by Tom Deitz
Dale’s face went pale as the bone-white walls.
JoAnne could only look at her menfolks and shudder.
III
(Tir-Nan-Og—high summer)
Turinne mac Angus mac Offai stared first at the spreading bloodstain that ensanguined the pearl-white marble floor, then at the headless corpse of the latest of Lugh’s former guard to be ferreted out and dispatched (he thought this one’s name was Froech), and finally at the gridwork of iron that caged Lugh’s throne, there on the dais in the audience hall at the heart of Tir-Nan-Og. “Careful, lads,” he cautioned. “There may be more, but they will think twice before they waste their lives, now that they know they face the Death of Iron.”
“Aye, Lord,” Ciarran, his warlord-to-be, acknowledged; watching with absent, smug interest as Turinne flung a pouch of gold (the real stuff, not the usual englamoured surrogate) to his human executioner, who was even now wiping his steel-bladed sword on his ill-fitting livery. The man grinned wickedly and stared at Turinne’s throat, as though he’d cheerfully add it to the considerable tally he’d already amassed that day, in the Sons’ final sweep of the palace before freeing Lugh’s throne from its iron tomb. They’d use mortals for that, of course, and then get rid of them. Unless Lugh showed up, or Silverhand, or other of the deposed Ard Rhi’s clan, household, and kin.
But since Lugh was dead, as far as any seer they had could determine—well, there was no longer any point in waiting until Lughnasadh to bind Turinne to the Land in truth. He would be king—a good one, he hoped—and Tir-Nan-Og would prosper, as she had not since the World Walls (he’d tend to them first) had begun to fade and wear and rupture.
Oh, iron would still be a factor, but there’d be no more iron, because the Mortal Lands that so disrupted Tir-Nan-Og would all be underwater, and eventually the Land would heal. And after a longer space of years (though not so long to one who was immortal), the iron already present would rust away, there in its watery grave.
And then—
Turinne froze—they all did, everyone in that whole vast chamber, down to the brain-numb mortals.
It was a sound, yet not a sound. A thrum, like a harp string snapped, but not the thrum the Tracks made when unsourced Power pulsed along them. Yet he heard it: like a gong, like a chime, like a bell; so high and clear and pure he almost didn’t hear it, but with roots that reached straight to the roots of the mountain.
Indeed, Turinne realized, it was the mountain. The rock itself was ringing. Shuddering, rather, as though something tiny but infinitely sharp had pierced it to the root and set every atom in the whole stone pile to shaking.
Which could only mean one thing.
“The gauntlet has been thrown,” he told Ciarran. “That which we have awaited has occurred in the Lands of Men. War, my friends, has awakened.”
PART THREE
Scott Gresham’s Journal
(Sunday, June 29—late afternoon)
Well, fuck. I shouldn’t even bother doing this, but Dale’s gone, and Elyyoth’s a nice enough guy, but he can’t really relate to this stuff—probably because he’s trying to relate to all the stuff in the Sullivans’ house, most of which has some iron content, so he’s probably, at some level, freaked all the time.
Only I seem to have got used to ranting on this thing, so stay tuned, boys and girls, for Scotto’s latest self-indulgent tirade.
The shit, as it were, has hit the famous fan. I knew it was coming, but it just didn’t seem real. Actually, a lot of this doesn’t seem real, and I’m not just talking about the obvious stuff. No, it’s like this is all stuff we’re fighting really hard, but the folks from Mystic Mountain may want it just as bad, and I have to try to see their side, too: that maybe some resort like this is something Ralph Mims has wanted all his life. Maybe it’s something he doodled designs for in the margins of his high school notebooks. Maybe he’s mortgaged everything he’s got so he can throw money at me like it was Mardi Gras beads or something. Maybe he’s got a wife who’s just the neatest person in the world and a kid who’d be my best friend if I met him, and here I’m trying to completely ruin him forever. I mean, the Faerie thing makes sense, too, in a Medieval History 101 kind of way, but…
Fuck, I’ve got away from myself, and I’ve just realized that if I’d spent as much time dissertating as I have working out my angst on this fucking computer, I’d have the fucker done by now. But anyway, back to where I was trying to be: this doesn’t seem real. All that stuff I bragged to Devlin about, that me and Dale did. I was proud of it, but I wasn’t the guy whose expensive car wouldn’t start, or the mechanic who’ll have to figure out how to fix it, or the perfectly innocent person on some production line somewhere who decided to make that one fuel pump the best fuel pump he’d ever made just to see if he could, and I went and fucked it up. It was real to him then. The sugar was a game.
