The Summer Country

by James A. Hetley

  He still wondered if they were after him or after Maureen. Could be either. Could be both. The kids could just want to help him with the excess weight in his wallet, but he rather doubted that.

  Snow crunched behind him along the way he had come. He thought of gamekeepers driving the grouse to the guns. Which way was the weakest line, the escape from the trap? Which way did they want him to think was weak? Which alleys led out, and which dead-ended against a blank brick wall?

  Brian flipped a mental coin and crept right, uphill. Getting pinned against the river sounded really bad. Railroad yards waited down there, too, wide spaces with nothing higher than steel rails to hide behind. No fun.

  A shadow peeled loose from a doorway and whistled. Brian spun towards the kid, sensed a club, and took it hard on his left arm before a nerve-hold and two spear-handed jabs dumped the brat in the snow. A kick kept him down. Lying there, he was ragged and scrawny, probably no older than fourteen.

  Cannon fodder, Brian thought, as he glanced around for other moving shadows.

  His arm hung limp and tingled from fingertips clear up to his neck. He tried to shake it out and then scratched it off his equipment list for the evening. The odds were rotten: they had more bodies than he had arms and legs.

  Albion's last stand. How does that saying go? Today is a good day for someone else to die?

  More shadows loomed up ahead. Brian glanced around for any good-looking corners to guard his back.

  His chess-brain wondered if this welcoming committee had been hired by Fiona or by Dougal. It made a difference. Fiona probably wouldn't kill him unless jealousy had really pinched her on the ass. Dougal wouldn't think twice about it.

  The shadows split up. There were two of them, not impossible odds. Both swung clubs in the casual way that said they wanted to terrorize him, wanted him to surrender and save them the effort of beating him into pulp. If they were serious, they would have moved by now.

  Probably Fiona, then.

  Bugger this!

  Brian stared the closest one in the eyes. I am not here, he thought. You saw a cat skitter across the alley, you saw melting snow fall from the rusty iron of that fire-escape, you saw shadows from three different things combined by nothing more than your point of view. I am not here.

  The kid's eyes widened in the thin light reflected from the street-lamps. He swung wildly, probing for the ghost that had just faded away before his eyes.

  Brian spun to the second kid, the larger one, turning inside the arc of his club and taking it on his ribs. Something cracked. He managed to tangle the pipe in his useless left arm and hooked an ankle throw. The boy went down, and a heel-kick to the head kept him there.

  Pain whacked his knees from behind, a reminder from the kid he'd spelled. He'd dropped concentration on that one, lost control. Brian went with the blow, falling, rolling, spinning on his back to bring his feet up between himself and his enemy.

  Down isn't dead. Brian's legs scissored the kid's right knee and twisted him down into a snow-bank. Brian rolled along the contact and whipped a kick to the back of the head. Three down. Those ribs are going to be a problem, in half an hour or so. Better move while you still can, old son.

  He continued his roll to bring his feet under him and staggered back upright. His eyes locked on the silver shimmer of a blade held low in front of shadow.

  Shit. He'd left his knife at the hotel. The Cave had a metal-detector at the door--hard to explain needing a kukri for a night of music.

  So much for finesse. Barehanded against a knife, he was going to get cut. He just hoped he could choose where.

  Brian kicked snow, trying to startle or even blind his enemy. The kid moved in, knife low and slashing, and Brian spun away. One leg wasn't working right, the one the club got. That wasn't good.

  Another slash, another careful crab-scuttle advance. The kid knew what he was doing. No rushes, no stabs, no reaching.

  Time. Concentration. Using Power required both. Brian didn't even try. He just watched the knife and fought with the weapons his body still had.

  The knife started its starlit arc, and Brian moved forward rather than away. He twisted at the waist to throw his useless left arm against the blade. Something thumped against the meat of his forearm and stuck there, tugging, as he spun up along the kid's arm and whipped a back-fist to his head.

  The boy went down, jerking his knife with him as he fell. Brian felt another tug but no pain. If he was extremely lucky, it had only cut his jacket.

