Aoife and Scathach, Shadow Twins Page 5

  Nels knew what was happening: the stone was healing him, rejuvenating him, making him younger, stronger.

  The Lia Fáil.

  Like everyone on Tir Tairngaire, he had grown up hearing the legends of the stone and the stories of the generations of adventurers and mystics who had sought the crystal. Some of the temples to Cernunnos had tiny crystal relics, chips supposedly taken from the stone, each of them capable of working miracles. Priests of the Horned God paid handsomely for these crystal artifacts from the Time Before Time.

  The big man put his hands on his hips and tilted his head to one side, looking at the stone with suddenly clear eyes. His vision was crisp, the hints of cataracts at the corners of his eyes now gone.

  The Stone of Destiny. Here was his fortune. But he would not sell it. He had no need to. There were a hundred ways he could use this stone. A thousand ways. A stone like this could make a man wealthy….No…a stone like this could make a man a god.

  Why, with the power of the Lia Fáil, he could challenge Cernunnos himself for the world. And not just this world: with the power of the Lia Fáil he could create his own world or any number of worlds. Here was his destiny.

  Nels dropped the club to the ground and stepped up to the Lia Fáil, arms wide….

  11

  There should be pain.

  Aoife had been wounded before. She knew the sickening agony of injury, the burning snap of broken bones, the piercing heat of torn flesh. Even as she’d been falling, she’d known what had happened: she’d been so distracted and confused by the stone that she’d allowed Nels to creep up behind her. He’d struck her down with his club. She knew her skull was cracked—she had heard the pop of bone—and there was a tingling in her legs that made her suspect her spine was damaged.

  Yet there was no pain.

  Was this what death—the true death—was like? No pain, merely a gentle warmth that flowed across her skin and settled into her muscles with a soothing heat.

  Green and blue mist curled and eddied over her, individual colored droplets standing out on her skin like tiny jewels before sinking into her dirty flesh, lending it an almost metallic appearance.

  When she’d fallen, she’d sliced her palm on the edge of her metal whip, a long, ragged cut. Lying on the ground, her hand curled before her face, blood pooling in her hand, she watched the skin pull together and knit itself in a long red line that almost instantly faded to white, then vanished.

  There was no pain…and she knew why.

  It was the stone. The stone was healing her.

  But if Aoife had learned anything over her centuries of life, it was that everything had a price. What was the price of this healing? she wondered.

  Taking a deep breath, she raised her head, broken bones and torn muscles knitting and snapping together, stronger than before. She saw the wagon master standing before the stone, arms wide. And she knew she was going to be too late to stop him.

  12

  If just the mist rolling off the Lia Fáil was able to make him young and whole again, then what would happen if he touched the stone itself? The legends whispered of the dark lore at the heart of the stones. If he touched it, would he absorb some of that knowledge? Would he know what the gods knew? And if knowledge was power, would that make him as powerful as Cernunnos?

  Nels shivered with excitement. The Lia Fáil would give him everything he had ever wanted: wealth beyond imagining and unimaginable power. The knowledge of the Earthlords and the Archons would be his. No one would ever laugh at him again. No one would ever look down on him because he was a simple drover. He would rule this world. He would remake it. Conquer it.

  Nels stood before the stone, mesmerized by the swirling red and black smoke within the dark crystal, and then he reached out and placed both hands flat against it.

  The Lia Fáil instantly turned bloodred, shades of crimson pulsing like a heartbeat.

  Power—icy, raw power—flowed into his body, shocking him rigid, and then the chill turned warm, comforting, absorbed into his flesh. It flowed through muscles and settled deep in his core, nestling in his stomach.

  The weight of his four and forty years dropped off him, and suddenly he was young again, young and strong and vital. A thick mat of hair crawled across his skull; muscles swelled his chest and his arms; his spine straightened in a series of cracking pops, allowing him to stand tall.

  Nels pulled his palms off the stone, leaving bloody imprints on its surface, raised his arms to the skies, and howled in triumph.

  13

  Aoife climbed shakily to her feet as Nels reached out to embrace the stone. He saw her from the corner of his eye and turned his head to smile savagely at her. Then he pressed both palms against the stone, holding it close, arms almost completely encircling the crystal.

  The throb of color that flooded the Lia Fáil was the color of old blood, brown and ugly.

  Aoife watched the bronze and black energies flicker and flow through the man’s body, pulse through his flesh to highlight the skeleton beneath. She watched his muscles fill and swell, hair coil serpent-like down his head, tufts of coarse black fur sprout on his chest. The man twisted his head and spat, his old, discolored, chipped teeth spinning onto the ground, and when he raised his head to snarl at her, she saw that his mouth was filled with perfect white teeth.

  The stone had made him young again.

  “Fear me!” Nels thundered, voice powerful and commanding, lifting his hands off the stone to stretch his arms wide.

  She watched how the bloody imprints of his hands on the glass were absorbed into the crystal.

  “Fear me!” Nels yelled again, and he gripped the stone, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to it. He breathed in its very essence. “Today I will become a god.”

  The stone made him young.

