Lackey,Mercedes - Serrated Edge06 - Spiritride.doc

by Spiritride [lit]

  "Now," the King whispered, and Odras dismounted and took a few steps forward, his arms spread. Then he waved his arms, as if casting a net. A crescent of energy leaped from Odras' hands and sailed through the air, gaining speed and size as it flew. The group of four Unseleighe slowed, then stopped in their tracks as the wave of power passed over them, spreading wider as it approached the enemy's line. When the crescent connected with the projection, an ear-splitting whine sliced through the air. The Unseleighe army froze, then shattered and vanished.

  Standing atop the hill was a lone figure in a long, black robe. This can only be their mage, Petrus thought. He seemed disoriented, even from this distance; Odras' gift must have stunned him.

  "I know that mage," Odras muttered as he gazed at the lone figure on the hill. "That is Nargach. A powerful one, indeed."

  The four horsemen glanced back, uncertain of their next move.

  These odds look a little better, don't you think?" the King said, turning his attention back to Fion. "Captain, sound the charge please. One unit of cavalry should be enough."

  "Aie!" Fion shouted, raised his hand toward the army, and rattled off orders to the nearest soldiers. In tight formation seven cavalrymen charged down the hill toward Japhet Dhu and his men. They hadn't gone too far when Japhet and the other three turned and ran.

  "Captain, we must follow them. Have the foot soldiers follow up in the rear…" the King shouted.

  "Sire, I must urge caution," said Fion. "They may have prepared an ambush in the forest."

  "So they may," acknowledged Aedham. "Be prepared, then, but we must follow."

  Fion gave the orders and the remaining cavalry poured down the hill, followed by the foot soldiers. Aedham's cavalry disappeared over the crest of the hill, and the moment Petrus had cleared it he saw a broad, well-trodden path leading into the forest.

  The path narrowed, and forest thickened around them. Petrus heard the clash of swords and the scream of wounded elves.

  Rounding a bend in the path, they came upon a battle. Two Unseleighe had already fallen, and a third was fighting desperately with a broken sword. The single Seleighe cavalryman overcame a parry, and his blade met the Unseleighe's throat. Blood poured as the elf fell from his horse.

  The King rode past, leading his remaining soldiers down the path. The trees closed in from each side and above, forcing the riders to crouch over their steeds' necks. Sounds of battle drifted through the dense wood, and Petrus fought back frustration. He wanted to be in the middle of the fray, wanted to feel his blade connect with soft Unseleighe flesh, to spill Unseleighe blood. But as a senior member of the Elfhame, his duty was to remain at his King's side.

  "There," Odras said, pointing ahead. "That clearing…"

  The King and Odras were a few horse lengths ahead when an Unseleighe warrior leapt from a tree, knocking Petrus from his steed. A rock connected with his hip and pain shot down his right leg. Gritting his teeth, Petrus scrambled to his feet, drew his blade and confronted a young Unseleighe holding a broad sword with both hands.

  "Argan greched sargann…" the Unseleighe muttered in ancient Elvish, a tongue Petrus had never had the patience to learn. As the Unseleighe swung at him, Petrus saw that the sword was too heavy for the youth's slight frame. He dodged the attack, not wanting to parry with his lighter blade. As the youth lunged past him, Petrus planted a foot on the foe's rear, sending him tumbling to the ground. The broad sword was lost in the brush and the Unseleighe youth drew a long dagger as he regained his feet.

  Petrus took a fighting stance and met the Unseleighe's eyes. This was the little bastard I chased yesterday, he realized, and his blood heated further. Petrus attacked, and the youth parried. Off balance, and feeling his bruised hip, Petrus stumbled.

  "Mereach… Avalon!" the Unseleighe shrieked as he lunged forward. Petrus leaned sharply to his left, bringing his blade up. The Unseleighe youth ran headlong into the blade, driving it into his neck to the hilt. Ascertaining that the youth was no longer a threat, Petrus moved along the path, searching for Aedham.

  Seeing the King's back, Petrus called out, "Sire!" Aedham was pulling his blade from another Unseleighe.

  "This way," the King said. Odras rejoined them at the edge of a clearing, where six Avalon warriors lay dead or wounded.

