The Firehills Part 6

Amergin, old friend, continued the voice of the Lord of the Sidhe. Leaving aside the riddle of how you come to be here, alive, so many long years after you stole my country and butchered my people- "Ah," said Amergin, "you remembered."

You may be able to help us with another puzzle. We have recently noted that there is a power abroad in the land. The Old Ways crackle with it and overflow. It is as if the snows of a thousand winters have thawed, and the melt.w.a.ter is come to burst the banks of the streams and ditches that men make. Why should this be?

"The Malifex," replied Amergin. "He was defeated, dispersed. His power is spread throughout the land."

Ah, said Finnvarr, that one. I see a great tale waits to be told. You will tell it to us, later. The Lord of the Sidhe s.h.i.+fted forward in his seat. We would have his power, old friend. We would make it our own. And then no longer would we skulk in the Hills. We would reclaim the land that your peo- ple stole from us. Aye, and more. But something stops us. The power that opposed the Malifex, the Old One, Attis, the Green Man-something of him also remains?

Amergin remained silent.

If my lord were to think that you were withholding something, said the Lady Una, peering once more into Amergin's face, it would go ill with you. The wizard stared back into her deep black eyes for a moment and said, "My lady, I am the last survivor in this world of the race that destroyed your people and stole your land. I fear it will go ill with me whatever happens."

The Lady Una threw back her head and laughed.

High on the flank of Windover Hill, Charly sat with her arms around her knees and gazed out over the valley. The sun was low in the sky now, throwing a soft, golden haze across the air. Below her, the pattern of crop circles that had formed around Sam was stamped onto the landscape as a reminder of her failure. Her vision blurred once more. She blinked away the tears, then wiped her nose on the back of her hand. It's not fair, she thought. If she had Sam's power, she would revel in it, use it to its full, do good works with it. Not like him. He's such a . . . such a boy! she thought. And she just trailed in his wake, blown along against her will, being turned into things when it suited him. Well, she was a fully initiated Wiccan now. It was time she took charge of her own destiny. She scrubbed at her eyes and stood up. Right. When brute force fails, it's time for female brain power.

She turned and examined the figure of the Long Man, spread-eagled against the green hillside, but there was no sign of the doorway. The edges of the great slabs had merged back into the turf. If she couldn't follow Sam, she needed to get back home and decide what to do next. She'd done it once before. The previous year, when Sam left her to pursue the Malifex, she had made her own way home. No reason why she shouldn't be able to do it again. Closing her eyes, Charly concentrated on a shape. She chose the swift once more; its feel was fresh in her memory. That previous time-last year in the woods on Dartmoor, when she had taken the shape of a flycatcher-it had helped to spin. She began to rotate on the spot, arms held straight out at shoulder height. Eyes tightly closed, she concentrated on the shape and feel of the bird. Nothing.

Feeling rather ridiculous-and more than a little dizzy-Charly sat back down on the gra.s.s. She pulled her braid from behind her neck and fiddled with the band of elasticized fabric that held the auburn hair in check. Then she jumped to her feet again.

"Got it!" she exclaimed, out loud, and set off down the slope.

Taking up position in the center of the biggest crop circle, she held her arms out once more and felt the faint, leftover p.r.i.c.kle of power radiating from the fallen stems. She began to spin, and moments later, a swift flicked its long wings and with a scream headed eastward.

It took a while for Sam's eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. As he lay there in the black void, he thought, This is it. She's going to kill me. There's no way she's ever going to forgive me for this one. He sighed. Why couldn't Charly have just kept up? She made everything so complicated, typical girl. Oh, well. He was almost certainly better off without her. But he was going to be in so much trouble when he saw her again.

Sam scrambled to his feet and looked around. The darkness was not complete. Here and there, small cracks in the ceiling and walls let in narrow beams of light, swirling with dust motes. His night vision had been unnaturally good since his encounter with the Green Man, and he found that he could see quite well. He was in a long chamber with an arched roof, presumably corresponding to the interior of Windover Hill. He turned to his left, hoping that this would take him roughly back in the direction of Hastings, though Mrs. P. had given him the impression that directions inside the Hollow Hills didn't necessarily match those outside. Still, he had to go one way or the other, and left would do. The floor was dust-dry and chalky; clouds of white powder kicked up around his feet in the occasional shafts of daylight. The chamber gradually narrowed, the walls drew closer together, and the roof crept lower, until Sam found himself at a dark archway. From here, rough steps led downward in a tight spiral. Sam walked with the tips of his fingers trailing along one wall. The light was too faint even for his eyes. When he reached the bottom, the floor took him by surprise, and he stumbled. Opening his eyes, he found that he had emerged into a vast tunnel that disappeared into gloom in either direction.