  Only, he was still changing. Still becoming young.

  From middle age to prime of life had taken moments, from prime to youth took even less time, and from youth to child and child to babe took only a handful of heartbeats again. It happened almost too fast to see, the man becoming a teen, a youth, a boy, a toddler, a newborn.

  Aoife squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, Nels was gone. She knew then why she’d found no beast or animal tracks returning from the stone: it had taken them all, absorbed their very essence into its crystalline core. This close to the artifact, standing in the swirling multicolored smoke leaking from the crystal, she could hear countless voices—human and animal—whispering in her skull. Faintly, very faintly, she thought she even heard Nels’s lost screams. She learned its name then: the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny.

  Fragments of images danced before her eyes: images of incredible beauty and unimaginable terror. Standing still, eyes closed, she could feel the promises of power and knowledge pulsing from the Lia Fáil, battering t her consciousness like waves on the shore. The stone was—like all the ancient crystals—vaguely alive, but it was a foul, vampiric half-life. It needed energies to live, and it sucked the life from the living, drawing their essence deep into its crystalline heart. There were thousands—no, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands—of lives, humani and non-human, beasts and monsters, even some Earthlords and Elders, Archon and Ancients—caught within the stone, mingled together, not quite dead but not fully alive. All seeking to escape.

  The stone whispered, promised, wheedled, cajoled….

  All she had to do was to reach out and touch the Lia Fáil. Then she could rule not only this Shadowrealm but all the Shadowrealms. She could become the Empress of the Universe.

  Aoife managed to take a step back.

  When the stone realized she had no interest in wealth or power, it reached into her mind and tore through her memories, unearthing desires and old fears. The Lia Fáil could give her everything she ever wanted and help her destroy what she most feared.

  Unconscious
ly, Aoife took a ragged step forward, closer to the stone.

  The stone dug deeper, finally unearthing her deepest, darkest secrets and fears. The whispers became a shout, the sound echoing within her skull: the Lia Fáil could help her kill her twin sister, Scathach.

  Images—terrifying images—battered her. Suddenly Aoife saw Scathach—red-haired and green-eyed, the very image of herself—lying broken at her feet.

  The voices in her head grew triumphant, whispering in a hundred languages….

  That is what you want.

  “No.” The word puffed out of her mouth in a hint of blue mist.

  Yes. That is what you have always wanted.

  “No.”

  Yes. You hate her. You fear her. You want her dead.

  “I never wanted her dead.”

  Yes.

  “No.”

  You have not spoken to her in centuries.

  “We had an argument. A stupid argument. Over a boy.” Even as she was saying it, she knew how ridiculous it sounded. She even had to struggle to remember the boy’s name: Cuchulain. That was it: Culain’s Hound.

  She hates you.

  “She does not.”

  You hate her.

  “I do not.” She breathed in blue smoke, and in that moment, she truly believed it.

  Kill her. We have made you strong again, all your old ailments wiped away. Now you will be able to overcome her.

  The images flooded back, and Aoife abruptly saw herself fighting her twin, whip and sword against nunchacku and sword. And Scathach falling beneath a flurry of blows. The sudden horror shocked her, leaving her shivering and sick to her stomach.

  “No, I will not.”

  She did not fear her sister. She did not hate her. She missed her.

  “No,” she said again, and then she threw back her head and screamed aloud her defiance. “No. I will not.”

  The Lia Fáil’s countless voices dissolved into a mindless, howling static. Aoife staggered back from the stone. She could feel the Lia Fáil pushing against her, probing her mind, even as the colored smoke washed over her skin. She stumbled and fell backward, and her hand curled around the hilt of her metal whip.

  We can give you everything.

  “I have everything I want.”

  As she rolled to her feet, she lashed out with the whip. Static crawled along the metal as it snaked through the air, and there was a solid crack of lightning as it struck the crystal.

  The Lia Fáil screamed.

  The sound drove Aoife back.

  A million voices cried out in agony. And perhaps a million more roared their rage.

  Aoife’s whip snapped fire and lightning on the pillar again and again. She could feel its confusion now; in all the millennia of its existence, it had never been attacked. She stepped closer, the whip leaving curling patterns in the smoky air, cutting black lines in the crystal. When she was close enough to touch it, she reached into the pouch her grandmother had given her centuries ago. As her fingers closed around the finger-length metal tube of special salts designed to melt crystal, Aoife recalled that Zephaniah had given Scathach an identical pouch and tube. She wondered if her twin had ever used it. She’d make sure to ask the next time she saw her.

  14

  “What did you find in the forest?” Bes asked as they broke camp the following morning.

  “Nothing,” Aoife said shortly.

  “More than nothing, surely.” The Dwarf looked openly at her unscarred forehead, the bloom of youth on her cheeks, the bright sparkle in her eyes.

  “Nothing I could not handle.” Aoife smiled. A sound moaned out of the valley below, and they both turned to watch a whirlwind of silver dust spiraling up in the morning air.

  “I wonder what happened to our wagon master,” Bes said quietly. “He went missing in the night.”

  “So I heard.”