  Captain Fion, one arm bleeding, studied a luminescent disk hovering in the center of the clearing. "A Gate, Sire," he said dejectedly. "Already up when we got here."

  "How many made it through?" the King asked grimly. "Who made it through?" Aedham turned to Odras. "Can you find where that Gate took them?"

  The mage nodded and stepped forward, the light of the Gate reflecting brightly off his dark features.

  "Should we follow them, Sire?" Petrus asked. He was no stranger to gating, and would gladly step through to continue the hunt. He did not care to see the Unseleighe escape.

  The King hesitated, considering. "That would be foolish," he said. 'Tempting as it is, it would be too simple for them to kill anyone coming through. And we don't know yet where it went."

  Ah, but we will soon, Petrus thought, regarding the mage hopefully.

  Odras lowered his hand and strode over to the King. "They have fled to the humans' world, sire," the mage said, looking frail and tired. Extracting information from the construct must have been more difficult than it appeared. "I know precisely where they have gone, and when. However, this Gate—" Movement to his right distracted him. The Gate dimmed, shrank to the size of a shield, and popped out of existence altogether.

  Odras continued in the silence that followed,"… will not exist much longer."

  The King stared at the empty space for a long time, and Petrus stepped back, leaving him to his thoughts. Aedham didn't look beaten, only temporarily set back.

  "We will follow them," the King whispered. "We will follow, and destroy them."

  Chapter Four

  A month after Lucas turned fifteen, he was absolutely convinced that he was going insane. Not just going crazy insane, or having a bad day insane, or lust for the opposite sex insane, but literally insane, clinically insane, hopelessly, irreversibly psychotic.

  Lucas was fairly certain about his diagnosis. A year ago his best friend, Mike Vaughan, had awakened one morning believing he was a werewolf. The night before, Lucas and Mike had taken an impromptu trip to Santa Fe on Mike's new Suzuki Katana. The 750cc sport bike was too big, but Mike managed to keep it on the road, somehow, and in the warm summer night they went off riding. The experience was exhilarating. Lucas' hair was hopelessly matted from the wind, and it took a good hour to comb through it, but he was hooked. He wanted a motorcycle too.

  Soon, though, the urge cooled. The day after the ride, Mike told his parents, in complete sincerity, that he had shapeshifted into a wolf while riding the motorcycle. His insistence led his parents to send him to a private mental institution in Colorado.

  Within six months, Mike had been released, but he didn't return to school. Lucas tried to call him once, but Doctor Vaughan, Mike's father, said Mike wasn't taking calls. Three days later Lucas read in the paper that Mike had committed suicide by taking a hundred over-the-counter sleeping pills, an undisclosed amount of Valium, and a half pint of bourbon. His parents had thought he was just sleeping in.

  Now Lucas was the one who was screwed up. Would he end up like Mike? He tried to talk to his stepdad about how he felt, but it didn't seem like he was getting through. Alvin Tatum had a constant upness about him, which may or may not have been genuine. When Lucas tried to talk about his friend's suicide, Alvin had looked at him blankly. He might as well have been talking to a mannequin. His mother referred him back to stepdad. Lucas gave up, and buried the pain and the loss as far down as he could.

  He spent a month trying to find himself in psychology books. Soon he knew about the many forms of schizophrenia, as well as other psychoses, neuroses, paranoias, and an entire alphabet of phobias. He checked out a huge book entitled Schizophrenia and carried it around with him.
His grades fluctuated between C's and B's, and his fascination with mental illness continued. Once he screwed up the courage to make an appointment with the school counselor, Mr. Burden. Lucas carefully explained that he was insane, and needed psychiatric help, if not anti-psychotic drugs. At first the counselor seemed genuinely concerned, but after a few questions about his family and sleeping habits, Lucas realized that Mr. Burden was suppressing a smirk.

  "There's really nothing wrong with you," the counselor said, looking out the window. "You're an adolescent. These changes in your body are normal, your feelings are normal. This is the way it is." Lucas returned Schizophrenia to the library, feeling empty, like a hole had been bored through him.