The spiral staircase had taken away his sense of direction completely, so Sam chose left once more. Close to the foot of the stairs, the floor was uneven and rocky, but as he moved out into the huge chamber, it became smooth and well-worn, as if by the pa.s.sage of many feet. Keeping to the center, where the floor was smoothest, Sam made good progress. After half an hour, he was sweaty and covered in dust, but he felt as if he had put some distance behind him. The chamber twisted and snaked, so that the farther reaches were always out of sight, around a bend or lost in darkness. Otherwise, his surroundings seemed to change very little. In fact, Sam's progress was so monotonous that the sound must have been audible for several minutes before he noticed it. He heard a dull rumble, made indistinct by the echo of the high roof but drawing nearer. Sam stopped and looked around, but there was nothing to see in the gloom.

The light in the chamber was faint, rare shafts lancing down from the recesses of the roof far above, fading long before they reached the ground. Away from the central path was a jumbled chaos of boulders and slabs, a fragmented landscape of shadows and harsh angles. Sam could feel the vibration now through the soles of his feet and looked around for a hiding place.

At that moment, he saw motion to his right. Out of the darkness came figures on horseback, five or six of them riding in close formation. Hors.e.m.e.n of the Sidhe, black hair streaming out behind them. Their horses' hooves thundered on the hard-packed earth of the cavern floor, and the echoes boomed around Sam. Frantically, he looked for cover. He began to run, pounding along the path, peering into the pools of shadow between the great boulders, seeking an exit. The riders were close behind him now. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the leader, tall and pale, bearing down upon him. His horse was as black as night, and fire flickered in its nostrils. Without a word, the riders hauled on their reins and brought their mounts skidding to a halt, clouds of dust billowing around their hoofs. Sam darted off the path and began to scramble among the boulders. Behind him, in the silence, he heard a solid thud as a pair of leather boots impacted the ground. The lead rider strode toward him, confident, unhurried. Sam forced himself between two great slabs, ducked beneath a third and, on hands and knees, scuttled through the dust.

The ground was sloping upward now, ever steeper. Pus.h.i.+ng through a final gap, he came up against the wall of the tunnel. Turning, he flailed with his legs, kicking himself backward until he felt solid rock against his spine. He thought about changing shape and tried to picture something-a bird, a mouse, anything-but in his panic no clear shape would form in his mind. He stared at the gap in front of him, panting in desperation, waiting for the inevitable pale face to appear. I need a doorway, he thought. Why is there never a doorway? He cast his mind out into the rock behind him, straining for that alien strangeness he had tasted in the Long Man gateway, the Door of Air. And fell, tumbling over backward. Light flashed before his closed eyes-on, off, on, off-as, head over heels, he rolled down a long slope. With a crash that knocked the air from his lungs, he came to rest in a tangled heap against a thorn bush.

Charly reverted to her human form a short distance above the garden of the Aphrodite Guest House and skidded across the lawn. I must work on my landings, she thought as she came to a halt in the shrubbery. She scrambled up and brushed the dead gra.s.s from her clothes, then headed indoors.

Her mother was frantic. She jumped up from a chair in the residents' lounge at the sound of the door and ran out into the lobby.

"Where have you been? " she roared, "I've been worried sick!"

Mrs. P. emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel, and stood in silence, staring at Charly.

"Mum!" she began, "I'm OK. Don't fuss-"

"Don't fuss! I've-"

"I've been with Sam. We went to rescue Amergin."

"You went . . . oh, terrific." Megan raised her eyes to the ceiling. "So where are they?"

"Erm," began Charly, "there was a bit of a problem."

"Megan, Charly," interrupted Mrs. P., "I think we should go and sit down, and you can tell us what happened." She ushered Charly through into the lounge. Megan ran one hand distractedly across her face, then followed.

Five minutes later, Charly had finished her story. Silence fell. Eventually, Megan said, "What am I going to tell his parents?"

Charly stared at the floor.

"I don't believe this is happening," Megan continued.