Fucking up all that computer gear was a game to me, but the stuff that got wasted might well have been pretty damned real. And now they’ve driven that spike, and that wasn’t real either, only I’ve gotta feeling it’s gonna be, ’cause the air already feels like rain.
I think I’m gonna go hang out with Elyyoth some more and see what he thinks is real these days. Like people maybe. Like ants are real to us. Fuck, it’s raining!
Chapter XVII: Return to Sender
(near Clayton, Georgia—Sunday, June 29—sunset)
…heat…
…light…
…pain…
…heat…light…pain…
…heatlightpain…
…heatlight…
Light…that was not that which suffused Galunlati: softer, less stark, less focused. Or maybe merely less clear. Heat that was quickly fading.
Pain that was not the impossible agony that had characterized their journey to Uki’s Land. More a soreness, really; as though Liz’s cells were simply tired of being manhandled.
She blinked and saw nothing. Blinked again and saw rough-clad mountains and sunset sky, and thought briefly that those thunderbolts the Four Chiefs had zapped them with had deposited them elsewhere in Galunlati. The landscape was the same, as was the painted stick she’d been gazing at prior to departure. Except that one had been blue, hadn’t it? And this was red.
Another blink and everything lined up, and she was sitting cross-legged in a ragged circle of friends, holding David’s hand in a viselike grip while gaping at Sandy beside that stick.
“Devlin’s,” Calvin breathed. “We’re back at John’s!”
“Thank God for small favors,” Sandy sighed, rising. Liz twisted around as she joined her, so that she finally saw the house. They’d arrived in the backyard, with her facing the mountains, so no wonder she’d been confused. All at once she was shaking, reaching around to lock David in a hug she would’ve gladly continued forever. He hugged back, obviously as relieved as she. Or as scared, given what they’d learned in Galunlati: that matters were coming to a head in Tir-Nan-Og; that the Chiefs would help them, but in their own time; that it would require a death—
“Helluva way to travel,” Kirkwood gasped, least jaded of their band.
“Helluva way to arrive, too,” John Devlin drawled, stepping out the kitchen door with a wide-eyed Brock in tow. “You folks sure know how to make an entrance.”
“Gotta make an exit, too,” David snapped. “Shit’s about to hit the fan, but it’s facing Sullivan Cove, not here.”
“Just as well,” Devlin conceded. “I’d appreciate a briefing. ’Spect you wanta use the phone first, though.”
David was already striding toward the back steps, leaving the others to fend for themselves. Liz joined him, angry at being excluded (Enotah was her county, too, and it wasn’t like she was powerless herself), yet eager to learn as much as possible in her own right. Sometimes David took too much on himself, and unfortunately he was too much his father’s son to admit he was in over his head. And damn those stereotypes, too!
“Got food,” Devlin offered.
“
Beer’d be good,” Kirkwood laughed. “And we’ve got plenty of food for thought.”
“Catch you in a sec,” David told his host as he marched up the hall toward the living room in quest of the phone he’d last seen there. “Uh…” he ventured a moment later, through a frown, “where’s Silverhand?”
“Gone,” Devlin informed him tersely. “Lugh showed up in pre-Columbian drag, said he had a kingdom to reclaim and something about a spear, and the two of ’em hopped on a Track Lugh’d diverted here, and…zap.”
The frown deepened. “When was this?”
“You folks hadn’t been gone long. I take it you succeeded?”
“Well, we may have help with the big stuff,” David sighed. “But I blew it on the healing water, ’cause there was bigger stuff goin’ on. But if a bunch of guys with spiffy paint jobs show up, for God’s sake let ’em in.”
“God’s being the operative word,” Calvin chuckled, having joined them unnoticed.
