The Seleighe would thrive on this sort of power, Mort thought forlornly. No wonder they have developed a liking for these useless humans, and their primitive world!
Once his mental probe cut through the noise of raw magic, Mort fixed on one location, a place where many humans had gathered. From this distance it appeared only as a flickering neon light accompanied by faint music of unknown type, but Mort knew there was amusement to be had here. It was a place called a bar, and inside there were many drunken humans. No doubt this was where their welcoming party in the Camaro had originated. Had they returned, and warned the others? Somehow Mort believed such an account would be met with ridicule.
"Sire," Semion ventured. "Tavern ahead."
"I can see that, you fool," Japhet hissed. The music was louder now, and the demon made out the distinctive pounding of rock 'n' roll.
"But our appearance…" said Domnu.
"It matters not what we look like to these vermin," Japhet spat. "When needed, we can change our appearance."
If we know what to change our appearance to, Mort thought, not knowing where and when they had arrived. The brief glance at the Camaro and its occupants gave important clues, along with the bar's music, out it was not enough to fabricate convincing disguises for them all, if it came to that.
Once they drew closer to the bar, Mort made out the vague outlines of something in the dark, just outside the building. Too small to be automobiles. The Camaro was nowhere in sight.
"What manner of beast…" Japhet began, as he took in the strange sight before them.
A row of about twenty of the vehicles, lined up as if they were 'steeds, stood at the edge of a gravel parking lot. A variety of smells came from the beasts: gasoline, motor oil, warm and burning rubber, a lingering human sweat. It was a strong smell, but not one that would come from anything living.
"They call them motorcycles," Mort informed Japhet, who got down from his steed and walked over for a closer look.
Mort knew the make of bike would lend important clues to the rider, and whether or not they should be worried about the occupants of this bar. He scanned the line of bikes briefly, noting the elements they had in common: High handlebars, low seats, bars to lean back against, foot rests. Some looked new, some looked ancient, with everything from spoked to cast wheels, fat tires, flat tires, thin tires. Some looked to be pieced together from several different bikes, the pieces not quite fitting perfectly, but enough to make the thing go. But most of them were Harley Davidson motorbikes, or tried to be. Then Mort had an idea.
A sound from behind them distracted his planning, at least for the moment. A low drone at first, the sound bloomed into the full blown roar of a Harley Hog, a loud, rude two cylinder steed, blam blam blamming in the dark. Its headlight pinned them as it turned toward them.
"Easy, now," Japhet muttered to his men, who had all reached for, but hadn't yet drawn, their weapons. "Let's see what this human has to say. Then we shall do as we please."
Mort watched Japhet and Nargach's reaction to the newcomer; they weren't as confused as most Unseleighe would have been when confronted with human technology. The mage's probes reached forward, thin yellow wisps invisible to humans, and studied the motorcycle and its rider in intimate detail. It was the sort of scrutiny necessary for kenning, or recreating objects magically from some sort of original. It looked as if Nargach were preparing to ken a motorcycle, a singularly surprising notion given the technophobic reaction most Unseleighes had to any and all man-made machines. The bike rolled to a stop several paces away. Headlight and engine ceased together, and its human rider dismounted.
"So what are you assholes doing around those bikes?" the rider shouted. He was big, even by human standards, and wore leather from head to toe. Steel studs in the jacket twinkled in the light of the neon, as did the blade he held in his right hand. As he took in the horses, his brisk stride slowed. He didn't look like he knew quite what he was getting into.
Nargach continued to study the human, his energies swirling around the biker like a whirlpool, taking special note of the cold iron knife he wielded, along with the full face of hair that made him look vaguely doglike. Even the man's scent did not escape scrutiny. Mort was impressed with the mage's thoroughness. He's better at this than I thought.
"Who the hell are you guys?" the biker said, now suspicious. "SCA or some shit?"