"At least, Amergin is an adult-there's a chance he can look after himself. But Sam . . . ? How could you be so stupid?" She gave Charly a despairing look. Charly felt tears spring to her eyes once more.

"Megan, dear," pleaded Mrs. P., "don't be too harsh on the child."

"I'm going to my room. I need to think." Megan stood up. "You, young lady, are so grounded-" She paused, then turned and marched out of the room.

Mrs. P. stared at Charly for a long moment. "Foolish and headstrong," she said. "And utterly reckless."

Charly screwed up her eyes and tried not to sob.

"And you're not much better," continued Mrs. P.

"Huh?" Charly looked up.

Mrs. P. was smiling. "Your mother, dear," she continued. "She was just like you, when she was your age. But not quite so talented. Don't take it too hard-she's upset and frantic with worry. I'll go and speak to her soon, see if we can come up with a plan. You go up to your room, and try to get some rest."

Charly nodded, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and headed for the stairs.

Sam scrambled to his feet, ready to run. He was on a gra.s.sy slope, dotted here and there with scrub. A featureless sweep of gra.s.s stretched before him up to a clear blue sky. He walked up the slope a short way, but the turf was unmarked, featureless, apart from a scatter of dry sheep dung. It seemed unlikely that elves or fairies were going to burst out of the ground.

He turned around, and his eyes widened. The ground dropped away steeply, the scrub growing thicker toward the foot of the slope and merging into the fringes of woodland. A woodland that rolled away in all directions, a dense green rug thrown across the landscape, fading to the palest blue haze on the distant horizon. Here and there, a faint plume of smoke rose from a clearing, marking a hidden farm or village. But otherwise the trees had dominion, an ancient forest like nothing Sam had ever seen. Well, he thought to himself, no sign of Hastings.

One of the plumes of smoke was close, no more than an hour's walk, Sam guessed. With no better plan, he descended the slope, scrambled over a rough hurdle fence, and set off into the trees.

From his view on the hillside, Sam had been expecting some sort of primeval wildwood, a tangle of thorns and brambles, but the forest was surprisingly open. Many of the trees had been cut at the base and left to regrow, craggy old stumps of hazel and hornbeam sprouting crops of tall, straight shoots, leaves fluttering like flags in the breeze. Here and there, a mighty oak or ash had been left to grow tall, great timber trees standing like pillars with their crowns in the sunlight.

Sam soon picked up a rough path that meandered between low banks studded with wildflowers. It was bluebell time, and the ground to either side of the path glowed beneath a blue haze. The air was heavy with the perfume of a million nodding blooms.

As he walked, he became more than usually aware of the presence that always seemed to lurk behind his mind, peering through his eyes. The spirit of the Green Man within him recognized this place. It was the world where he had been born, the ancient wildwood where he had grown and flourished before humans, spurred on by the whispers of the Malifex, had destroyed it. The spirit seemed to push forward, until Sam felt as if someone were standing very close behind him, so close that if he turned and looked, they would be eye to eye. He heard, or felt, a chuckle-a deep current of mirth running through his head. Beneath the laughter was something wild, primeval, the music of pipes and the distant sound of horns. Sam broke into a run, flickering through the shafts of light that pierced the high canopy. The fierce happiness of the Green Man swept over him, and he began to s.h.i.+ft from one shape to another for the simple joy of it. He was a hare once more, a wolf, a polecat arcing through the long gra.s.s like a coiled spring.

Once he heard a snorting and rustling and feared that the Sidhe had returned. But it was only a herd of pigs, rooting beneath the oaks. They were leaner and hairier than the fat, pink animals Sam was used to, with a halfwild look to them. They ignored Sam, seeing only a young stag, and he moved on.

