by Tom Deitz
David’s companions faced that other crew in two grim-eyed lines, one before the other. The back—Aife, himself, Fionchadd, and Nuada—wore the guise of Faerie, all in cloaks and mail. Nuada and Aife, at either end, sported bared swords; Fionchadd kept his hands hidden, as did David, who gripped his double-barrel in sweating fingers beneath a close-drawn cloak. Before them ranked the mortals in deliberately disarrayed mortal togs: Aikin in front of Aife, Brock ahead of David, Big Billy before Fionchadd, and LaWanda in Nuada’s van. It was a deliberate arrangement: three of the most distinctive mortals from the Sons’ attack on Lugh’s guests displayed to the fore. If they were lucky, their opponents would focus their attention on them, not on their all-too-lightly-englamoured “captors.”
If they were lucky.
More orders stabbed David’s mind, quick and brutal with haste: a plan Nuada had clearly formulated on the spot and had no time to finesse into their minds, no time to debate or delay. For an instant, David’s brain went utterly blank; the next, he was certain he’d been struck blind. Yet his body was already responding to commands his brain knew but could not express.
“Now!” Nuada roared. And battle was begun.
The four obvious mortals knelt as one, hands still behind them as though joined by chains in forced submission. But even as they stumbled onto their knees, even as eyes in the opposing vessel swung their way, hands that had not been bound swept around and four sets of gun barrels belched lead and steel, noise and pain.
Distraction. Maximum damage. First offensive. David flung his cloak aside and leveled his shotgun at the center-most rank of warriors, not ten yards across from him, fixed on a red-haired Faery man, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. He felt the kick, but the report was lost within an explosion of other sounds: startled cries, some of them clearly of pain or surprise and not in English; a blast of alarm and rage in his head; the rapid rattle of small-arms fire as those in the front rank peppered their opponents with bullets and shot intended to shatter joints, blind eyes, and distract mortal and Faery alike with as much pain as possible.
David got off the requisite two shots and saw the red-haired Faery fall, clutching his belly, where an enormous red cavern gaped. His own stomach promptly revolted, but he fought it down as the mortal beside the redhead turned to gape at him, half dazed, half furious, hands diving to his waist, where a pair of pistols waited.
And then noise gave way to movement, as the bogus captives hurled themselves forward to crouch behind the gunwale: smart, given they wore no armor and had surprise alone on their side—not that David approved Nuada’s plan. It was too hard on the mortal faction—like the British sacrificing the Aussies at Gallipoli.
Which burst of anger ate maybe half a second before David too lunged forward, aiming for the narrow gap that had opened between Big Billy and Brock. More movement caught his eye as he hit and rolled: Nuada, to his left, had raised his sword and swung it in a smooth arc before his body, and as he did, flame roared up before it to slash across the gunwale of the opposing vessel. Shields charred in its wake, and a whole vast section fell away, revealing the vessel’s ribs, thereby depriving their opponents of half their cover. So why didn’t he sink it entirely? David wondered as he fumbled frantically for ammo for the twelve-gauge.
Prisoners. Nuada’s thought whipped into his own. He glanced that way reflexively, and felt his heart all but stop as Nuada charged screaming toward the railing, poised there a moment, then leapt across that boiling, seething rift to the other vessel. A hard pounding to his right was Aife likewise running—leaping—vanishing into steam, a coil of rope clutched beneath the arm that didn’t wield a sword. David assumed she touched down, but Aikin’s irate grunt reminded him that this was no time to gawk and ponder. For now his business was simple: reload as soon as possible, shoot as accurately as he could, and try to keep his own skin intact. For a bare instant all he knew was his father’s face to his left, white as death; Aikin jumbling through his cache of ammo to his right; and Brock crunched up before him, unable to move at all.
Reflexively, he eased back—as a deadly rain of objects thunked into the deck. Daggers: the first weapons easily at hand to warriors who, for what was hopefully a crucial moment too long, had not expected attack. Somehow he managed to reload, swallowed hard, and thrust his head above the gunwale between two shields in hopes of getting off another pair of shots—only to jerk it down again as, with unbelievable speed, one of his foes flung a dagger that rang off the earpiece of his helmet. A fractioned second slower or faster for either of them and he’d be sporting a hand’s length of metal in his eye.