Japhet didn't reply. Instead he nodded subtly toward the rest, the signal to prepare for battle. Semion and Domnu drew their swords, long polished bronze weapons that reflected the neon light. Rochad remained mounted, and nocked an arrow in his bow. Nargach also remained on his steed. If the mage were preparing any magical defense Mort didn't sense it. The biker saw the bow, the arrow and the swords, and stepped back a pace, his knife hand falling to his side.
Three men came out of the bar, walking unsteadily, one taking an occasional swig from a large brown bottle.
"Hey, Rat," the first biker said. "These guys are messin' with the bikes. Your bike. Ain't that softail yours?"
Rat was a round man, bigger than the first biker. He did not look pleased. He smashed the bottle against the side of the building and took a step toward Japhet.
Mort stood nearby, keeping an ear turned to the bar. He wondered what kind of fight this would be. A straightforward, physical fight had its advantages, since only the elves had swords. But the bikers blade was made of cold iron, and even a nick from such a weapon might be fatal.
The breaking glass must have been a signal. Seven or eight more bikers came out of the bar, in varying degrees of intoxication, most of them wielding cold iron of one sort or another.
Now what, Japhet? Mort thought, not liking the odds.
But the leader seemed unperturbed. He looked back at Nargach and said, "Our presence has been graced by new friends. Alas, the light from this dim lamp is not enough to see by. Nargach, I think we should shed more light on this area." His voice lowered, "Much more light."
A grin spread across Mort's face. The demon knew what was coming, and could not resist: a good simulacrum of mirrored Ray Bans blipped into place over his face.
"Of course, Sire," Nargach said regally, before he dismounted. Ignoring the crowd of pissed humans assembled before him, the mage stepped forward, holding his hand out, palm up. A sphere of light the size of a clenched fist appeared, floating just over it. It had a brassy, yellowish hue, but was bright enough to cast shadows. Murmurs of alarm rippled among the humans. Mort tried not to giggle.
"What the hail is that thang?" someone said. The sphere had everyone entranced.
"Look deep into it," Nargach said, in his deep, magical voice. "You will see treasures beyond your wildest imaginings… Just look, look into the light…"
And indeed, it appeared everyone was doing just that.
The next second the sphere exploded silently, its yellow igniting to a white hot light that swept the entire parking lot, and a good deal of the territory beyond. It was a tool Japhet used when dealing with lesser creatures of Underhill. The light blinded the humans instantly, scorching their corneas like a branding iron. Some screamed and stepped back, holding their hands to their face.
"Wha'd you do!" one of them screamed helplessly. "I can't see, I can't—"
"Well done, Sire," Mort said, careful to compliment Japhet as well as their mage. "I might suggest a hasty retreat, however. That bright light will not go unnoticed in this city."
"Indeed," Japhet said, glancing about him. His eyes settled on the mage. "Nargach, I have a plan."
One of the bikers stumbled against one of the Harleys, knocking it over. A chain reaction sent three to the ground, and the other bikers moved around a little more urgently now, their hands in front of them, feeling for obstructions they could no longer see.
Japhet and Nargach conferred privately, but Mort had an idea of what they talked about. To blend with the humans it might be a good idea to masquerade as outsiders, violent ones at mat, so as to discourage humans from contacting them.
Zeldan had done a similar thing among the street people, living among them with their shopping carts and aluminum cans, before putting together his final plan.
At any rate, they didn't have much time to decide. And as the first humans for the mages to have a clear impression of, they would have to do.
The transformation required a great deal of power, more than the two mages were capable of producing at that moment, so the other elves and Mort contributed to raising the magic. It seemed to take a dreadfully long time to the demon, but soon they tapped wild energy feeds lurking in the area, in the desert, in the mountains beyond. They were brief fountains of nodal energy which ran dry as soon as they were accessed, but it was enough, just enough, to accomplish their task.
The 'steeds took well to being motorbikes, images of the ones they saw around them; Mort knew they would have to make changes in their final appearance later, lest they be misidentified by one of these goons as their own bike. Mort grinned wryly at the prospect of one of these humans mounting one of their elvensteeds, and trying to kick start it. Japhet's 'steed became a later model Fat Boy Harley, with chrome wheels and a sidecar. The other steeds became other patched-together jobs; a Yamaha with a variety of different parts, a Harley, another Harley.
