of red fabric decorating the spar atop their mast.
But would that itself be read as a sign?
Closer now—the ship had covered half the distance between the two of them, and still no words had been spoken, though the troubling buzz half in his head, half in his ears was neither comforting nor intelligible, for it was entirely in the incredibly complex Faery ceremonial speech, which was distant kin to the most formal and highly inflected Gaelic.
Closer, and the dragon prows bobbed in the seething vapors, as though they too sought recognition.
Closer yet, and he saw their opponents clearly for the first time: tall, hard-faced men in golden surcoats ranged along the deck, with as many more of rougher shape, if not more roughly clad, among them, every other one, with a final Faery at the tiller.
David wondered if those mortals were there by choice and from what lands and places they hailed. He didn’t want to kill them, but knew he would if pressed: his death or another’s. But did these foes—the mortal ones—have family and friends who would mourn their loss with soul-wrenching regret? Or were they solos, soldiers of fortune recruited to a stranger war than any of them could ever have anticipated? Elyyoth hadn’t known, and Nuada had only ventured guesses: that they were not all men of David’s land or time. Aife had no idea at all; the utilization of mortals having come about after her departure from the Sons of Ailill.
Closer yet, and then, for the first time, David heard voices and the slow, heavy beat of some vast brazen drum.
Nuada’s warning was like lightning through David’s brain, and it took a moment to sort out the words. Should you seek to board that vessel, be very sure of your footing, for if you fall into the cauldron beneath us, mortal flesh will die!
And that was it. David’s only recourse now was waiting. A billow of steam washed between the vessels, and when it parted again, and he blinked the latest runnels of sweat from his eyes, the vessel was suddenly alongside, the shields along both gunwales not a dozen feet apart.
David’s companions faced that other crew in two grim-eyed lines, one before the other. The back—Aife, himself, Fionchadd, and Nuada—wore the guise of Faerie, all in cloaks and mail. Nuada and Aife, at either end, sported bared swords; Fionchadd kept his hands hidden, as did David, who gripped his double-barrel in sweating fingers beneath a close-drawn cloak. Before them ranked the mortals in deliberately disarrayed mortal togs: Aikin in front of Aife, Brock ahead of David, Big Billy before Fionchadd, and LaWanda in Nuada’s van. It was a deliberate arrangement: three of the most distinctive mortals from the Sons’ attack on Lugh’s guests displayed to the fore. If they were lucky, their opponents would focus their attention on them, not on their all-too-lightly-englamoured “captors.”
If they were lucky.
More orders stabbed David’s mind, quick and brutal with haste: a plan Nuada had clearly formulated on the spot and had no time to finesse into their minds, no time to debate or delay. For an instant, David’s brain went utterly blank; the next, he was certain he’d been struck blind. Yet his body was already responding to commands his brain knew but could not express.
“Now!” Nuada roared. And battle was begun.
The four obvious mortals knelt as one, hands still behind them as though joined by chains in forced submission. But even as they stumbled onto their knees, even as eyes in the opposing vessel swung their way, hands that had not been bound swept around and four sets of gun barrels belched lead and steel, noise and pain.
Distraction. Maximum damage. First offensive. David flung his cloak aside and leveled his shotgun at the center-most rank of warriors, not ten yards across from him, fixed on a red-haired Faery man, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. He felt the kick, but the report was lost within an explosion of other sounds: startled
But would that itself be read as a sign?
Closer now—the ship had covered half the distance between the two of them, and still no words had been spoken, though the troubling buzz half in his head, half in his ears was neither comforting nor intelligible, for it was entirely in the incredibly complex Faery ceremonial speech, which was distant kin to the most formal and highly inflected Gaelic.
Closer, and the dragon prows bobbed in the seething vapors, as though they too sought recognition.
Closer yet, and he saw their opponents clearly for the first time: tall, hard-faced men in golden surcoats ranged along the deck, with as many more of rougher shape, if not more roughly clad, among them, every other one, with a final Faery at the tiller.
David wondered if those mortals were there by choice and from what lands and places they hailed. He didn’t want to kill them, but knew he would if pressed: his death or another’s. But did these foes—the mortal ones—have family and friends who would mourn their loss with soul-wrenching regret? Or were they solos, soldiers of fortune recruited to a stranger war than any of them could ever have anticipated? Elyyoth hadn’t known, and Nuada had only ventured guesses: that they were not all men of David’s land or time. Aife had no idea at all; the utilization of mortals having come about after her departure from the Sons of Ailill.
Closer yet, and then, for the first time, David heard voices and the slow, heavy beat of some vast brazen drum.
Nuada’s warning was like lightning through David’s brain, and it took a moment to sort out the words. Should you seek to board that vessel, be very sure of your footing, for if you fall into the cauldron beneath us, mortal flesh will die!
And that was it. David’s only recourse now was waiting. A billow of steam washed between the vessels, and when it parted again, and he blinked the latest runnels of sweat from his eyes, the vessel was suddenly alongside, the shields along both gunwales not a dozen feet apart.
David’s companions faced that other crew in two grim-eyed lines, one before the other. The back—Aife, himself, Fionchadd, and Nuada—wore the guise of Faerie, all in cloaks and mail. Nuada and Aife, at either end, sported bared swords; Fionchadd kept his hands hidden, as did David, who gripped his double-barrel in sweating fingers beneath a close-drawn cloak. Before them ranked the mortals in deliberately disarrayed mortal togs: Aikin in front of Aife, Brock ahead of David, Big Billy before Fionchadd, and LaWanda in Nuada’s van. It was a deliberate arrangement: three of the most distinctive mortals from the Sons’ attack on Lugh’s guests displayed to the fore. If they were lucky, their opponents would focus their attention on them, not on their all-too-lightly-englamoured “captors.”
If they were lucky.
More orders stabbed David’s mind, quick and brutal with haste: a plan Nuada had clearly formulated on the spot and had no time to finesse into their minds, no time to debate or delay. For an instant, David’s brain went utterly blank; the next, he was certain he’d been struck blind. Yet his body was already responding to commands his brain knew but could not express.
“Now!” Nuada roared. And battle was begun.
The four obvious mortals knelt as one, hands still behind them as though joined by chains in forced submission. But even as they stumbled onto their knees, even as eyes in the opposing vessel swung their way, hands that had not been bound swept around and four sets of gun barrels belched lead and steel, noise and pain.
Distraction. Maximum damage. First offensive. David flung his cloak aside and leveled his shotgun at the center-most rank of warriors, not ten yards across from him, fixed on a red-haired Faery man, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. He felt the kick, but the report was lost within an explosion of other sounds: startled
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