"It was not made to be taken into battle, or anywhere else. It was made to provoke," Odras announced. "Which, it seems, it has." He stopped short of saying something else, but Petrus had a pretty good idea what it would have been. He and Wenlann had been arguing over any number of small issues since their departure from Avalon, and he suspected it was getting rather tiring for Odras.
"No good can come from this," Odras said. "So blatant a gesture. On the sacred ground of Old Avalon, no less." His eyes veered from the banner, and gazed over the low hills of the area. With only the occasional bush and tree, the area was ideal for staging an attack.
"We might do well to consider this a warning," Odras said to the younger elves. "We are, after all, only three."
"But if this is a challenge," Petrus said, not liking the way the discussion was going, "I cannot turn it down."
"Understood," Odras said. "But unless I'm mistaken, you are not required to take on an entire army by yourself."
"If we are evenly matched or not, it won't matter," Wenlann said bitterly, and began gathering the sparse gear they'd brought. "Zeldan never considered himself Bound by such rules. And I doubt his son would even know of such rules, much less operate by them. He was, after all, planning to overthrow his own father."
Petrus admitted that she had a point. "Perhaps we should…" he began, but stopped when he glanced up at the horizon.
At the top of one of the hills stood a mounted horse, its rider a dark figure, partially concealed in the mist. In the rider's right hand was a sword, and in his left was the outline of what was probably a shield. He made no move to approach, or take flight, and seemed content to stay where he was, regarding the three patiently while the 'steed nibbled at the grass.
"I take this challenge," Petrus said suddenly, before Wenlann could say anything. It would have been just like her to try to take this opportunity from him, to prove once again she was capable of holding her own among the males of the Elfhame. Now the challenge was Petrus', by the rules.
"Suit yourself," Odras said, sounding strangely unalarmed. Instead of preparing for a potential battle he tossed another log on the fire, looking completely detached. "I think you will be disappointed in this… confrontation," he said as he sat down again.
Petrus wanted to ask him more, but he knew from experience that to do so would be futile. He would only answer in riddles, he thought before mounting Moonremere. He checked his sword, made certain the sheath wasn't bound, grateful he had put a good sharp edge on the blade the evening before. He had a small shield that under most circumstances would be inadequate; they had packed lightly. It will have to do, he thought without regret, remembering he had considered omitting it altogether.
"Is Acre only one?" Wenlann asked as she brought the remaining two elvensteeds closer to the camp. Odras didn't answer, and Petrus didn't wait to see if he would. If there were more he would warn us, he reasoned as he sized up his opponent, who seemed to perk up at the prospect of battle.
Petrus maneuvered Moonremere to one end of the field, as the other took up a position on a higher end, which might give him some advantage of momentum. He frowned at that, wondering if this was going to be a fair fight after all, and shook the doubt off as soon as it had occurred. This is the beast that left that banner on our grave site. And he has picked this particular fight.
Memory of the banner, and of his family, fueled him with anger which he tried to defuse with calm. Angry thoughts tended to cloud judgment, and he pushed them away.
The other called, across the field, in a deep baritone voice that had no trouble reaching his ears. "Are you the Seleighe vermin that has infested this part of Underhill? The pathetic rats we killed ages ago, at yon ruin?" He pointed his sword in the direction of the palace. "And you have dared remove my rightful claim to this moor?"
How dare the bastard! Petrus thought as the hatred surged through him despite his best efforts to divert it elsewhere. Blood boiling, he glanced over at Wenlann, who simply shrugged. He expected, and wanted, no more; this was his fight. Odras, however, did not deign to even look in his direction, and had started sharpening his own sword with no apparent urgency.
"You have no claim here!" Petrus shouted. "This is the land of my father, my father's father, and our ancestors before him! What right have you to trespass on the Kingdom of Avalon!"
The opponent laughed uproariously. "O, Avalon, is it! My father destroyed Avalon long ago!"
Careful, now, Petrus thought, now seeing red. If this is the Japhet Dhu, he is a tricky one, and cannot be trusted.