  Snow crunched behind him, and Brian ducked. Pain burst across his right shoulder. He half-fell away from it, turning, seeing a blurred form pulling back a club for the finishing blow. Brian's left foot rose by itself, cocked, and snapped out an instep kick. It found the shadowy fork where the shadow's legs converged, and thumped hard enough into the crotch that his other, injured leg shot pain straight up to the base of his skull and collapsed under him.

  Five.

  If there were any more, they had him.

  Brian rolled in the snow, retching. Gasps followed him--the sobbing, choking sounds of a young male kicked so hard in the balls his pelvis cracked. Sometime soon that kid was going to find the breath to scream.

  Club. Brian rolled across one of the clubs, fumbled it into his right hand, and half-crawled across the churned snow of the alley to gently, scientifically tap a skull. The sobs quieted.

  The club served as a brace, as well. He fought his way upright, right hand supporting right leg, left arm dangling useless, blood dripping black into the gray-orange glimmer of the snow.

  Five down. They'd probably all live, although that back-fist to the head could have crushed the temple of the kid's skull. Served him right, for pulling a knife. Fiona would have skinned him alive. Or worse.

  Not a tidy fight.

  Any others?

  His blurry eyes sorted shadows and doorways, compared them against the files of recent memory. Nada.

  The pause gave him a chance to survey the damage, and the answer wasn't good. Probable broken ribs. Probable cracked leg-bone, fibula by the feel of it. Something damaged in his shoulder, God only knows what. Unknown bone or nerve or muscle damage to the left arm. It still had enough feeling in it for him to know that was blood flowing down hot to drip off his fingers.

  So much for just cutting the jacket. No light, no time to check it out. Simple pressure bandage. He struggled to force thoughts through the fog.

  Belts. He hobbled to the nearest body, using the club as a cane. He knelt down in jerky stages that edged on collapse. Shaking fingers coiled the kid's belt around the cut arm, outside the jacket and tight like an elastic bandage, pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding.

  More belts. Clubs. He splinted his leg, something to take pressure off his shoulder. That cane trick wasn't going to work more than another five minutes--he didn't have a good arm to use it with.

  With his leg bound straight, Brian crawled to a security grill and used its chain-link mesh as a ladder to haul his wracked body vertical. His head swam, and the stars dropped down to orbit around the alley.

  Sergeant Mulvaney was back. You're pretty well knackered, laddie. Not good at all. A tyke in nappies could toddle up and push you over with one finger. You've got a problem, old son.

  He didn't need phantom voices to tell him he needed help. Hurt, in a foreign land, with no I.D. that'd stand more than a passing glance--and how'd he like some blood tests run, before they gave him a transfusion? Maybe a series of x-rays? "Interesting, Doctor Jones: would you have a look at this? Never seen anything like it . . . ."

  Brian staggered along the alley wall, stiff-legged and one shoulder dragging against the bricks for support. The pain was waking up now, the fire of the knife-cut and the red-hot nails in his ribs stabbing him with every breath and a pounding lump on his right forehead he couldn't connect with anything in the fight. Maybe he'd hit it when he rolled.

  Mulvaney was trying to get his attention again. First lesson a young officer learned was,
pay attention to your senior NCOs. They could save your ass, no matter what the chain of command might say.

  Draw on your Blood. Draw on your Power. Force the pain down. Remember what that bitch Deirdre used to say in training: pain is optional. Injury may be mandatory in a given situation, but pain is optional. And then she'd stub out a cigarette on the back of her hand.

  Pain was optional. Easy for her to say. It was what she did to prove it, was a problem. About a dozen of the scars patterning his body had her name signed to them.

  Mulvaney shook his head, sighing over the pig-headed nature of young subalterns. Show you learned what she taught. Not just remembered, but learned. Worry about healing later.

  Brian looked up from the churned slush. Good. That little distraction had moved him about two blocks. Sweat trickled down his nose in spite of the winter air. He tried to wipe it off and found he couldn't lift either hand that far. He couldn't even turn his head far enough to reach his upper arm.

  Forget about the sweat. He needed to concentrate on more important fluids. Those hot drips on his fingers--they were blood. He had a choice: take a chance on losing too much of it, or slow the circulation and risk frostbite of the fingers.