He pa.s.sed a fallen tree, a giant of the canopy that had succ.u.mbed to gales or rot and had crashed down into the undergrowth. Its roots had taken with them a huge disk of earth, which stood now vertical, leaving behind a circular crater. The rain had filled it, and the creatures of the forest were busy claiming this new pond as their own. Yellow irises flowered around the edge, and kingcups, and the blue needles of damselflies darted through the rushes. In a gra.s.sy clearing, Sam stopped before an area trampled to mud by deer and a.s.sumed his human shape. A huge b.u.t.terfly, dark except for a lightning-flash of white across its wings, fluttered up from a hoofprint. Its wings glinted an intense metallic purple as it pa.s.sed through a shaft of sunlight, heading up to the high canopy of oaks. Sam was getting hungry. He had lost all track of time, but it felt like several hours since his last meal. He stopped for a breather, climbing the low bank and settling with his back against a tree. He sat listening to the sound of birdsong for a while, watching midges weave a ball of silver in the light that fell on the path below. And then, with nothing else to do, he continued on. Soon he came to a patch of woodland that had recently been cut-the word coppiced sprang to his mind, though he wasn't entirely sure what it meant. Here the old stumps that he had seen throughout the forest had had their crop of tall stems removed, and piles of long poles were neatly stacked by the path. The great timber trees had been left to grow on and stood in majestic isolation in the wide clearing. Sawdust and wood chips littered the ground, but already primroses and purple orchids had pushed up through, basking in the unexpected flood of light that now bathed the forest floor.

A little farther on, Sam came across a series of low mounds. They reminded him of barrows or tumuli, but the earth was raw and fresh, and each was crowned with a wooden peg surrounded by turf. A wisp of smoke drifted from around one of the pegs. Sam went over to investigate. He placed one hand on the bare clay of the mound and found that it was warm. Moving on, he soon found an explanation for the mounds. They were charcoal kilns-the last in the line had been broken open and its contents removed. Glossy black charcoal was strewn across the trampled ground, and a pile of blackened logs stood to one side. He kicked at the sc.r.a.ps of charcoal, and they tinkled like gla.s.s. The trail of footprints and black dust led off through the trees, and Sam's eyes, following the trail, made out the dark shapes of buildings in the distance.

Sam edged into the clearing, eyes darting back and forth. A regular metallic ringing came from the largest building, as did the plume of smoke that he had seen from the hillside. The buildings themselves confirmed his suspicion. This was not his own time. Thatched and timberframed, the sides daubed with mud and straw, these were no buildings from Sam's world.

There were three main structures: the largest in front of him, across a yard of bare earth, and two smaller ones-barns or storehouses of some sort-to either side. A few hens scratched around in the dust. The trail of charcoal fragments led to a neatly stacked pile of black logs by the main building. The metallic sound of hammering suddenly ceased, and a figure appeared at the door of the building ahead, a huge hulk of a man. He stared at Sam for a few moments, then beckoned, turned, and disappeared back inside. Sam stood on the edge of the yard, paralyzed with indecision. The man had not seemed hostile. Otherwise, surely, he would have approached Sam instead of turning back. But was it safe to follow? Sam considered his options. He had clearly emerged from the Hollow Hills far from his own time. He was alone, with no idea of where or when he was or how to return. What did he have to lose? With a shrug, he set off across the yard.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The windows were tiny, and the main source of illumination was a roaring fire in the center of the room. Silhouetted against its light was the bulk of the man who had beckoned. He had his back to Sam and was examining something intently.

"Welcome, lad," he rumbled, without turning around. His accent was thick but somehow familiar. "Don't 'ee 'ang on the threshold. Come on in."

Sam realized that he spoke like the man they had met at the foot of Windover Hill, who had told them of the windsmith. He stepped forward.

The man turned suddenly, and Sam saw that he was holding a long, curved blade. In a panic, Sam scuttled backward and collided with the doorframe, bringing down a shower of dust from the thatch.

"Oh, don't 'ee mind this," said the man, waving the blade at Sam. "New scythe blade; old 'un's as sharp as I am." He placed it carefully on a low wooden table.

"Run on an' get us summin' t'eat," he commanded. Sam was confused for a moment, but then a small shadow detached itself from the larger gloom and scurried past him. It was a young boy, covered in soot. Sam had a glimpse of wide, white eyes, and then he was gone.

"Don' get many strangers," said the man, folding his arms across his ma.s.sive chest. He was wearing a long leather ap.r.o.n over rough brown leggings. His arms were bare and hugely muscled.

"I'm, er, lost," said Sam.

"I should say y'are," agreed the man, "a tidy way lost, an' all. A young 'un, too, ter be wanderin' the 'ollow 'ills."

"You know about the Hollow Hills?" Sam asked in surprise.

"Course I do, boy! I ain't no gowk! An' I knows a Walker when I sees one."

"A walker?"

"A Walker Between Worlds. One as uses the 'ills to get about, an' 'as commerce with the Faery Folk."

"I dunno about commerce, " replied Sam. "I was trying to get away from them. They've kidnapped my friend."