More thunks. More shots—some coming toward them now—and more cries of every kind, and he had barely time to note that Nuada had engaged the vessel’s captain one-on-one, and that Aife was doing likewise with a rangy mortal at the other end, all the while tugging hard on the rope to draw the vessels together. Too many things at once, though, and she hadn’t noticed the helmsman sprinting toward her, sword upraised.
“Aik, there!” David yelled, pointing with his gun, feeling rather than seeing his friend twist around and fire, his position giving him better odds of missing the Faery woman.
A third round of thunks, more opposing fire, two more possible hits of his own, and then his blood turned to ice as he heard a strangled cry at far too close range. “Finno!” someone yelled—LaWanda? But he had no time to check, as a new hail of bullets sprayed across the deck inches behind his feet. He drew them up instantly, huddled into an awkward ball as random fire exploded and at least two bullets made it through the thick bronze shields. Shrapnel grazed his fingers, and he felt a wash of heat he suspected was Faery flame not unlike Nuada’s being brought to bear on their vessel.
Two more reports, right beside him. “Got ’im!” Aikin crowed abruptly. “Go, Aife!” And then silence for an instant—and a hard, crunching thump as the vessels slammed together. The impact knocked David back from his shelter, as Nuada’s command slashed his mind again.
“Over!”
What did Silverhand mean, “Over”? This wasn’t part of the plan—
Nor was encountering our foes afloat, came Aife’s terse reply.
“Over, you mortal fool!”
The command carried the force of compulsion, and before David knew what he was doing, he’d leapt to his feet and was hurling himself across the now-narrow gap between the vessels. Steam washed his face with a bath of wet agony, and he had a moment of horrible, frozen panic as he saw nothing below but churning, boiling water, and ahead, a sweep of charred deck littered with shards of wood, scraps of bronze, a splatter of blood, and the sprawling shapes of warriors scrambling to their feet.
Somehow he was on his feet as well, traction uncertain upon the slippery deck, shotgun—empty again—a dead weight in his hands.
“Dave! Look—” came Aikin’s desperate shout. But before he could react, something heavy slammed into his back, flinging him hard across an inert body, to fetch up short against the raised metal boss at the base of the mast. He twisted as he hit, trying desperately to maintain any hold at all on the twelve-gauge, wondering if he ought not to forget it now and trust in sword or pistol.
Traitor! came his assailant’s thought—Faery speech, yet intelligible—then: Mortal scum! as David’s thrashings shook his helm aside, revealing his all-too-obvious features. He kicked savagely—all he could do—and continued twisting, and somehow found himself half upright, facing the largest Faery male he’d ever seen, scrambling toward him, sword upraised. David rolled as the sword arced down, but managed to knock the weapon from its goal with the shotgun swung one-handed. The stench of hot metal scorched the air; the sword flew from startled fingers—and then the man fell full upon him.
But not a man any longer: an enormous catlike creature, sleeker than a lion, black as a melanistic puma, fanged like a saber-toothed tiger. Twice his size, too, and easily thrice as heavy.
Thank God for mail!—as claws slashed his chest, rending his surc
oat to ribbons and sending metal rings popping. Another like that, and—
There’d better not be another! And then his field of vision narrowed to a mouthful of teeth bearing down on his head. He batted at it desperately—and was appalled at the roar that ensued, and only then recalled that he still held the shotgun in one hand and had a pistol at his waist. The first was empty, the latter wasn’t, but at these quarters, what you could wield most effectively was what mattered.
“Fuck you!” he snarled as he smashed the twelve-gauge down on the creature’s back. The thick, acrid stench of burning hair filled the air, and the beast’s growl became a scream as it leapt aside. He leapt after and managed to fumble the automatic free, even as he used the shotgun as a combination sword and cattle prod to force the beast farther away. A breath, a pause to check for impending assault from other quarters, and he thumbed off the Beretta’s safety and fired point-blank into the cat-beast’s maw. It screamed again and blood gushed forth. David got off another shot, this time in the chest. You better have a heart in there! he raged through a third. Better not be able to fight with the fuckin’ thing stopped!
