Warstalker's Track

by Tom Deitz

  “Depends on who’s on top,” David shot back sweetly. And ducked back into the thicket. “So,” he continued, when he returned with clothes in hand and a barefoot Liz in tow. “What’s the deal?” They sat down to deal with socks and shoes.

  “The deal,” Aikin replied patiently, “is that the Silver Track crew are leavin’.”

  David lifted a brow. “They’re not gonna cross over straight from here?”

  Alec shook his head. “And technically, it’s not a they.” David’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Aikin shifted his weight and looked a trifle guilty. “I mean—that is, uh, me and Mach-One here are goin’ too.”

  David shrugged a bit too nonchalantly as he attacked his second sneaker. “Whatever. I got tired of hearin’ pros and cons of this person and that. I know where I have to go, for balance, if nothing else. The rest—it’d be good people anyway.”

  “I hope so,” Aikin muttered, looking apprehensively back toward the cabin.

  “So what’s the final tally?” David asked. He snugged his last lace and rose, slapping leaves off his backside in the process.

  Alec counted on his fingers. “John stays here—obviously. So does Brock, because it’s the least risky proposition, plus he’s got some background in Cherokee mojo, and Cal and Churchy thought it’d be best if we had as many traditions represented here as possible. And since Cal pretty much has to go to Galunlati, Churchy’s got a vested interest in goin’, and Sandy’s in no mood to argue, that only leaves the kid.”

  “So someone from Faerie’s stayin’ here too?”

  “Silverhand,” Alec acknowledged. “Finno’s been to Galunlati, so it makes sense for him to return. Aife, being a traitor to the Sons, feels like she’d be better off if she wasn’t so close to hand, plus she’s an added attraction to anyone who might happen to attack, so she’s going Tracking. Silverhand’s an even bigger draw, of course, but he’s also bigger mojo. And now that he’s rested, he swears he feels as good as new.”

  “What about LaWanda?” Liz broke in. “She’s from yet another magic tradition.”

  “And a damned fine fighter,” David added. “But she’s also friends with Myra, who has to look for the Silver Tracks; as, apparently, does Piper.”

  “Right,” Aikin agreed. “Which is why McLean and me decided to go with ’em. They’ve got native guides. They got a Faery. They might have Scott if Myra convinces him to cut work for a day. But they need somebody who knows how all this stuff fits together.”

  “And who’s spent enough time away from his girlfriend,” Alec appended.

  “And of course they need someone tireless, resourceful, and decent with weapons, even if they don’t expect to fight,” Aikin finished with a smug grin, glancing at his watch, then at the sky, then back at the cabin. “And now, if you guys don’t mind…”

  David gave Liz a hand up. “We gotta get movin’ too.”

  A minute later, they were standing beside Myra’s van. The owner was fidgeting with her keys and looking antsy. Piper wasn’t doing anything at all, having withdrawn into that quiet place he went when fear, desire, and responsibility—and his love for LaWanda—resumed their invisible war.

  Aife and Nuada were on the porch, talking animatedly, and only partly with their mouths, as the clogging in David’s head testified. As best he could tell, Aife was debating whether to remain in the Faery substance she’d adopted upon leaving the Cove, in which form she’d have easier access to Power; or to put on the substance of the Mortal World, in which guise she’d be better equipped to weather the proximity to iron riding in the van would entail.

  Aikin, who’d also caught the conversation, settled the matter abruptly. “’Less somebody’s willin’ to lend a pickup with a bedliner, I don’t see how she’s got much choice.” He gazed at Liz speculatively, then at Devlin.

  “Mine won’t make it,” Devlin said.

  “And we may need mine,” Liz added. “When we get back from Galunlati.”

  “Gee,” Alec sighed, crestfallen. “And I was hoping we could ride in the back.” Then, to David, with a wink: “Ain’t no moss in a pickup.”

  “Just pryin’ eyes.”

  A shrug. “That’s what cover’s for.”

  “Abstinence,” Myra drawled, “makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “Heart, or—?”

  David elbowed his friend and giggled. A man could only take so much that was stem and grim and…significant, after all, before he had to get punchy or go insane.