"As my King destroyed your father, Japhet the Pathetic!" Petrus shouted back.
"So you know who I am," the opponent replied, sounding not the slightest bit humbled. "And you know why I'm here."
Enough talk. "You are here to die!" Petrus shouted, and kicked Moonremere into action.
The opponent followed suit, shrieking a cry that brought back vivid images of the long-ago war. Petrus charged ahead, tensing his left arm with the shield, and beginning the delicate balancing needed to inflict sword damage while remaining perched atop a 'steed. But as he drew nearer he saw to his extreme displeasure that Japhet was much larger than he had first estimated, as was his 'steed. A war 'steed, in fact, bred for height and muscle, which his own 'steed in its present form was lacking. Too late to make adjustments now, he knew, then realized Japhet's sword was not the bronze or silver their folk used in battle, but the death metal, iron. How can an elf wield such a weapon? he thought fleetingly. If I don't strike him down the first time, I have no chance…
Petrus screamed something unintelligible as he leaped from his 'steed's back, choosing a fighting tactic one can use only once in such a battle. He intended to deflect the death metal with his shield, and strike Japhet somewhere vulnerable, with any luck knocking him off his horse and thus evening the battle some. Instead, he squawked as something completely unpredictable happened instead.
Where his shield would meet sword, it met space, dismal nothingness, as did his weapon. Japhet and 'steed, flesh and bone moments before, suddenly, inexplicably vanished. In the brief moment of flight that followed, his mouth opened, but had no time to release the scream he was preparing to turn loose. As he landed in the marshy, soggy grass he felt his sword sink in the mud up to the hilt, his body connect savagely with the turf, and his face find all manner of grief as grass and marsh flailed at it. Then, silence.
Except for a cackle, some distance away, that was female laughter. A familiar sound, from someone he knew well.
Petrus struggled from the mud, which had turned out to be a relatively soft landing medium, and reached for his sword while looking around to see where, if anywhere, Japhet Dhu had fled. He pulled on the sword, which was inelegantly stuck firmly in the mud.
"Shit," Petrus said, remembering vocabulary from his days living among the humans. He pulled and yanked ineffectually on the sword's hilt. Finally it yielded, making a sound that reminded him of a disgusting biological function as it abruptly withdrew from the ground. He fell backwards with the sudden release, landing arse first on the ground. Though coated with mud, the sword was at least something he could use for a weapon.
He scrambled to his feet, ready for combat, looking around wildly. But opponent, and horse, had simply vanished.
This cannot be, Petrus thought frantically, even though he knew it had to be, because it was. With Wenlann's laughter echoing across the moor, piercing his ego, he knew that he had been fooled by something magical. Moonremere returned, snorting something that might have been amusement, and with as much dignity as was possible Petrus led her back to camp. Covered with mud, he didn't want to ride her; he'd just cleaned her saddle before the trip, and didn't much care for doing it all over again. He was still unwilling to believe Japhet Dhu had simply vanished, and remained wary as he trod back to the others.
Odras patiently sharpened his blade, with a determination that looked unshakable. Wenlann stood with her hands on her hips, appearing rather plea
sed with the situation. Petrus avoided her look.
"What was that you were saying earner about disappointment?" Petrus asked.
Odras looked up, looking vaguely annoyed that Petrus had interrupted his blade sharpening.
"Did the Unseleighe strike you as being brave enough for a fair confrontation?" Odras asked calmly. "Though without mage sight I suppose it would be difficult to see the opponent for what it was."
"Being?" Petrus asked.
"A projection, of course," Odras replied, testing his sword's edge with the fat of his thumb. "A well executed one, granted, even if I've seen better."
Petrus cast a long look over the surrounding countryside. They had intentionally set camp in the hollow between two hills, limiting their view while making them less visible from a distance. It also gave them the disadvantage of being downhill from any attack, but when they'd settled in for the night, attack was not a consideration.
"If you are still thirsting for battle," Odras said softly, "you may have your opportunity yet. The source of that projection is nearby."
