by Kildare
“The pendant also allowed you to enter Loki’s prison. Without it, you would’ve opened an ordinary book in Sindri’s cave. Anbhás works by the same process, only in reverse. Wherever it touches an object, it shatters the electromagnetic bounds, allowing it to pass clean through. It’s highly advanced weaponry, not magic.”
“We realized you must’ve had such a stone as soon as we became aware of your presence in this world,” Nuadha said. “As you didn’t get it from us, you could’ve only gotten it from either the Dread Queen, or a source off this planet. Someone wanted you to have the pendant and open the book in Sindri’s cave.”
“A traitor hides in the mist of the ardaingeal,” Éadaoin said. “Only one of their rank could orchestrate such a deception. We’d thought that after Satan’s downfall, those who desired revolt had been purged from our ranks. It appears we were mistaken. Either one of the angels changed their view on their own, which is not likely, or someone convinced them.”
“But if Loki was still imprisoned, who could’ve done that?” Cillian asked.
“One of the other gods,” Nuadha said. He walked to the floor’s edge and gazed out over the plain. “We’ve not seen war in our realm for many ages, but now the summer of our peace draws to an end.” He turned back to Cillian. “We knew Loki had help in escaping, and leading you to the sword and cave, but we’d hoped it wasn’t one of the other gods. Their involvement would portend civil war even in heaven.”
“Your legends tell nothing of the days before his downfall,” Éadaoin said, “but Satan was once the greatest of our kind in craftsmanship of all kinds. He was the most creative, and the most free-spirited of our people. But in that wild spirit was kindled an ember for independence that once lit couldn’t be snuffed out. Perhaps freedom would have been sufficient if not for the prodding of Loki, who insisted that anything less than total autonomy was akin to slavery. Satan was persuaded. Freedom was no longer enough. He desired rebellion. And he wanted to drag all the angelic host down with him.
“Satan’s rebellion never had any chance of success, but it wasn’t victory he sought. He wanted to force Yahweh to expel him and his followers from heaven. To set them free. Even if that meant being cast into the darkness. Now Loki is attempting to free Satan and all his adherents. If he’s successful, Satan will likely seek revenge on the Tuath Dé for opposing him. He’d have little difficulty in defeating us. These physical forms have greatly diminished our strength. We’re no longer any match for the angels.”
“Gobán told me Loki was here,” Cillian said. He had forgotten to include that detail in his story, prompting him to wonder what else he had forgotten.
“We know. Loki’s powers greatly exceed our own. He can move undetected if he wants. That he didn’t means he wanted us to know he was here.”
“Gobán isn’t a leprechaun,” Nuadha said. “It’s one of the guises of Lú.”
“The same Lú who led the fight against Satan?”
“The very same. Like myself and Úna, Lú was one of the original archangels, positions we lost when we chose to dwell among humans after the war between the angels. Lú relinquished his leadership of the Tuath Dé when our race began its flight from Earth to Símhin. As your race grew more powerful, our numbers dwindled. Lú was the last to depart. Now he wanders the wilds of this world and seldom enters Ildathach.”
“Can all the Tuath Dé shapeshift?” Cillian asked.
“Yes,” Nuadha said.
“So you could have spies anywhere. Even hiding among the humans of this world. Is Lú a spy?”
“Lú walks his own path.”
“A clever deflection of the question.”
“Here’s another one,” Éadaoin said. “Two kinds of portals exist on this planet. The first creates a link across the veil that separates the mortal and immortal lands. The second creates a link between different worlds.”
“A wormhole?” Cillian asked.
“Yes. There are numerous portals of the first kind on this world, but there’s only one of the second kind. If you can reach that portal, you might be able to find Loki.”
“Is the portal beneath Siderea?” Cillian asked.
Nuadha and Éadaoin looked surprised at this question.
“Who told you that?” Nuadha asked.
“The druids at the An Dún sa Spéir.”
“Surprising they retained that knowledge. Doubtful any others still do.”