  The hole widened, threatening to consume him. Other students avoided him, and he didn't know why. He took to wearing a pentagram, an ankh and a Star of David, sometimes all three on the same day, but that seemed to make matters worse. He heard about the Axe, a juice bar that occasionally got raided for serving alcohol, while in his freshman year. The kids who frequented the Axe looked like they had just walked off the set of a horror movie. They wore black clothes, probably black underwear too, and favored pale makeup that made them look ill. Their attitude spooked him right away, and he didn't see how he could adapt to their mold even if he wanted to.

  It became a chore to get up in the morning, and an even greater chore to go to sleep at night. His mother made him chamomile tea with spearmint, but was otherwise unconcerned. Instead of being awake and anxious, he was awake and relaxed. He became an avid reader, favoring Anne Rice, Poppy Z. Brite and William S. Burroughs novels.

  In the second semester of his sophomore year his grades began to dip, the C's becoming more frequent as the B's became less so. He walked the halls feeling like an alien sent to study earth with only rudimentary knowledge of how things worked.

  Then on a rainy, stormy night in April, Lucas had a dream that changed his life forever. They had told him about wet dreams in sex ed, and that they would be normal and a regular part of growing up. The teacher didn't go into too much detail, and Lucas had the impression there was something vaguely naughty about having one.

  On this particular night Lucas had finally managed to fall asleep sometime around two or three in the morning. In the dream, he was in a dark, dank castle, with a raging storm outside, walking through the keep wearing a long, black robe with nothing underneath. He was being followed by something, perhaps an animal, but definitely not a human. In a corridor where tall mirrors filled the walls, a gust of wind poured in through one of the wind holes, whistling a sad, eerie note. Something had joined him in the hallway, something which didn't walk, but flew.

  It landed behind him, wrapping long pallid arms around his chest. As it breathed in his ear, he saw it in the mirror; neither male nor female, it had long, scraggly hair, wings like a bat and two long fangs, which had disappeared into the flesh of his bare shoulder.

  Lucas woke with a start, shivering. He was damp with sweat and… something else. Light headed, he sat up on the edge of his bed, realizing what that something else was. Sex ed had been very specific about that. He felt unclean.

  He bathed himself thoroughly and meticulously, as if he were covered with hazardous, radioactive material. The dream had already faded, but he retained a brief image of the vampire in the mirror. Male or female? He wanted to believe the vampire was female, but he couldn't be sure. Something told him the sex of the vampire was the least of his concerns.

  My first orgasm is about vampires. What is wrong with me?

  After the vampire dream it became difficult to look people in the eye, for any reason. He felt that if he did anyone could look into his soul, and see the dark secret he kept there. He started wearing only dark clothes, and sunglasses regardless of the weather. He welcomed cloudy, rainy days and hated the sun.

  He started going to the Axe. There, listening to Bauhaus and smoking clove cigarettes, he felt less alone than before. But he spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him.

  Some of the lads rode motorcycles; Suzukis, Yamahas, Kawasakis, a Triumph or two, a Beemer. He yearned to ride on one, Lucas thought that some time soon he would be able to open up, and attempt contact with these strange beings. He wasn't quite ready, and was content to simply stand in their presence, listening to the music, and watching them ride their motorcycles. But one night, when he wasn't there, the police raided the Axe and closed it, shutting the door on any hope that he might find someone he could talk to.

  Meanwhile, his grades had turned to shit. Straight Ds, as in Dogturd, he thought dismally, as he tore up his grade card. School had no meaning, and when the Axe closed, nothing else did, either.

  He woke up one morning, wet from another vampire dream, uncertain what day it was.

  What does it all matter? he thought, staring at his face in the mirror. Not knowing when it had happened, he saw that he had quit living. That day he pretended to go to school, but came back after his parents had left for work. On the way back he bought two bottles of Nytol, the quick working kind, only vaguely aware of what he was about to do.

  I don't belong on this planet. The logical thing to do, the only thing to do, is to get the hell off it, he thought, going through his parents' medicine cabinet. Here it is… only a few left. Lucas dumped the bottle of Valium out on his hand. Fifteen… sixteen… twenty. That will have to do.

