’m sure,” David put in distrustfully. But even he had to admit it was a beautiful glade. The brilliant green grass was short, almost like a lawn beside the Track. Small bushes bearing thick, spiky leaves, and gray boulders crudely carved with scowling human faces were scattered about in artful clumps, each accenting some slight hill or hollow. At no place were all of them visible at once.

The Track continued onward, and they followed it somewhat reluctantly, wanting to stop and rest but knowing they dared not.

Through the middle of the glade flowed a small stream maybe twenty feet across. A narrow strip of coarse silver sand bordered it on either side. They paused there uncertainly, wondering what hidden perils might lurk beneath its innocuous surface. Though shallow, it flowed rapidly, and was remarkably clear; yellow and red rocks flashed on its bottom, and once David thought he saw the flickering silver forms of a school of tiny, blue-finned fish dart past. He
did
see a hand-sized octopus almost as green and transparent as fine jade. Of that there was no doubt.

The air was still. Empty. No sound disturbed the peace of that place except the gentle gurgle of the stream.

And one other sound.

For issuing from the woods ahead came an almost subliminal jingling, and a distant buzz that finally coalesced into the sound of warpipes at full cry.

Chapter XVI: The Stuff of Heroes

Abruptly the sky darkened as if masked by clouds, though none showed against its pristine vault. Black shadows crowded in among the distant trees. The sun still shone, but its light lacked strength or conviction. It was like predawn twilight and early evening and the eerie half-light of a solar eclipse all at once, and yet like none of these things.

Alec jerked David’s sleeve, gesturing toward the line of trees straight ahead, his mouth agape in uncertain wonder. David nodded, for he too had seen what approached: light, a body of ghostly yellow-white radiance almost like phosphorescence, pale at the center, scintillating into colors at the edge. But the light did not illuminate. Rather, there was the dark forest on the one hand, and the light on the other, and an almost tangible interface between them.

As the light drew nearer, the jingle of bells became louder. The ground shook as if many horses trod upon it, and the sound of pipes, too, grew in volume. And then voices joined in with that skirling, the voices of men singing of battle and of war—at least that was how it sounded, though the language was strange—and warpipes howled in that music like thunder in the mountains on a hot summer day. David could not make out the words of the song, but they filled him with wonder and with dread.

Alec pointed to the Track ahead of them. Its edges had begun to glow even more brightly, flaring into a brilliance like white flame—white as the star-shaped flowers that sprang up alongside it in the vanguard of the Sidhe. Shapes appeared, centered in the nimbus of light, winking in and out among the trees at the edge of the meadow: the Sidhe themselves.

The whole host of Faerie seemed to be part of that riding, a panoply of glittering jewels and metals, brightly patterned fabrics and richly woven textures, furs and feathers, banners and pennants and musical instruments, swords and spears and helms, and thin golden staffs bearing strange carved and gilded insignia that glowed with their own light and cast their glow about the host.

The singing grew louder, more drivingly intense. A darker motif wove its way into the melody, and the rhythmic jingle of the horses’ bells altered subtly to follow. There was a hint of tambourine and drum in the music, now, and of someone playing a harp, but the strings were plucked high and strange, almost discordant.

One by one the Host of the Sidhe forded the stream and continued up the Straight Track toward the mortals. Closer and closer they came, and still they sang.

When the last of the host cleared the trees and came full into David’s sight, he forgot Alec, forgot Liz, almost forgot Little Billy and Uncle Dale. For the company parted and he saw who rode hindmost among the host of Faerie: Ailill, his enemy.

Ailill sat a white stallion whose golden mane hung halfway to the ground, and it seemed to David that tiny flames issued from the horse’s nostrils and that its hooves struck sparks from the mossy turf. Ailill himself was dressed in black and silver, save for a band of red jewels about his head and the thick border of red-and-silver-embroidered eagles that edged his cloak. Arrogance showed cold across his handsome features, but the ornate silver scabbard that hung by his side was empty.