“The portal is a large cube that lies in the center of Machaire na Réaltaí,” Éadaoin said. “What the Solaeri now call the Campus Stellarum.”
The Gaelic and Latin phrases both translated as the Star Plain.
“Siderea sits in the middle of that plain. Long ago the entire plain was flat. When Úna was banished, she stole the portal key. To protect the site, we erected a pyramid over the portal, and buried it. The imperial palace, plaza, and forum are all constructed atop this pyramid. The Sidereans know nothing about what lays beneath.”
“We designed the portal to be indestructible,” Nuadha said. “No technology you mortals possess can open it without the key. Not even a nuclear blast. The portal is useless without the key.”
“And the Dread Queen now has the key?”
“She gave it to Red Ruin in exchange for fighting against us. Why he’d want it is a mystery to us. He can’t fit through the portal openings. Probably nothing more than greed. Dragons are covetous by nature.”
“So I have to steal the key from a dragon?”
“No. You must kill Red Ruin. He’ll never tolerate the theft of even the most trifling jewel.”
Cillian about fell over. “I can’t kill Red Ruin. He’s a monster. I’ll never get near him, even with Anbhás. He can blast fire a hundred feet at least.”
Nuadha handed Cillian a flat stone the size of his hand with markings etched into the face. “The dragon’s lair lies on Oileán na Tine agus an Oighir, far north in the great ocean. This stone reveals its location. Your companions will be able to decipher the script.”
“I can’t kill Red Ruin,” Cillian insisted.
Nuadha ignored his protest. “To reach the Isle of Fire and Ice, you must prepare for a dangerous voyage by sea of several weeks. Red Ruin isn’t the only monster dwelling in that region. The island is perpetually cloaked in fog and surrounded by hidden shoals and reefs so a landing must be carefully navigated. Don’t underestimate the danger of this journey. You must remain vigilant at all times. This world is far more dangerous than your own.”
“I’ve been reminded of this repeatedly. You could’ve done without all the doom and gloom and simply told me where the key was. Not that it matters. I’ll never be able to kill Red Ruin.”
“Even dragons have a weakness. Red Ruin’s is his skull. You must stab him through the center of his head. Anbhás is the only sword capable of doing this.”
“And how the hell am I supposed to get close enough to do that?”
“You must use your wits.”
Cillian didn’t care for this answer at all. He wanted a detailed explanation for exactly how to kill the dragon.
Éadaoin handed him a metallic, hexagonal-shaped object, black, about six inches in length, with small nobs at one end and the other flared out and flattened. “This key will open all secrets hidden within the dragon’s lair. You’ll know when to use it when the time comes.”
Cillian looked the key over, surprised at its heavy weight.
“We must leave you with a final warning,” Nuadha said. “The Dread Queen knows you arrived at An Dún sa Spéir. Even now she marches an army south to capture you, and her most elite trackers are scouring the North for your exact location. An Dún sa Spéir is a mighty fortress, but it cannot withstand the full fury of the Dread Queen. If you return there, depart as quickly as possible. For their sake as much as yours.”
IX
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28
Cillian reined the horse to a halt at the edge of town. Nothing stirred in the street ahead. He might have thought
the town was abandoned if not for a pair of saddled horses tied to a post. At the end of the short street, the buildings rippled in the heat. Beyond, the sand and sage rolled like an ocean. A bead of sweat slipped out from under the band of his cowboy hat and slid down his cheek. He wiped the drop away with the back of his hand. The sun scorched down. It felt like they were walking through a furnace. He looked down at the duster hanging nearly to his knees. He was certainly overdressed for the weather.
A scabbard with a .30-30 Winchester rifle was tucked beneath the saddle flap and a Colt .45 hung from each hip. He held the reins with his left hand, the right rested on his thigh, poised to withdraw a gun if needed. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the town seemed off. Perhaps the lack of people was what he found unsettling. Of course, with this heat, why would anyone be outside? The townsfolk were probably trying to stay cool in the shade indoors.