Petrus quickly wiped the mud off the blade, the complexion of the situation having changed suddenly. Blood, perhaps, he whispered to his blade. He listened, but heard only the winds caressing the hills around them.
"Where are they?" Petrus asked urgently. He must have been probing the area for them while I was out swimming in the mud, making a fool of myself.
"Beyond that rise," Odras said, getting to his feet. "There are four of them. One is a mage." Odras smiled nastily. "The mage is mine. The others are yours to deal with."
No argument with that, he thought. Petrus had never seen Odras in full magical form, in combat with another mage. He both anticipated and feared the prospect, knowing the results would not likely be gentle.
"Lets ride," Petrus said, mounting his steed, the cleanliness of his saddle no longer an issue.
Odras stood very still, and closed his eyes as he fell into trance. Petrus felt the familiar tingling of a glamorie falling into place around them, a shroud of magic that would not only make them invisible to normal sight, but to mage sight as well—assuming they found no countering spells that were stronger than Odras could handle. The mage opened his eyes. "If we are to attack, we must go now."
They left the gear behind and rode immediately, with the intention of surprising the group with their sudden appearance. A shallow valley branched off to the right. A thick grove of trees surrounded it, and Petrus saw that it was a clever place from which to send a projection.
"We should come up behind them," Petrus said, remembering a narrow trail they had passed the day before. "We may even trap them."
The trail narrowed as it wound through massive boulders; not liking their vulnerability, Petrus looked about for an alternate route, but saw none. The trail opened suddenly on a clearing at the hill's summit.
"Damn them all" Petrus sputtered as he saw a black banner, identical to the first, planted in the center of the clearing. "Where did…"
Then he saw where they must have gone. Another trail led sharply down the south end of the hill, directly to the moor. And at the base of the hill he saw the small black forms, atop steeds that were too large for them. youths, Petrus thought acidly, conveniently forgetting that he himself had only seventeen summers. Mere Unseleighe children. Playing games with those much their superior.
As they approached the banner, Petrus felt their glamorie shatter around them, reminding him that at feast one of the wretched Unseleighe was the mage Odras had sensed. Whatever they had bespelled the banner with was enough to counter Odras' work. The mage frowned when Petrus met his eyes, then turned his attention to the four Unseleighe, who even at that distance looked collectively uncertain of their next move.
"After them!" Petrus shouted, as the four Unseleighe turned tail and ran. Odras and Wenlann pulled their swords as he unsheathed his, and Moonremere sprinted after them. Seeing the enemy renewed old hatreds, stirred up old memories. They killed my family. They killed so many of us, without provocation.
He knew he was angry, and that the anger might hurt his fight, or add to it; no choice but to let it run its course. The Unseleighe didn't seem to be much of a threat, particularly when in retreat, but that didn't make the sight of their blood, preferably all of it spilled on the ground, an unworthy goal.
At the base of the hill they found an open plain. Unseleighe tore away at a fast gallop, their taunting whoops and shouts echoing across the hills. The mist had cleared some, but still lingered in a soupy blanket across their path. They pursued the band to the edge of a dense forest, where Petrus paused. He heard their horses and laughter drifting through the trees, and he very nearly followed them into the dim interior of the woods.
"Don't be a fool," Odras said and pulled his steed up beside Petrus. "There are ten more where they have gone. This entire ruse was a trap."
"But…" Petrus began, wanting desperately to ignore Odras' warnings and chase after them. But the mage made sense. It was the perfect setup, drawing them into an unfamiliar, closed environment, perhaps so tight a space as to make their swords useless. The young elf stared at the forest, listening for clues that might tell him more, but all he heard were retreating hoofbeats, fading to silence.
The odds, Petrus," the mage said. "We are only three."
Wenlann joined them at the forest edge, her ears turned to the woods. "He's right," she said, turning to Petrus. "There are more in the forest. I smell a trap."
"I suggest we return with reinforcements," Petrus said. "So that we can dismember them properly."
"To the palace, then," Odras said.