The nameless substance that mimicked steel in the motorcycles was inert and harmless to Elves; on command, the new bikes even flashed headlights, and sounded like motorbikes. On closer inspection, however, Mort discovered that each had the same sound; the roar of the bike that first approached them. It was the one and only sound of a motorcycle the mages had ever heard. The issue would have to be addressed later. A rice burner sounding like a hog would not go unnoticed and unquestioned in this world.
The transformation of steed to bike required the most power, and by the time they got around to their own appearance their pool was nearly depleted. The glamories Nargach implemented did little more than smooth out the rough edges; the elves looked less elvish, their ears became rounded, a little more human looking. Their attire was the easiest to change, as the former livery and court dress became the raw material for the ragged jeans, leather and denim jackets, the black boots. Mort didn't bother to mention helmets, since not a one was in sight. This crowd didn't seem to find them necessary.
Most of the bikers had wandered off, some still screaming, some looking, apparently, for the bar. No newcomers had arrived on the scene, but Mort knew that wouldn't be the case for long.
"We should go now," Japhet said, pointing away from the city lights, to the expanse of moonlit desert. "Out there, somewhere. Away from the city."
Mort hopped into the sidecar. As a unit, they eased onto the road and took off as a pack, five different bikes having the same, ringing roar.
Chapter Six
Wolf came awake with a start, reaching for the Beretta that wasn't there.
There are Iraqis out there in the desert, and they're coming, he thought as he struggled to get up. But something else was wrong: this was not a sleeping bag, and he was inside somewhere, away from the desert sun. He didn't taste or feel sand grit anywhere. Still looking for his gun, he rolled over on his side, but nothing was there to hold him up. His fall to the floor was brief but painful, and sent a shooting pain through his still-healing ankle. His panic ebbed and he focused on his surroundings.
Dangling from the ceiling was a Chaniwa dream catcher, a five-pointed pentagram in its center, woven of wool and sinew, rocking gently in the breeze that wheezed through the trailers postage stamp windows. He groaned, realizing he was thousands of miles and six months removed from Desert Storm. Wolf gazed at the dream catcher, remembering the dream, the Iraqi Guard.
Thought you were supposed to bring good dreams! he thought, now aware of a pain in his back. As he lay on the floor of Grampa's tiny trailer, he knew this was the only spot on the floor long enough for him to stretch out. The frailer wasn't a mobile home, it was a temporary, weekend shelter for hunters, campers and fishermen, and was never meant to be a permanent residence for anyone.
From the trailer's only other room, Wolf heard his grandfather, Fast Horse, cackling softly to himself. No doubt the old Indian had heard Wolf's noisy waking, again. He had heard the dry laugh nearly every morning since his return from the war, a response to some amusing way Wolf had decided to greet the day. Fast Horse had wisely moved the double barreled shotgun from its place on the wall to his bedroom, lest Wolf's vivid dreams prompt him to take up arms. Somewhere in there was also a Ruger Security Six, though he was uncertain where; which was probably a good thing, given the nature of his dreams.
As he stood to his full height his head knocked the edge of the dreamcatcher. Then he remembered her. He took two steps to the kitchen, which was a sink, two propane burners and a counter, and smiled.
The dreamcatcher worked after all. The dream opened up in his mind like a flower, and within the petals he saw the girl who had been haunting his sleep. It was as if setting foot in New Mexico had bespelled Wolf with this vision, a consistently beautiful and unexplainable vision, of the most beautiful female he had ever seen or imagined.
He spooned three scoops of coffee into the open maw of the paper filter, yawned, and added another scoop. The drip coffee maker, fondly referred to as the "Mr. Wake the Hell Up," was amber with use, the color of whiskey. He filled the glass pot with tepid water. The pleated, environmentally incorrect bleached filter looked like an open moonflower, reminding him of the girl.