A company of twenty grim-faced warriors rode close about the Lord of Winds. The horses they bestrode were black. Each man bore a black lance pointing skyward, and each wore a black cloak wrapped tightly around him. Black mail gleamed on throat and legs and arms. Plain black helms capped heads of black hair. Their mouths were open and they sang with the others, their voices now high and clear, now dark and ominous.

Hope flickered within David for a moment, as he saw the form that rode point to the armored company. It was a silver-armed figure in white and gold, and the golden fringe of its snowy cloak swept the ground: Nuada of the Silver Hand.

The Morrigu was there too: the Mistress of Battles. Her crow sat on the saddle before her, black as her hair. Her tight, low-cut gown was red as blood, and its trailing sleeves were lined with cloth the color of flame. She was beautiful the way a slim-tipped dagger is beautiful.

But then David looked at Ailill, and saw that the dark Faery was glaring back at him, hatred in his eyes.

The song ended abruptly, cut off on a single note—as a life may end on a single sword thrust. Somewhere, someone began to pluck a harp one string at a time, soft and sad.

David’s heart sank, but he squared his shoulders and strode forward to meet that company. Alec handed David his runestaff, and he held it braced before him in his two hands. He knew he must look ridiculous to stand thus before such a company, bruised and dirty—but he knew he had no choice now but to brazen it out.

Nuada reined in his horse. The armed company that accompanied him slowed to an uneasy halt.

David looked up into the glittering gaze of the Faery lord, glanced back at Ailill, then took a deep breath and addressed Nuada.

“Hail, Lord of Faerie,” he said, and choked for a moment as fear welled up anew inside him.

“Hail, mortal lad,” Nuada said wryly. “You seem to have a facility for meeting the Sidhe at their Riding.”

“His business is with
me,
Silverhand,” Ailill interrupted.

“And what business is that?” Nuada retorted sharply. “You are an exile now, or soon will be. You have had business enough with mortal men.”

Ailill ignored him, but fire blazed in the dark eyes beneath his dark hair, as he folded his arms across the bronze eagle’s head atop the high pommel of his saddle and leveled his gaze upon David. “You
are
a fool, then, are you not? More so than I had ever guessed, to challenge the Sidhe to the Trial of Heroes. Two Trials you have passed, so I have heard, but the Trial of Strength yet awaits you. And that Trial I have claimed for myself, as is my right. Your challenge
was
directed at me, was it not? Even if you did not so speak it?”

David gulped. “I suppose so,” he answered weakly.

“Good, then it is mine to choose the nature of that Trial. You have come too far to go back now, and your fate is upon you, though not in the manner I had planned. No matter. The end will be the same. I am the champion of Erenn, you see; I
am…”

“You are my prisoner until I rid my lands of you,” a now-familiar voice interrupted from behind the mortals. “
I
determine what you are and what you are not, what you will do and what you will not do.”

David whirled around to see the Lord of the Trial riding slowly up the Track toward the company.

When he had almost reached the host, the Lord lifted his helmet and handed it to a young man in blue and gray livery who rode forward to take it. A circlet of interlaced gold gleamed forth upon his black hair.

A rustling murmur caused David to turn again toward the host, to see them kneel as one body in obvious obeisance to the tall shape that loomed before them.

“The Ard Rhi,” someone whispered.

The Ard Rhi!
David thought. The High King: Lugh Samildinach himself, High King of the Sidhe in Tir-Nan-Og. Lugh was the Lord of the Trial.

For a moment Ailill stared at the mounted figure who faced him. “Nevertheless, the Rules do not forbid me to contest with the boy,” he said, “for the Rule of the Trial is beyond even the Law of Lugh Samildinach. But I was about to add that the Trial of Strength would not be with me, but with my son.” He raised his head and shouted, “Fionchadd, come here.”

There was a buzz from within the assembled multitude, which quickly parted as a green-clad figure rode from where it had remained unobtrusively among the ranks. It was a youth, David saw, seemingly little older than himself, golden-haired and slender—almost his own size, in fact.