He didn’t know where he was now, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t returned to Símhin. The town ahead had an Old West feel to it. The guns only heightened the feeling. Had he traveled back in time? Wouldn’t surprise him. Hard to be too surprised after everything he’d seen lately. Who was behind his relocation was his next thought. The angels? Loki? Some new player in this multi-layered game?
A gentle prod nudged the horse forward. Piano music drifted through the still air. Cillian studied the buildings, regarding the windows with suspicion. He saw no movement on either side. He knew there were people, so why he saw none seemed odd. Were they aware of some impending danger? He wasn’t sure why his mind went there, but something about the town spooked him.
A man emerged from the general store with a broom. Swept the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Cillian took note of him, his thinness, the thick, black mustache beneath blue eyes, the lack of any visible weapon, and the cool demeanor with which he regarded Cillian. Cillian nodded a hello. The man nodded in return. Neither spoke.
Two windows framed most of the saloon’s streetside face. The glare of the sun shone so bright he could see nothing through the glass. He tied his horse to a post next to the other two horses and entered. He paused inside the swinging doors, their creaking subsiding as they shuddered to a stop. He wanted to create the impression he was coolly observing the saloon’s patrons, but his pause was more to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dim lighting after the brightness outside. The room was lit only by the light streaming in through the door and the front windows. The air felt little cooler than outside.
Four men played poker in the far corner. They noted Cillian’s arrival before turning back to the dealer. The dealer gave him a quick glance that he suspected discerned far more than any of the players had. In the nearest corner a man tapped lightly across the piano keys, playing a quick, upbeat melody. Stairs led up to a second floor. Three women in red lacy dresses too tight for their bodies stood at the bar. They turned to eye the newcomer. He suspected they were whores. All told he counted nineteen people in the saloon.
The nearest woman waved him over. “Don’t just stand there looking foreboding, handsome. Come have a drink with us. Another round, barkeep. And get one for longshanks, too. He looks mighty thirsty.”
Cillian strode across the room, the thud of boots with each step on the wooden floor accompanied by the jingle of spurs. Something about the sound made him feel intimidating. He removed his duster and put it down on the nearest stool, the Colt .45s now on full display.
The barkeep eyed the guns. “I hope you’re not looking for any trouble, mister.”
“Just need to cool off.”
A mirror hung on the wall and ran the length of the bar behind the bartender. Cillian could watch everyone in the room without turning around. He relaxed a little. No one would sneak up on him without notice. Below the mirror, dozens of bottles of booze were lined in neat rows. Not a single name or symbol was carved in the bar’s wooden counter. A bit of a surprise. This barkeep kept his bar tidy. The man returned with four frothy mugs of beer. Drops of condensation trickled down the glass.
“To cold beer on a hot day,” the nearest of the three woman cheered. Cillian raised his mug. The cold beer was a welcome relief from the sweltering heat. He took a slow sip, the coolness flowing down his dry throat. Few things were better than a cold beer on a hot day. The question of how they kept the beer cold crossed his mind, forming a crack in his suspicion that he had traveled back in time.
He looked his reflection over in the mirror. He wore a dark-gray vest over a light-blue denim shirt, jaw black with the stubble of a few days’-old beard. Not to be cocky, but he cut a fine, if a little intimidating, figure. He noticed the three women eyeing him and trying to attract his attention with arched backs and batting eyes. Pretended not to notice. He wished they hadn’t bought him the drink. Now he owed them a round. Anything less would be rude. He hoped they wouldn’t start a conversation.
“Where did a tall drink of water like you ride in from, handsome?” the nearest woman asked.
“The north country.”
“How far north?”
“North Dakota.”
The woman turned to the other two. “Never met a Nodak before. You an experienced rider?” she asked with a wink. The other two women bowed their heads and giggled. None of the three appeared much older than twenty.
Cillian looked toward the poker players. He had no interest in the lady’s word games. “I know my way around a horse.”
The bold one walked over and stopped at the next stool. Less than a foot separated them. Her dress was far too tight for her chest. Cillian kept his eyes locked on hers. She was prettier than the other two, taller, thinner, auburn hair framing hazel eyes and a broad face. She acted far too natural at her profession.