  Try the middle way: moderation in all things, including moderation. Slow the loss but keep feeling in his fingers.

  Meanwhile, he had to keep his feet moving.

  Speaking of feet. Hey feet, where you taking us?

  The answer seemed to be "Maureen's."

  The girl with the gun and the attitude. She'd called him a rapist. What made his feet think she wouldn't let him past the door and fill his ass with lead? She could do that in this country. Self-defense. Just like she tried in that alley.

  But Maureen was closer. He'd never make it to the hotel. He'd collapse and freeze, if Fiona didn't get there first.

  Brian grabbed his thoughts by the scruff of the neck and hauled them back. A wandering brain was one of the fastest ways to die. Where was he?

  Fifth and Congress. Well, the thoughts had moved him three blocks further. Apparently, his feet had decided on Maureen's. The hotel was in the other direction. He was committed now, no choice.

  Four more blocks. Uphill. And then the stairs. Maureen had that buggering third-floor flat. Stiff leg. Working leg. Stiff leg. Working leg. A journey of ten thousand Li begins with a single step. What the hell is a Li, anyway?

  Rough bone-edges grated against each other with each step, each gasping breath, shooting fire deep into his side from the broken ribs. Warmth oozed down his arm and dripped into the snow, onto his shoes, his pants. Each slip on the icy sidewalk drove ice-picks into his leg and shoulder.

  Ten steps of each leg and he leaned on a streetlight. Headlights glinted down the road. He assumed it was the local constable keeping the world safe for democracy, so he straightened up and forced a semblance of a taxpayer out on his lawful business.

  Stiff leg. Working leg. Stiff leg. Working leg. A Li was a unit of measurement in the ancient Chinese system, length unknown to the current correspondent but probably less than a mile. Irrelevant. Call it a bloody long distance, anyway.

  How far had he come?

  Not bleeding far enough. A block of flats loomed ahead, it looked right but no parking lot. One beyond, instead. Rusty-bummed green Toyota.

  Stiff leg. Working leg. What would he do if she wasn't home? What if she looked through that damned security peephole and told him to bugger off? She didn't love him. She'd made it bloody clear she didn't even bleeding like him.

  Stairs. He'd thought those buggering Yanks had buggering handicap accessibility laws. Wheelchair access, ramps or lifts, all that sort of bloody socialist muggery. One sodding step at a time leaning on the railing hoping it didn't break under his weight.

  Stiff leg. Working leg. Stiff leg. Working leg.

  Third floor. He flopped against the wall, right side, no blood-smear on paint. He tried to keep it clean, maintain decorum. Gather breath. Focus. Prayer optional.

  Buzzer. He couldn't reach the bloody button. Neither hand.

  Elbow. Right elbow. He mushed around with his jacket sleeve until the point of the elbow brushed the button.

  He heard a distant ringing.

  Nothing happened. He tried again, three tries before contact.

  Nothing.

  It seemed easiest just to lean against the button, continuous noise, barely holding his body up against the doorframe.

  He heard a muttered voice, inside, with the tone of swearing but no words. The door opened.

  "Maureen . . ."

  It was more of a groan than a word.

  She just stood there with that damned gun in a firm two-handed grip, centered on his chest. He couldn't tell if her expression was shock or hatred.

  "Don't . . . call . . . police."

  The barrel expanded into a tunnel and swallowed him.

  Chapter Nine

  They met by the peace-fire in the Great Hall of Tara: Dougal, Sean, Fiona. Afternoon sun shone through the smoke-hole in the thatch high overhead, burning a single shaft down through the blue smoke and glancing off the massive roof-trusses. It barely lit the gloom: the dark stone walls, the smoke-blackened wooden beams and purlins, the dusty banners. A twin line of polished shadows marched from one end of the hall to the other, oak-trunk columns like sentries rooted in the flagstone floor.

  No torches were lit for only three, no tables set out on their trestles groaning with roast boar and bread and cheese and wine--no bards, no Druids, no hopeful dogs underfoot. Peace and darkness ruled. Dark for dark deeds, thought Fiona, with her usual touch of inner mockery.