  Myra jingled her keys meaningfully and opened her door. Piper was already inside. Alec was moving that way as well, propelled by Devlin. No argument there, David noted. No endless discussion. Merely simple, direct action. He wished everything was that simple.

  But where was LaWanda?

  “Sorry,” the woman called, as if in answer. “Figured I oughta have one last go at a for-real potty, seein’ how I may not have access to one for a while.” And as LaWanda jogged around to the van’s passenger side, Myra Jane Buchanan closed the door and cranked the engine.

  Alec gave David one final hug, as did Aikin, which surprised him, and then they too climbed in the vehicle. Aife, very white-faced, came last.

  The air resounded with good-byes, or inanities uttered in lieu of real emotion. And then, for almost half a minute, John Devlin’s yard filled up with silence.

  *

  Ten years ago, David concluded wryly, he’d have given anything he owned, might own, or would ever have considered owning, to be doing what he was right now. If you considered right now to mean helping the King of the Faeries evade rebels by spiriting him to another World, anyway. Yeah, his twelve-year-old self would’ve thought that was pretty cool. Little Billy still thought it was pretty cool and was jealous as hell that David got to have adventures he only heard about, and that under penalty of worse punishments than he could imagine if he told anyone else! Of course, the kid hid most of that jealousy—and pride and anger—under a thickening veneer of attitude David didn’t recall ever having. But he’d still have thought it was pretty damned cool.

  David, age twenty-two, was royally tired of it. Even worse, as Liz said, there was no end in sight. At least the logistics were nowhere near as complicated as they would once have been, not with Calvin having custody of a sufficiency of uktena scales—scales from a serpentlike monster that dwelt in Galunlati, one incarnation of which he, Alec, Calvin, and Fionchadd had long ago helped to slay.

  Yep, those scales had proven mighty useful more than once; and trouble, of course, as well. Shoot, the plain, unadulterated items could help a man shapeshift. All you had to do was hold one in your hand, close your eyes, and think of what you wanted to become, then squeeze until the scale’s sharp edges brought blood. And presto-chango: instant ’possum, or whatever.

  Actually, it wasn’t that easy. It hurt like hell, for one thing. And you had to have eaten the critter in question—which wasn’t a problem for country-boy-woodsy types like him and Calvin, or forestry jocks like Aikin. It was also wise to shift to something roughly one’s own mass; cougars, deer, small bears, wolves, and alligators were ideal.

  Nor was that all uktena scales were good for. Another function was about to be utilized right soon. David wondered if he was ready—beyond being packed, fed, and sporting his atasi, the war club Asgaya Sakani had given him at his naming ceremony, three years back. Trouble was, as he’d already warned Sandy, Liz, and Kirkwood, this application also hurt like the devil. Fionchadd had said it didn’t matter, and Lugh was still out of it, though looking better all the time. Still, he dreaded it.

  He wouldn’t be dreading much longer. Cal had suggested they wait until noon, which was a between time, since between times were auspicious for working with what the Sidhe would have called Power.

  David wondered if he was ready. He’d spent most of the morning since the departure of the Silver Tracks crew helping Calvin, Kirkwood, and Sandy contrive a travois-litter-thing on which to transport Lugh, in case cross-co
untry travel was required. The finished apparatus consisted of twin eight-foot staves of rattan wrapped with foam and duct tape at all four ends to form padded handles, and joined by a surplus army blanket stitched around the poles.

  Fionchadd and Nuada were easing the King down on it now, both apparently in much better shape than heretofore, though both sets of eyes were tired beyond belief. Himself, he was on his second—or third—or fourth—wind, but the time couldn’t be far off when he’d do a serious crash-and-burn.

  He hoped nothing was competing for attention then. Like survival.

  Galunlati wasn’t Faerie, after all; wasn’t even halfway civilized. It was more like pre-Columbian North America, with a dash of Pleistocene flora and fauna thrown in.

  He was still staring numbly at the unconscious Faery king and trying not to think about why Kirkwood was building a fire in the fireplace in the high heat of June, when Liz slipped up behind him and handed him a cup of iced coffee. “Kick, but no heat,” she purred.

  He took it, kissed her absently. “This’d be easier if we had the ulunsuti.”