  “For a moment, I was fearful he had gone after you,” Bes said.

  “We met in the forest,” Aoife admitted.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No,” she said truthfully.

  “But he will not be back, will he?”

  Aoife shook her head. “No, he’s gone.”

  “Where will you go when we are done?” Bes asked.

  “Home.” Aoife looked across the treetops. “You said you could find me a leygate to take me back to the Earth Shadowrealm.”

  “You have family there?”

  “I have a sister,” Aoife answered. “We have much to talk about.”

  Scathach the Shadow and the Clan of Eriu

  Dearest Joan,

  The Druid here claims that he can take my words, convert them to a cloud of water vapor, and send them through the leygates, where (because we are linked by blood) they will find you. Apparently, the words will appear as if written in moisture on windows and mirrors around you. Startling the first time, I’m sure, and you’ll have to read quickly before they dribble away. He’s still struggling to find a name for the process—“water-vapor messages” hasn’t quite got a ring to it. He is either a genius or the greatest con man I have ever encountered. I have told him that if I discover you have not received these messages, then I will hunt him down and introduce him to an ice-cold lake. Preferably one with a peist in it.

  I am afraid that I went against your advice and took a job Marethyu offered me. I know, I know! Of course, my problem is that I am simply too accommodating. I should have said no to Marethyu, but if I am being honest with myself, the truth is that I was bored. It was supposed to be a quick reconnaissance on Tír fo Thuinn, a backwater Shadowrealm. I’d fit right in, he told me. This was an old world with Celtic roots, possibly created by Balor or even Lugh himself. Marethyu had heard rumors of an Archon library, and he wanted me to check it out.

  Of course, I should have realized there’d be a catch. There always is with the Hook-Handed Man. It turns out he wanted me here to try to prevent a war. It seems as though some of the creatures on this world will play a significant role in a huge upcoming battle. He was quite mysterious about it, but you know Marethyu: he can be so dramatic.

  From Scathach,

  on the Tír fo Thuinn Shadowrealm,

  via water-vapor message

  to Joan of Arc, my sister-in-blood.

  1

  A flash of light in the gloomy forest below, a blink of silver in the shadows, lasting less than a single heartbeat.

  The redheaded rider was already falling, instinct, intuition, and experience driving her down behind the skittish stag before she heard the sounds. A chunk of metal exploded against the cliff face to her right, less than a hand span above the stag’s head. The startled beast reared, metal-shod hooves pawing the air, and Scathach slid out of the saddle and rolled to one side to avoid being trampled.

  A second shot rang out, and she recognized the distinctive ping of a tonbogiri, an ornate long-barreled rifle that should not exist on this world. A third shot bit into the ground between the stag’s feet and it reared again, eyes wide, mouth frothing, prancing dangerously close to the edge of the narrow track.

  Instinctively, Scathach had begun counting from the moment she’d seen the flash of light and then heard the snap of gunfire. From the direction of the shot, the angle they’d struck at, and the slightly different sounds, she worked out that there were at least two shooters in the valley below and to her left.

  A third shot sizzled close enough to the stag’s rump to draw a thin line of blood, and the creature bucked widely. The saddle shifted, and Scathach realized that one of the straps had loosened. Feeling the weight move on its back, the stag arched its back and kicked out. The strap broke with a sharp snap, and when the stag pranced again, it threw off the saddle and saddlebags. Its rear hooves struck the ground hard, shattering the edge of the track, which sheared off and tum
bled into the darkness. The stag bellowed once, a deep grunting sound, almost human in intensity, forelegs scrabbling for purchase, before it slid over the edge.

  The red-haired young woman rolled to the verge and looked down, expecting to see the broken body of the creature on the ground below. But the stag had dug in its hind legs and stretched out its forelegs and was sliding down the loose shale and scree into the shadows. She caught a flicker of its antlers moving through the forest as it bounded to freedom.

  A quick smile curled Scathach’s thin lips, revealing her pointed vampyre teeth. The stag had been nothing but trouble—temperamental, with a nasty habit of snapping whenever she went too close—but she would have hated to see it fall to its death.

  Two more shots rang out almost simultaneously, and she smiled again. Definitely two ambushers, and she caught the faintest hint of burnt powder on the chill air. She realized that these were antique single-shot tonbogiri…which was probably the reason she was still alive. The early models were barely accurate to a hundred paces and took minutes to load. However, this was an Anpu weapon, and she wondered how the technology of the jackal-headed people had ended up on this world.

  Another shot screamed off the cliff face above her head, showering her with tiny flecks of red-hot metal, but Scathach didn’t move. Moments later a pair of shots dug into the ground to her right and left and she smiled again, knowing her attackers were unsure that they—or the hooves of the prancing stag—had gotten her. They were firing blindly, hoping to force her to move. Which was a mistake. It revealed their locations, and if immortality had taught her nothing else, it had taught her patience. Scathach squinted toward the heavens; the sun was low in the sky and the first of the five tiny moons—the Ducklings—had risen. Storm clouds were gathering in the north, and the air was already touched with the promise of icy rain. It would be dark soon and then she could slip away.