The boy took off the long-peaked cap that had shadowed his face, and David gasped as he recognized the clean-chiseled features beneath it: It was the same boy who had shot Uncle Dale. And now he realized that it was also the same half-glimpsed face that had belonged to the Faery runner who had chased him what seemed like a very long time ago. That race had started all this, in fact—all the bad part of it anyway.

The boy’s face flushed angrily. “What is it you would have of me, Father?”

“Twice I sent you on missions for me, missions a mere child could have achieved—yet you failed,” Ailill said. “But third time pays for all, and by the Rule of Three you owe me a third. I demand that you avenge your honor.”

“You are right, for once,” Lugh agreed, in a voice that allowed no argument, “though not in the manner of honor. The Trial must be a fair contest, a striving among equals. Your son and David are of a size and almost of an age, allowing for the difference between the Worlds. And Oisin’s ring is lost in the Lands of Men and has no power here. Yes, Ailill, I think you have the right of it: Third time pays for all. Do you agree?”

Ailill glared arrogantly at Lugh, his mouth hardened to a thin line. “Even I must bow to the Trial of Heroes; for that which rules it is mightier than anyone here.”

Lugh ignored the glare and looked to Morrigu. “Lady of Battles?”

Morrigu inclined her head slightly. “Long is it since we have observed the Rite. Yet it must be done in accord with strictest honor, or not at all. Fionchadd is the more fit opponent. If it is David’s will to try with him, let it be so.”

Lugh turned again toward David. “Is it so?”

David stared at Fionchadd, then at Alec and Liz, both of whose faces mirrored bewildered concern. He felt dead. Numb. He stood as if paralyzed, ten steps
from…from
what? Doom? Or immortality? He could stay in Faerie—that had always been an option. Surely with eternity for the searching he could find Little Billy. But then what about Uncle Dale? And Liz and Alec—did he have the right to make that kind of decision for them? If he aborted the quest now they could be friends forever, maybe in Liz’s case more than friends. Not until that moment had he realized how much he loved them.

“I choose the Trial of Strength with Fionchadd,” he said at last, his mouth dry as dust.

Lugh glared imperiously down at David. “You do not look very strong,” he said. “What can you do?”

David hesitated only a moment; as for once the right words came to him. “I can run and wrestle and swim,” he said.

“He can indeed,” Fionchadd put in. “And he has bested me at the first two. For my part I would try with him at swimming.” Lugh nodded slightly, then spoke in a voice clear as a trumpet: “As Lord of the Trial, it is my duty to decide the form of the Trial of Strength, and this is my decision: Let it be as Fionchadd wills. Having competed already at running and wrestling, let the final Trial be swimming.”

Lugh looked Ailill straight in the eye then. “But I have a stake in this as well,” he said. “The Trial will be a test of strength and will. If David wins, he may perhaps gain that which he seeks, and the desire for such gain is a powerful incentive. But what if Fionchadd wins? Then I owe the mortal no boons. He and his friends will be doomed to eternity as my guests in Tir-Nan-Og—and Ailill will have paid no price for the suffering he has caused, yet he is not without guilt. Therefore let it be a contest to the death as well. It is
Fionchadd’s
death I claim if he loses. On him I lay the death of iron: a time of torment in the Dark Realm from which only his strength of will may free him.”

A hush filled the ranks; even the harp stopped for an instant. “As you will have it, Ard Rhi,” Fionchadd said quietly.

Ailill’s face turned white. “Fool of a boy!” he screamed. “Twice fool, and thrice.”

Morrigu silenced him with a glance. “It is not your decision. The Rite is in motion.”

David looked around uncertainly.
“But…
there’s nowhere here to swim.”

“A small matter in Tir-Nan-Og.” Lugh smiled grimly. “Do you see that stream? That is your river. That you will swim, this bank to the far bank.”

“I still don’t see how this is supposed to work,” David found himself saying nervously, trying not to think of what he had just heard. “The stream is only twenty feet or so across. Why, I could wade it!”

“Not if you are no higher than my finger is long,” said Lugh.

“You mean you’ll shrink us?”

“Or expand the land around you; it comes to the same thing. Sometimes I myself am not certain which occurs. Now let the contestants come stand by the stream, and we can end this matter.”