  “Ulunsuti?” Devlin echoed, joining them. “Jewel from the head of the uktena, right? Cherokee shamans use ’em. Supposed to have oracular powers.”

  “Does, too.”

  “Somehow I missed that you guys have one.”

  “Had one,” David corrected. “Uki gave Alec one the first time we went to Galunlati. Caused him a lot of grief, too, though it’s also helped a couple of times, like when we’ve needed to check up on other places. Anyway, it’s gone now. See, you can do certain things to ’em and use ’em to create gates between the Worlds. That’s what caused part of the problem with Faerie, actually.”

  Devlin nodded thoughtfully. “I knew they’d had trouble with what they called the gating stone, but didn’t know they meant an ulunsuti.”

  David shrugged

  “So you could’ve used it to make a gate now?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  At which point Calvin wandered back inside from where he’d been reinforcing his wards and instructing Brock on the maintenance of same. He ruffled the boy’s long hair affectionately. “Gotta get you a war name, kiddo.”

  Brock beamed.

  David raised a brow at Calvin and shouldered his bag of gear.

  Calvin gave him a weary nod and retrieved his own bag. “Head ’em up; move ’em out,” he called.

  Silently, they gathered round: those who would remain behind—Devlin, Brock, and Nuada—and those who would venture into Galunlati—David, Liz, and Sandy, who were all New World Celts; Calvin McIntosh and Kirkwood O’Connor, who were Cherokee-Irish mix; Fionchadd MacAilill, who was part Faerie and part Powersmith; and Lugh Samildinach, High King of the Sidhe in Tir-Nan-Og. Seven, David realized. Which could be a lucky number.

  Calvin checked his watch, then led his crew to the area they’d cleared in front of Devlin’s fireplace—they’d moved the sofa back halfway across the room to make space for themselves, and at that, it was still rather crowded.

  “Closer,” Calvin insisted, urging them closer again, so that David felt the fireplace heat wash up into his face, reminding him unpleasantly of the Pillar of Fire back…wherever. “Take care, everybody,” he called, a sentiment echoed by the others, though it was a more sober leave-taking than the earlier one, possibly because neither Devlin nor Nuada were demonstrative types and Brock had decided to be cool again.

  Calvin squeezed through to kneel before the fire. David was certain its heat flared hotter than ever. “Ten, nine, eight…” Sandy counted. And then Calvin reached into a white leather pouch at his waist, drew out seven examples of what looked like vitreous fish scales, milky-clear at the tips, blood red at the roots. A pause for a breath and a half-heard invocation in Cherokee, and Calvin tossed all seven scales into the fire.

  Smoke.

  “Hyuntikwala Usunhi!” Calvin yelled.

  The fire blazed up immediately; the smoke thickened: up first, then out—enfolding them all in heat beyond heat, pain beyond pain, as though every cell in their bodies was being charred to ash one by one, and each had its own separate and exquisitely sensitive nerve. Someone gasped. Someone else cried out. A rush of wind; flame and pain found David’s eyes, and the World simply disappeared.

  As white light was in truth all colors merged into one all-consuming whole, what followed was the same thing rendered in pain. A pain so pure it almost was not pain. And then it was again, and was diminishing, as though his cells reasserted themselves one by one.

  Wind on his face, the smell of growing things, and David opened his eyes.

  “Well,” Kirkwood breathed beside him. “So this is Galunlati.”

  “Looks like it,” Calvin gasped. For his part, David was knuckling his eyes, wiping away the residual smoke that was making them tear like crazy. Eventually, his vision clarified, and he took stock of his surroundings. It was Galunlati, all right; not even Tir-Nan-Og had this primal freshness. The air was what air ought to be, what it was designed to be. And the landscape…! He inhaled deeply and looked around—they all did, returnees and newcomers alike. Newcomer, rather; Kirkwood was the only complete neophyte save the unconscious Lugh.

  God, but this place was beautiful! They stood at the edge of a good-sized river that bisected a narrow valley framed with mountains to either side, mountains that could have been his own native Appalachians a million years ago, before erosion—and Homo sapiens—had worked their will upon them. More rounded than the Rockies, they were, and forested to their peaks. Sure, those peaks were taller than the ones back in Enotah County, or the taller, craggier ones up in the Smokies, like those in The Last of the Mohicans. But the subtle softness was the same, a softness wrought at once by the underlying shapes and the growth that covered them: hardwoods mostly, conifers here and there, with laurel and rhododendron filling the spaces between.