“I’ve always admired a cowboy,” she said as she ran her fingers along the inside edge of his vest. “Cowboys know what they want, and they’re willing to take it.”
“What’s your name, miss?”
The young woman bit her lip and smiled. She leaned forward and whispered, touch of breath on his ear, “Ella.”
“Well, Ella, I’m not interested in buying what you’re selling.”
Ella pouted her bottom lip. “This town is so dull. I thought maybe you’d be up for a little fun.”
“Not happening.”
Ella straightened the top of his vest, patted him on the chest, and strutted back to the other two. Cillian watched her leave. The woman knew how to flaunt herself. He had no sooner turned back to his beer when the swinging doors creaked a long, slow groan. Four men dressed all in black entered, hats pulled so low he could hardly see their eyes. They too wore long black dusters hanging nearly to the floor. From their stances, they concealed pistols beneath. Carried themselves with too much swagger to be unarmed. Something about them was troubling. They crossed the room to the bar together. This time the thud of boots and clink of spurs was unnerving—the sound of doom.
The man in the middle appeared to be their leader. The other three hung a step back. The leader leaned onto the bar, whistled for the barkeep, and swung his gaze to Cillian.
“Well, hello, Mr. Rysgaard. We’ve been searching for you.”
“And why’s that?”
“I think you know why. And I think you know who sent us.” The leader turned his attention to the barkeep. “We’d like a round of whiskey. I don’t care what. I ain’t too particular. Four for myself and my comrades and one for this gentleman here.” Quick wink at Cillian. “He’s going to need it.”
The bartender eyed the newcomers suspiciously as he poured the shots. Slid the glasses forward and stepped back. Cillian waited until the men in black had taken their shots before taking his own. It went down like liquid fire. He set the glass back on the bar and scanned the room. Patrons were filing out the door, the poker players already gone. The piano had ceased. The player looked like a man bracing for a storm. Only the whores seemed oblivious to the growing tension.
“So Loki sent you.” Cillian straightened to his full height to look as intimi
dating as possible. He was about the same height as the four men.
“Not Loki. Satan.”
“What do you want with me?”
“What we want is the extermination of the human race. But for today, we’ll settle for snuffing you out.”
“And how do you propose doing that?” Cillian hoped to God his face wasn’t betraying the anxiety rising deep within. He needed to maintain a mask of calm.
“We could shoot you.”
It was Cillian’s turn to smile. “You should’ve brought more men.”
The man in black laughed. “We have a cocky one here. Too bad he wasn’t smarter.”
If the three whores were distressed by all this bluster, none of them showed it. They watched with the casual indifference of those with no dog in the fight. The bartended had vanished. What a coward. He hadn’t even attempted to defend his establishment.
“Why don’t you let the three ladies go?” Cillian asked. “It’s me you want. We both know you’re not going to harm them, so let them go.”
“Your problem is you think this is all some game. This ain’t a game.”
The leader turned toward the women and motioned the farthest one to approach him. A thin blonde with bright blue eyes stepped forward. Cillian could see the fear she fought to hide. They were catching on to the danger at last.
“What’s your name, lovely?” the leader asked.
“Simona,” the woman answered in a quivering voice, barely louder than a whisper.
“Well, Simona, can you send a message to Cillian for me so he understands the gravity of his situation?”
Simona nodded. As she turned toward Cillian, the man placed his pistol against her head and pulled the trigger. Cillian flinched. Simona crumpled to the floor as the bullet shattered the mirror behind the bar. Shrieking of the other two women. Cillian drew his guns. The leader paid no attention to the pistols pointed at him, reached over the counter, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and poured himself and his companions another shot.
“What I enjoy most about the hunt is the chase,” the man said. “So I tell you what, Cillian. I’ll give you five minutes to flee before we come after you. Not that it matters. We’ll catch you anyway. Now hurry, little rabbit.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Tempus fugit.”