“Phone,” David prompted. “Sorry, but I gotta check on the folks and then the Athens crowd.” Devlin passed him a portable without comment, which David accepted with a muttered thanks. “Feel free to brief John,” he added to Calvin. “I got a couple of other things to do. Sorry to take over,” he apologized again. “But…well, you know.”
Devlin shrugged and sauntered back to join the group congregating in his tiny kitchen. Liz could smell coffee brewing, and someone had cranked up the microwave. Her stomach rumbled; they never had got to eat in Galunlati, and she was torn between bodily needs and supporting her lover. All things considered, Dave was doing a decent job keeping his cool over his dad; better than she’d have done if it’d been her mom or dad, if the truth were known. Or maybe it was like he’d said: once you had proof death wasn’t the end, it didn’t pay to fret over one individual life, even if it was your own.
“Sorry,” David told her absently as he punched in seven digits, which meant it wasn’t long distance, which meant the hospital. “Two days from now this’ll be…well, let’s just hope…”
A pause. Then: “Is JoAnne Sullivan around?” Another pause, while David fidgeted and shifted the receiver to his other ear. “Okay, I’ll wait.”
Liz decided not to. Dave was funny about doing personal family stuff around folks, even those he’d known a long time. She spared him a brief, wistful kiss and wandered out to the porch, wondering why she felt so safe here, when the place had been all but besieged the previous night, and discovering how great it felt to be alone. How long had it been, anyway, since this latest chaos had begun? Christ, her folks were probably about to have cabbages, though silence was surely the best policy for now. Or maybe telling them that David’s dad had been injured and they were giving him moral support, which was true.
All at once she was bone tired. Without thinking about it, she sank down in Devlin’s porch swing. The chains creaked: a homey sound. The boards were hard, but it was a comfortable hardness. The air smelled of coffee and some of those herbs drying on the wall. The sky was shifting from purple to black, and the surrounding trees were wrapping their trunks in shadows. It was a magic time. A between time, yet there was nothing arcane about it. No matter what happened to Tir-Nan-Og, there’d still be magic in the world.
Lord, it was nice out here! So relaxing… Her eyelids drifted down. Before she knew it, she was asleep.
Not so deeply, however, that she didn’t rouse abruptly when David thumped down beside her. The chains squeaked irritably. It was marginally darker, but not much, so he evidently hadn’t talked very long. There were bags under his eyes, she realized, and the first trace of creases bracketing his mouth. “What’s new?” she yawned.
David shook his head, then buried his face in his hands, not crying, just weary. “Pa’s—He got better and then got worse, and nobody can find out what’s wrong, but Ma thinks it’s something Faery in the wound keeping it from healing. Something to do with blood not clotting. They keep having to transfuse him. It’s a slow seepage, but steady. Coagulants don’t work, and surgery would require more cutting, which would defeat the purpose. They may send him to Gainesville.”
“Why don’t they?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“David!”
“I know, I know. It’s just—dammit, it’ll remind me of stuff again and…and make it real! But—oh, hell, Liz, it’s like this: Dale and Billy have heard something wailing.”
Liz felt her heart grow cold; a shiver that was not born of the cool evening wind danced across her body. “Wailing,” she echoed, because she had to say something, and that was the only safe reply. Then: “Like the other time we heard wailing?”
David nodded. “I think so.”
“We dealt with that, though, didn’t we?”
A tired shrug, a halfhearted smile. “Reckon so.”
“Nice sunset, anyway. Just in case you’d like something good to appreciate.”
“Thanks.” He slapped her thigh, as though she were one of his buddies. “You have no idea how much I’d love to just sit out here and vege, but I can’t. Gotta go check on the folks in Athens.”
“Don’t bother,” came a voice from the front door as Sandy backed through the screen. Coffee steamed in each hand, in matching stoneware mugs. She handed one to Liz and one to David. Liz inhaled gratefully, but David had fixed Sandy with a worried stare, his lips a thin, taut line. “What gives?”
“What gives is that I took it upon myself to preempt you, and the short form is no go. I tried your place, Dave; and Liz’s; and Myra’s. Nobody home, but I left messages on the off chance they decide to check down there before they come back here. The main thing is that they know which here to come to. We hadn’t exactly decided, but best I can tell, ground zero’s gonna be your home turf.”
David stared at his coffee, slowly took a sip, then nodded. “Sounds like it.”