"Ah, a sorry tale," said the man with a sigh. "Not wise to cross 'em, the Farisees. What did 'e do, this friend of yourn?"

"He invaded their land, killed quite a few of them, drove the rest underground."

"Ah. 'E'll be a pop'lar lad, then."

At that moment, the boy returned with wooden plates bearing thick slabs of coa.r.s.e bread and slices of tangy cheese.

"Tuck in, lad," said the man.

"Thanks. I'm Sam, by the way."

"'Ow do, Sam? You can call me Wayland."

Silence fell as they applied themselves to the food. Eventually, Wayland said, "Youm gonna rescue 'im, then?

This friend of yourn?"

"That was the idea," admitted Sam, "but I didn't get very far. I'd just found a way into the Hollow Hills when the Sidhe turned up, and then somehow I sort of fell out and ended up on a hillside not far from here."

"Aye, well, them as goes crawling round in the earth like moldywarps is arskin' fer bother."

"Moldywarps?" spluttered Sam, spraying crumbs.

"Little gennlemen in black velvet, as digs in the earth. Leaves their little mounds o' muck hither and yon."

"Ah, moles," said Sam and returned to his sandwich. Wayland was quiet once more, chewing steadily. His face was weather-beaten and ruddy, like old leather, polished and oiled; and his graying hair was square-cut at the shoulders. His blue eyes twinkled in nets of fine lines as he watched Sam.

"Iron," he said, after a while. "That's yer lad for the Faery Folk. Iron."

Sam looked blank.

"Can't stand it, see?" Wayland continued. "Takes away their power, only thing as can kill 'em. You needs you some iron."

"Have you got anything I could use?" asked Sam. Wayland dissolved into laughter. It went on for what seemed like an unreasonable length of time, and Sam was starting to look around in embarra.s.sment when Wayland took a shuddering breath, wiped his eyes, and said, "'Ave I got any iron? I'm a blacksmith, boy! I've got precious little but iron! Tell 'ee what, you an' me, we'll make somethin', a good ole pigsticker fer visitin' bother on the Farisees!"

The smith jumped to his feet. "Don't just sit sowing gape seed, lad. Tackle-to!"

Charly lay on her back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her mother had gone upstairs with Mrs. P., up into the attic room, where they were now deep in discussion. Closing her eyes, she pictured once more the crop circle forming around Sam, the spheres of light crackling and dancing, the breathtaking pattern of swirls stamped across the landscape. How typical of Sam, she thought. Miracles and wonders followed him wherever he went, and he blundered around in the middle of them, moaning and sulking like a child. He was a hero, yes. He had defeated the Malifex, after all-but almost by accident. She had done most of the real work. And Amergin, of course. She sighed. It all came down to power again. Sam was a boy and had it; she was a girl and didn't. If only there was some way. . . . She thought again about her initiation and the books she had read as part of her training. Her Book of Shadows was full of tantalizing hints and rumors of the powers she would gain as she completed her training. One ritual in particular had always stuck in her mind, because it summed up the glamour of Wicca. It was central to the Craft and was carried out by the high priestess. Charly s.h.i.+vered just thinking about it. From her earliest memories, she had dreamed of one day becoming a high priestess, with her own coven. An idea came to her and she sat up.

Her mother would go crazy. She felt sick when she thought of how mad her mother would be. But then she thought of Amergin and Sam and of how she had encouraged Sam to set off on his rescue mission. Her mind was made up. She jumped off the bed and ran over to the window. The sun was setting off along the coast, its light glinting on the sea far below. Charly threw open the window and breathed in the salt tang of the air. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on a shape. It was becoming easier with every attempt. Moments later, a seagull flicked its white wings and headed into the east.

CHAPTER 5.

The sixty-five s.h.i.+ps of the Milesians rode the swell off the coast of the new land, their tattered sails furled now. Amergin stood in the prow of the leading s.h.i.+p, one foot braced against the gunwale, and looked out over the expanse of green. As his eyes took in the rolling hills where the cloud shadows raced, his heart felt as though it would burst with joy. A song came to him- Amergin. I know you can hear me.

An insistent pressure pushed against the edges of his mind. Go away, he thought, this land is ours. Amergin. Stop it, now. You're wasting your time. Again, the pressure, making colored lights dance behind his eyes. And then a searing pain that brought him gasping into consciousness.

That's better, said the Lady Una. You can't hide in your memories forever.