Even though she stirred him up and made his stomach flutter, she was not human. She was chi-en, of the Chaniwa mythos, human in all aspects except for her long pointed ears and slitted cat's eyes. Her alien appearance made her all the more inviting, with long blond hair and blue eyes that could bore holes in steel The chi-en were said to be the distant relatives of the Chaniwa tribe, but this was all fable, bedtime stories which Grampa kept alive.
Once the coffee was started, Wolf turned to a pack of Marlboros on the floor next to the door. It was a morning ritual, fall out of bed, hide from Iraqis, make coffee, sit on the front step with the oval door propped open with a cinder block and have his first cigarette. After putting on a well ventilated pair of cutoff jeans he sat on the step and looked out over their tract of desert, the dusty dirt road winding toward Highway 60, about a quarter mile away. A match flared to life. In the distance were the Manzano mountains, and beyond them the Sandia mountains, which shadowed Albuquerque. This was not quite the desert Iraq was, as there were things growing on the hills, and rain occasionally fell here. In Iraq there were dunes, rolling, shifting, turning layers of hot dry sand, no rocks, no brush, no trees. Here you had scrub, pinyon, and one-seed juniper, clumps of small green Christmas trees. The juniper dotted the land thoroughly and consistently with splotches of green. It was a dry, mostly dormant land clinging to life, awaiting the brief but often torrential downpour of the winter rains.
A single strand of electrical wire traveled the horizon on leaning power poles, detouring to an ancient meter affixed to the trailers far side. Out here there were no neighbors, not even other buildings, just wind and sand and lots of sun. Just the trailer, a flimsy shack for storage, and the fragile umbilical cord that gave them power. The equally ancient water tap on the line that ran to Mountainaire, several miles down the road, was a blessing.
Water and electricity. The staff of life. No telephone, no cable, no hassle.
The coffee pot blurted loudly one last time, announcing the end of the brew cycle. He drew on his cigarette and regarded the isolated landscape, realizing when he glanced at his watch that he had been here six months, to the day.
I'm getting restless, Wolf thought, remembering the first few weeks here with Grampa. It was as if his life had come to a screeching halt after the war; once the army discharged him, with honors, he didn't really know what to do. His parents had died when he was young, and he was independent and unrestrained at an early age. He had known he had a grandfather somewhere in New Mexico, but he hadn't known where, or if he was even still al
ive. Running with the biker gang in Texas had taken up most of three years, starting when he was fourteen and ending when he was busted for marijuana. But the judge knew who he was, who he was running with, and what he would become if drastic measures weren't taken. Those drastic measures turned out to be enlistment in the Army, at a time when Kuwait was furthest from President Bush's mind.
During boot camp he watched with growing alarm as Iraq brazenly invaded its tiny but oil-rich neighbor, claiming it for its own. He knew, then, that the Army would be more than a job, that he might even see battle. Certain commanding officers came to talk to him shortly after boot camp, officers involved with the Rangers. Was he interested?
He was, and within a week he was on his way to his new assignment, a special kind of boot camp in a place that had no name. In two months he was on a plane, bound for Italy, where he would be based. His commanding officer had made no secret of the fact that they were all hand nicked, and groomed specifically for missions in and around Baghdad. At their last stop in Turkey, they boarded Blackhawk helicopters and took off, destined to be dropped in Iraq by parachute, in squads of five. Wolf had done three such drops before the one in which his psychic powers came rampaging to the surface. The experience still had him spooked, even though he had been unable to invoke the powers a second time. On the following mission, while they were drifting on chutes, a squad of Iraqi snipers opened fire on them. To avoid being hit he dropped in fester than was safe, and broke an ankle when he landed. The mission was a washout, but when they evacuated he had a distinct feeling this was the last time he would see Iraq.
From a hospital bed in Germany, Wolf watched the UN forces invade Iraq and Kuwait. This was the real battle, the one that mattered, the one that everyone knew about. In two days, it was over. Saddam Hussein was still in power, but that didn't matter much; Wolf was tired of playing soldier boy, and he was going home.
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