“Did you expect anything else? I mean, really?”
“I guess I never stopped hopin’.”
“Don’t,” Sandy advised, picking absently at a patch of dried ointment on her shirt. “Stop hoping, I mean. Seat-of-the-pants luck’s seen us through before. Shoot, I could be dying of a snakebit tit by now.”
“Luck’s not infinite, though,” David gave back. “Still, they’ve got sense enough to call here, assumin’ they get back. John can reroute ’em.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Liz agreed, tasting her coffee and finding it finally cool enough to drink.
David twisted around to look back inside. “Gettin’ dark,” he observed. “I’m assumin’ that nobody’s expectin’ anything to happen over here, what with Lugh and Silverhand gone. Somebody’d be freakin’ otherwise.”
“Finno says probably not,” Sandy acknowledged. “Said that if Lugh rounded up Nuada, they’d likely head straight for Tir-Nan-Og. He thinks Lugh’s got some secret way to contact his guard even Silverhand doesn’t know about. He’ll hit the ground running and issue a call.”
“Leaving us to do the scutwork,” Liz grumbled.
“Leaving us to save his ass in a more permanent way if we can,” David countered. “I mean, we’ve pretty much decided to move his country for him. Who knows if that’ll work, though, or if there’ll be repercussions, or if the place’ll even survive.”
“Silverhand knew,” Liz reminded him. “He’d have stopped us if it looked too risky or thought Lugh wouldn’t agree.”
“Unless he’s got his own agenda,” Sandy cautioned. “I’m not sure I trust any of these dudes when it comes down to it. Immortality—Power—makes you cold. Makes you jaded. Even Finno’s like that, and he’s the best of the lot.”
“Silver’s not a bad egg,” Devlin noted from the door. “Granted, I know him more as a poet than a warrior, and the things we’ve talked about have been more philosophy than fact, since I figure it doesn’t do to know too much about some things. Whoever said ‘Ignorance is bliss’ wasn’t lyin’.”
“No,” David agreed grimly, “he wasn’t.”
&
nbsp; The phone rang. Devlin grimaced and slipped back into the house. David looked at Myra. “So Finno thinks Lugh’s gonna round up his guard? What about the spear? Did he say anything about that? Like which spear?”
“I hope it’s not that spear,” Liz breathed, then noted Sandy’s blank look. “Sorry, I forget who knows what. But the deal is that Lugh’s got a spear that harnesses the power of the sun. Last time he used it, it—”
“Moved the sun!” David gulped. “Not ours, but the sun in Galunlati! Oh, jeeze! I’d forgot about that, since I never really saw it in use. I don’t know what that means in terms of all this other crap.”
“It means the Chiefs of the Quarters won’t take it kindly if it happens again,” Liz said flatly. “They didn’t look like they’d put up with much if you got ’em riled. I—”
“David: phone,” Devlin broke in from the door. He passed it out, via Sandy.
“Hello?” David began tentatively.
Liz was sitting close enough to hear someone hello back: Scott, if she wasn’t mistaken. He sounded excited. David found a button that let everyone hear. “Scott? What’s the deal?”
“I’d hold out for another hand, is what I’d do,” Scott snorted. “Better yet, I’d fold. But I didn’t call to play word games. I guess you’d better brace yourself. It’s, uh—well, it’s happened. Nothing yesterday, then bang-thud-swoosh: a zillion tons of stuff gets trucked in this afternoon and the place is covered up with folks. Seems they’re gonna start on the onshore stuff, which they’d already designed and backed up some time ago, and work on that while I—supposedly—start surveyin’ Bloody Bald. But that’s not why I called—” He broke off, as though he truly didn’t want to continue.
“Lay it on us, Scott. Like you said: we don’t have time for games.”
A deep breath. “Okay, then: they’ve driven the spike, Dave. Symbolic, kind of, and on shore, not on the mountain, but it was an iron spike. They drove it right at sunset and—I dunno, it was weird, and I think I must’ve been the only one who noticed it, but soon as that sucker sank in, it was like…like the whole goddamn Cove rang. Sounded like glass, but deep as infrasound at the same time. You’ve heard of the music of the spheres; this was the tolling of the earth.”