  And the trees closer in! Hundreds of feet high, they were, straight trunked, yet not unnaturally perfect, for limbs looped and whorled and twisted where they would in a riot of joyous growth.

  The sky was clear, save straight ahead, where a paler smudge rose from a screen of pines to bleach it. A familiar stain, too. “Hyuntikwalayi,” Calvin murmured. “Where-It-Made-A-Noise-As-Of-Thunder.”

  “I know that name,” Kirkwood whispered. “It’s the old name for Tallulah Gorge.”

  “Which this both is and isn’t,” Calvin acknowledged. “Now listen.”

  As one they held their breaths—and felt as much as heard the steady, almost infrasound, rumble of water that fell so far and hard the rocks around it forever resonated.

  “I take it,” Liz observed, “that you guys have been here before?”

  David and Calvin nodded as one. “Cave in the rocks below. That’s where Uki lives.”

  “So where is he, then?” Sandy wondered. “I mean, that was his name Cal shouted, right? Shouldn’t it have brought us to him?”

  “Should have,” Calvin emphasized. “It doesn’t always—quite. I—”

  A groan silenced him. Lugh. Lying as he’d lain in the Lands of Men: shrouded in a bedsheet, then wrapped to the neck in an army blanket, and resting on the ground between them.

  One thing had changed immediately, David noted. Instead of being utterly comatose, the King of the Faeries was writhing and thrashing, twisting within his bonds, though whether to free himself from restraint or from pain he couldn’t tell. He was grunting and groaning, too, and had actually managed to work one hand free, though his eyelids were tightly closed.

  He looked better, though: healthier, anyway; less abraded than before, with fewer pustules, far less angry red. A healthier glow suffusing what was always ghost-pale skin. His face was also fuller: his cheeks less hollow, the pouches under his eyes not as obvious. His hair, however, was still as wet as it had been: slicked to his skull with sweat and the water they’d used to rinse it free of iron dust. Not successfully, either, to judge by the oozing scalp. Only that—and his mouth—still looked tortur
ed, likely a result of the dust they’d been unable to remove from his sweeping mustache, which Nuada had dared anyone to trim lest they face Lugh’s wrath indeed.

  And then Lugh’s writhing redoubled.

  “Is he having a fit?” Liz gasped, staring intently at Fionchadd.

  The Faery was equally amazed, and more amazed a moment later when, amidst the worst writhing yet, Lugh’s eyes popped open. They were a startling dark blue: the blue of sapphires and deepsea water. And wild—with fear, pain, or utter madness, David had no idea.

  More writhing, and the blanket began to slip free. “Hold him!” Calvin snapped, but Fionchadd grabbed his shoulders and held him back.

  “Finno? What—?” Calvin began hotly.

  “I am not certain,” the Faery hissed. “I caught a shred of thought unshadowed by insanity. I—I think he has a plan.”

  And then, with a groan and the ripping of fabric, the writhing, thrashing King broke free. He rose—slowly, awkwardly, yet graceful for all that uncertainty—and stood swaying for a moment, white and naked and mostly intact, with his black hair hanging halfway down a back that reblistered as they watched.

  Before anyone could stop him, he uttered a long wild shriek and dashed toward the juncture of the river and the screen of trees that masked the source of all that liquid thunder.

  Reflex had already set David running, with Cal, Liz, and Fionchadd close behind; all in pursuit of the fleeing Faery, who was already forcing his way through the low-lying, riverside brush.

  They lost sight of him briefly, the foliage was so thick, but then daylight stabbed their eyes again. David blinked and had to rein himself in to keep from plunging over the edge of the precipitous cliff barely two yards ahead of him.

  David had already opened his mouth to call Lugh’s name, to summon him back from the brink, when the Faery uttered one final ecstatic shout—and flung himself into the river, not five feet from where it leapt over what was easily two hundred feet of ancient granite.

  He lost sight of him, then, amidst the ensuing fountain of spray, but glimpsed him one final time before he disappeared over the cliff.