"We'll be bohk," Petrus murmured, in an exaggerated Austrian accent.
Chapter Two
By the summer of 1922, Randolf "Thorn" Wilson had only been racing for two years, but had quickly made a name for himself in the small but enthusiastic world of motorcycle racing. In his first race he had acquired his nickname by riding his Harley into a thicket of brambles, finishing the race covered head to toe in thorns. A dubious distinction, though it was a name people tended to remember.
Thorn had slept fitfully in a barn's loft, which had been donated by a farmer for use by riders without the wherewithal for a motel room. At the first hint of daylight Thorn rose with a light, energetic feeling, despite his lack of sleep. Out of his duffel bag came his race gear: the leather flying helmet, complete with goggles, a well worn pair of work gloves and, finally, the learner aviation suit he'd modified for motorcycle riding. It buttoned down the right side, and was lined with camel's hair, with a tight-fitting collar around the neck to keep the air out. It only made sense to wear something designed for flying high when flying low. Wind was wind, wherever it was. It was also Thorn's answer to safety, having dumped another bike and lost a goodly amount of skin from shoulder to butt. He liked the idea of sliding on someone else's skin.
Off came the well-worn knickers, replaced by the breeches. Then he pulled on a pair of old riding boots. They worked better than shoes when you had to slow a bike down, and helped keep you from spraining an ankle. He put on the gear with all the methodical care of the aviator he'd been too young to be during the war.
Outside the spectators were already gathering for the start, and it looked like half the bikes had already lined up, including the four of the Harley-Davidson team. Thorn checked in at the registration table, affixed his number 13 on his front fork, and strolled over to the line of bikes.
A few more bikes lined up, another Harley, a Sport single that had seen better days, and a few Indians with their bright red frames and ridiculously white tires, with their riders dressed as if they were going to a reception, not a motorbike race. Wearing bowlers, of all things, not even the silly caps that tended to blow off unless they were turned around. There was a four-horse Yale, an Excelsior with too much shiny nickel plate, a Pierce with a rider who didn't look like he was old enough to shave.
The race coordinator gave the usual speech, asking everyone to play fai
r, take turns at the gas stations, and stick to the course. The latter point was made for humor; besides the course, a stretch of muddy highway winding through Kansas, there were no other roads. It was an unwritten rule to stop and help an injured cyclist, but it was repeated here anyway.
His motorcycle, Valerie, turned over laboriously, pop-popping until she was up to operating speed. He let her idle, took a deep breath, and took one long look at his competition before the race started. The coordinator dropped his flag, and the bikes all lurched forward. He knew it wasn't all too important to get ahead right away in a cross-country, but you did have to keep the leader in sight. Already Walter Davidson had the lead, with two of his teammates following. They would be easy to spot, with big white letters spelling Harley Davidson.
Let the rest fight it out, he thought, shifting to second, keeping his eyes on the bikes closest to him. Only two hundred ninety-nine miles to go…
By midday Thorn estimated he was number five or six, having lost the edge by letting Walter slip way out of sight. He eased her up to fourth, hugged low to her frame, and gave her gas. Soon he was hitting around eighty miles per hour. He pulled back a bit on the speed to negotiate some bumps and, on passing a farmhouse, found himself on straight, open road.
Up ahead was the dust cloud of another rider. Thorn pulled a scarf over his mouth, leaned low and wrapped himself around Valerie, his face directly behind the handlebars.
If I'm gonna take this guy, it's gonna be now, he whispered to his bike, feeling the wind whip by.
Wind gave way to dust and pebbles, bouncing off his goggles and helmet like hail, as the distance between himself and the other rider closed. It was none other than Walter Davidson himself. Thorn hazarded a glance at his speedometer: 95 mph. On rough dirt road like this, it was next to suicide, but he had conditioned his body into a springy, wire framed shock absorber.
Despite Davidson's best efforts, Thorn blasted past by a good ten miles per hour. Now past Davidson's dust cloud, Thorn had a dear view of the road… which turned left, sharply, a few yards ahead of him.
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