  It would be six or seven hours before anyone came home, possibly more if they went somewhere else, the store or something.

  Off. This. Planet. He stared at his bedroom wall for a good hour, thinking absolutely nothing. Then he went to the kitchen and poured a glass of 7-Up and white wine over ice. With his cocktail he chased both bottles of Nytol and the twenty Valium, wondering how long it would be before Scotty beamed him up.

  ***

  "There's probably a lot you won't remember," the nurse said as she checked his IV. She reminded him of Praga Kahn of the Lords of Acid, tall and lanky with long black hair. He could have sworn he saw her wearing white stiletto heels with her nurse's uniform.

  He felt pretty shitty. His throat felt like it had been scraped out with a potato peeler.

  I remember, he thought. I wish I didn't.

  The nurse came back in with a doctor who looked frazzled, but attentive.

  "I'm Doctor Vaughan." The doctor fixed him with an unnerving stare.

  That name sounds really familiar. And I've seen this man, somewhere, before. He looks so surprised to see me awake, Lucas thought. That bugs me.

  "So, how do you feel?" the doctor asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  "Terrible," Lucas said. "Sleepy. What time is it?"

  "Four," the doctor replied. "In the afternoon. This is Wednesday."

  At least two days had passed. Just as well, he thought, those were two days I didn't have to deal with. Or will I?

  Doctor Vaughan took a seat next to the bed. He looked tired, truly tired. "What happened?" he asked.

  At first the question seemed ridiculous. I swallowed a bunch of drugs, that's what happened, Lucas thought. "It sounds stupid, but I don't know what happened. I remember what I did. I don't remember why."

  Doctor Vaughan nodded, as if he understood the explanation. "You're lucky. The combination of diphenhydramine and Valium caused you to go into a deep sleep. It wasn't quite enough to loll you, but you could have been a vegetable. Brain dead, but alive. Your parents would have had to decide whether to turn off the life support."

  Lucas didn't know how to reply to that. Failure wasn't one of the things he'd planned on. For Mike, it had been so easy, he'd thought.

  "How close did I come?" he asked.

  "Closer than you think. You were in a coma for over a week."

  "Oh," Lucas said. This is the second Wednesday. Nine days. Not two.

  "Another week, and we would have thought about whether or not to keep you as an expensive plant."

  "I'm not a plant," Lucas seethed. This is not what's supposed to happen…

  "Y
ou almost were," the doctor said, but now he looked more tired than anything. The nurse had left again, and now returned to whisper something in the doctor's ear.

  "I'll be back in a few minutes," the doctor said, getting to his feet with extreme effort.

  Lucas lay staring at the ceiling. A goddamned vegetable. That's what I would have been… no, was. Then he remembered the dreams, the nightmares, of darkness, disembodied voices. Dreaming. I would have been a vegetable, dreaming nightmares. Forever. Or until Dad decided to pull the plug.

  I want the hell out of here, he thought with steel plated conviction.

  He heard voices in the hallway: the doctor's and his fathers. He'd know that casual disinterest anywhere. His ears perked when their discussion mutated to an argument.

  "… he is not okay," Vaughan said emphatically. "Physically it looks like he's going to be fine, but I'm not so sure he's not going to just turn around and try it again."

  He has a point, Lucas thought. How to convince them he wasn't going to try to do himself in when he wasn't certain himself?

  "Don't be silly," Alvin Tatum said. "These things… happen. Lucas was just goofing off, like teenagers do. He's already been here a week. I think he should go home today."

  "Your son tried to commit suicide," the doctor replied, his anger rising. "If you think this is normal, that nothing is wrong, you are sadly mistaken. It is the tip of an iceberg. It's a symptom of a greater problem."

  Got that right, thought Lucas. But he had no idea what the problem was. He didn't know why he didn't care about living. An image of his comatose body hung before him. He imagined being one of those fuzzy ball things from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the version with Leonard Nimoy and Donald Sutherland. Growing, pulsating like an exposed heart, he saw himself bursting forth from the gelatinous shell, standing, then walking. His mind would be dull and uncomprehending, following signals blindly from some unseen force. Not a nice existence.