“Fool!” the beast snarled back, in dreadful parody of mortal speech.
“Who you callin’ fool?” came LaWanda’s shriek from somewhere behind, followed instantly by a shotgun blast.
The beast fell silent—possibly because it lacked a head. Yet even as David watched, that shape altered, reverting to the man-form that was its proper state. Already queasy, he gagged, turning hastily away, hand across his mouth, propped against the mast while he got his bearings, already seeking another foe. “Thanks, Wan—” he began, but his savior was gone.
Steam—or sweat—or simple shock—veiled his vision, and when he could see again, it was to gaze upon chaos. Aife was to his left, sword dancing as she fought one Faery, while the corpse of another—a woman—lay behind her. Aikin was wrestling frantically with a lavishly bleeding human twice his size. Brock was nowhere to be seen, though an occasional bark of gunfire from the other ship suggested that he alone had ignored Nuada’s command to board. LaWanda was a dark blur darting here and there, hiding, and choosing her targets with clinical precision. Nuada was still engaged with the man he’d first assailed, but that encounter was difficult to see, and David suspected magicks went on there. Probably the man was the most Powerful among their foe, and as such, Nuada’s natural nemesis.
As for Fionchadd—no sign, so probably his cry had heralded an injury.
And Big Billy—
Christ? Where was his pa? He’d been next to him at the gunwale, had been vaguely aware of him leaping beside him to this vessel. But now?
“Dave!” came Aikin’s strangled gasp, and reflex sent David stumbling to his friend’s aid, where he still struggled to subdue his human foe. Four yards and he was there, Beretta poised to end that battle. Only…they were moving too fast to risk it, with Aikin in the muddle, and no way Aik wouldn’t have shot already, had he access to any of his artillery. For an instant he caught Aikin’s gaze: hazel-eyed and furious. And then David grabbed the enemy by the shoulders and heaved him up and away. As if in response, the ship promptly tilted, and all three fell, and when David figured himself out again, he was sprawled atop that man. Fortunately, he was a decent wrestler for a little guy, and was able to pin the fellow’s arms with his knees as he brought the shotgun down hard across his foe’s unprotected throat.
“Kill ’im!” Aikin gasped behind him. “Shoot the bastard!”
“He’s one of us,” David hissed back. “I don’t want—”
And then it didn’t matter, because something cracked beneath David’s fingers, and the man suddenly ripped free, to tear wild-eyed at his throat while he vented awful, gurgling sounds and flailed ineffectually for air. David stared at him incredulously, not believing what he’d done.
“Oh, fuck,” he sobbed. “Oh, flyin’ fuck!” Then, to Aikin, who had scrambled up beside him: “Oh, fuck, Aik; I crushed his windpipe and I didn’t mean to!”
Aikin’s eyes were cold. “People die,” he spat, and gave David a handup as he likewise rose.
“I think we’re winnin’,” David choked back. “I—” He didn’t finish his sentence, for the flurry of movement in the prow that was Nuada and the Faery captain suddenly clarified, to reveal Nuada alone, standing slump-shouldered above a mass of something that presumably had been his foe. Victory showed on the Faery Lord’s face for an instant—and then, to David’s horror, abject concern.
“Back!” Nuada shouted, motioning wildly toward their own boat.
David started to yell a protest, but Aikin was already shoving him that way. Others rose to join him, thrusting aside foes who no longer struggled or gave token resistance at best. He saw Aikin—Aife—LaWanda—all leap toward their home vessel.
But where was his father?
Oh, there he was: shoving aside a bald guy who’d been trying to wrest away his shotgun.
And then they were at the ship’s side, and leaping, and back on their own deck.
The first thing David saw was Fionchadd, sprawled across the boards, bleeding from a dagger wound in his side. Aife was already there, however, hands a blur as they probed the injury. Fionchadd’s face was white as snow, but he smiled as David came up beside him. “We…I think we won.”