  Red firelight washed their faces. They sat close to the central fire-pit where the flames just balanced the cool darkness, no more than the few logs needed to hold coals through the day. The peace-fire burned from one Beltane to the next, to die with the old year's night and rekindle from the sun's first rays through a burning lens. The laws of the Summer Country said matches would not work. Butane lighters would, simply flint and steel and flammable gas, but the sun made a more impressive ritual.

  Well, Fiona thought, this is what the Great Hall of Tara ought to have looked like, anyway. It's our vision of a regal barn huge enough to feast a thousand warriors of the Fianna at one time.

  A dozen fire-pits stretched from one end to the other, all but one dark now and waiting for the great blazes that would magically drive the damp and chill from stone masonry without devilling her eyes and nose with smoke along the way. Instead, a wholesome smell of fresh rushes rose from underfoot, untainted by the dog-turds, sour beer, and rancid table-scraps historical accuracy would demand. It was a much grander, cleaner space than the cramped slum that human archaeologists had dug up in Ireland.

  A neutral space to meet, that's what it really was. A DMZ, to use dear Brian's idiom. Few in the Summer Country felt the trust necessary to either give or accept an invitation to another's keep. If three Old Ones came to Tara and only two were seen to leave, the rest of the Summer Country would move against those two. Because of this, what went on inside the Great Hall remained safe and secret.

  Dougal poked at the coals with his knife, probably some esoteric kindjal or hand-seax or hamidashi she ought to recognize and praise. Dougal played at being an Authority on arms and armor, just as he played at being a Huntsman of all kinds of beast. The rising glow of the coals lit the hawk he carried, hooded, on his other arm.

  When he looked up at her, the shadows hooded his eyes like the falcon's. "You seem to have failed again. What is this obsession you have with the Pendragon?"

  "We each have our games. He's mine."

  He showed his teeth in a parody of a smile. "I think I'd rather train spitting cobras. You should kill him."

  She glanced across at Sean, noticing the red glitter reflecting in his eyes. Yes, she thought, you'd like that, wouldn't you.

  "Oh, such a waste it would be," she added, aloud. "Would you kill that hawk, love, just because it's dangerous?"

  Do
ugal sheathed his dagger and smoothed the feathers of his bird, then adjusted the jesses to clear a twist.

  "Falcon, my dear. Peregrine falcon. Never call a falcon a hawk. We'll think you ignorant."

  "Different interests, that's all, love. Do you know anything of genetics?"

  "Enough to breed hounds. That's all I need. We don't need those human games in the Summer Country. Life is good enough as it is. Life was good enough a thousand years ago, for us."

  She smiled, a thin, slow smile she had practiced in a mirror for years until it spoke volumes about quiet scorn. "Good enough? Is life good enough for Sean, denied children by the dice of chromosomes? How many of the Blood live here, live in the Summer Country and know themselves for what they are?"

  He paused for a moment, still caressing his hawk. "A thousand, more or less?"

  She deepened her smile a calculated hair's-breadth. "And how many of those are fertile, male and female?"

  "Less than a hundred." He grimaced, and the hawk stirred under his hand, sensing tension. "You know the averages: fewer than one in ten."

  "One in twelve would be more accurate. Such is the price of hybrid vigor. You think that this is good?"

  "But there are the half-bloods in the human world, ten times, twenty times as many. This one Liam hunted for me, her sister, others. We've held our numbers for centuries by picking and choosing just this way."

  Sean stirred, across the fire. "Liam was a breeder. Lose one, gain one, where has the average been improved? You don't even have this Maureen woman yet, do you? She may end up mating with dear brother Brian. The walls between the worlds get thicker every year. Snatching strangers from the streets gets harder. Switching babies in the crib is not as easy when the crib's in a hospital, you know."

  Dougal growled, and the bird roused on his fist, fluffing her feathers and loosening her wings for flight.

  Naughty, naughty, thought Fiona. Don't disturb the pretty murderess. For an instant, she saw herself in the bird, saw herself in Maureen, and hated the sight. Dougal lived for domination. He really was a shit.