“Maybe,” came Nuada’s voice behind him. “Or not. I—”
For the second time in far less than a minute, his words were cut off, this time by a rumbling explosion. Flames erupted from the vessel they had just abandoned, and a cloud of heat and stench and steam rolled over them. Already queasy, David vomited—and yet somehow managed to rouse himself in time to see one final figure come hurtling across the gap between the vessels.
“Pa!” he yelled, reaching to brace his father when he touched down.
“Shit!” Big Billy yelped back as David grabbed him. In spite of both their efforts, they fell. And then another explosion lit the air, and a dreadful shrapnel of wood, metal, flesh, and bone rained down upon them. Big Billy’s face smoothed with a relief David was insanely glad to see, then contorted abruptly.
“Pa! What—?” David gasped, as his father slapped at his back and collapsed, a foot long splinter of metal-bound oak lodged close beside his spine. Blood was everywhere.
David froze as though he’d himself been shot, then gazed about wild-eyed. “Aik!” he screamed. “Aife! Nuada!”
Aife was beside him instantly, leaving Nuada to tend Fionchadd. She touched his father’s body but briefly, then looked David square in the eye. “He bleeds within,” she said, “in a way I am not trained to heal.”
“But can’t you remove that?” David protested.
Aife shook her head. “I dare not. If I do—”
“He’ll bleed to death,” David finished for her, feeling oddly calm. Or numb.
“I’ll be okay—” Big Billy gasped, trying in vain to roll over.
Aife touched his forehead and he went slack, though he didn’t quite lose consciousness.
David rounded on her. “What do you think you’re doin’?”
“Conserving his energy,” the Faery woman snapped. “Blocking his pain. For now, as your kind would say, we have other fish to fry.”
Nuada rose from where he’d been tending Fionchadd and strode over to join them. “What happened?” David demanded, because he had to say something and dared not think about his father. Not when their mission was still unfinished.
“Their captain was Powerful indeed,” Nuada replied, removing his helm to reveal golden hair slicked to gloss with sweat. “As Powerful as I care to meet, weakened as I am. I fought him because no one else could have, and fortunate it is that we had the advantage of them for a crucial moment. It was enough to turn the tide in our favor, but the captain saw that, and would have destroyed both our ships had I not read that intention in his eyes and called retreat.”
“But…why?” Aikin panted.
“Think, boy!” Nuada snorted. “If he survived or s
urrendered, we would have had prisoners, and so the Sons’ cause would have been compromised, whether or not we succeed in freeing Lugh. If he died, we died with him, and others there surely are who can take his place guarding the Iron Dungeon.”
“Others,” LaWanda mused, staring at the dome far above. “There will be others,” Aife emphasized. “We must hurry.”
“Aye,” Nuada sighed. “For the last thing I sensed as the captain’s soul fled his body was a warning to more of his clan who even now approach from without.”
“Shit!” LaWanda groaned, wiping her brow.
“But my pa—!” David cried.
“If we flee with him now he stands a chance of living,” Nuada said coldly. “If we free Lugh, his odds grow less. But consider, boy, the things that hang in the balance.”
David fixed the Faery Lord with a glare that could have flayed him. And then he looked at his father: barely conscious, but with his face—almost—at peace. “I have no choice,” he said grimly. “There’s more than just what I want at stake here. Assuming,” he added savagely, “there even is an Iron Dungeon!”
“Take heed…mortal!” Nuada snarled back. “You try my patience!”
Chapter V: Prisoners of War
(the Iron Dungeon—high summer)
“…you try my patience!”
Nuada’s warning hung in the air like the pervasive steam, the incessant drizzle, yet David barely heard it. For a long sick moment, he stood frozen: mouth open, arms hanging limp at his sides, shotgun dangling loose in half-numb fingers. Sweat slid into his eyes, indistinguishable from the tears starting there. A stray gust of whatever odd wind whirled about the spherical cavern that constituted present reality whipped the remnants of his surcoat against his legs.
And still he stood. Gazing at…nothing, really. And then, in spite of himself, back at his father, motionless on the deck, heavy body contracted into a fetal crescent, as though to shrink away from the splinter lodged in his back.
