“A
fiend,
am I?” Fionchadd laughed, his voice low but clear—his real voice, not the half-heard talk the Sidhe used among themselves, that rang more in the mind than the ear. He clamped his arms around David and gave him a swift, brotherly hug that took him completely by surprise.
“Some folks would say you are,” David acknowledged solemnly when he had caught his breath.
A flash of wicked grin. “Would you?”
David scratched his nose. “I’m not sure. I haven’t got that far in my bull sessions with Silverhand yet. ’Course,
some
say you were angels who wouldn’t take sides when Satan rebelled.”
To which a deeper voice—bronze rather than brass—appended, “And some say we’re the souls of the mortal dead!”
David started at that, and whirled around to see two more figures enter the stone arena.
One was an old man, white-haired; his thin body bent and stiff and clad in a plain robe the color of a full moon’s corona; and with sightless eyes that shone dark silver. He carried a long wooden staff clinched in dark, gnarled fingers, each of which bore at least one ring of gold or silver.
“Oisin!” David cried, and the man inclined his head. He looked, David thought, either preoccupied or worried, to judge from his furrowed brow.
The man who stood beside him was much taller, fairhaired, and wearing a short white tunic above matching hose and thigh boots. His right arm appeared to be cased in articulated metal armor of fabulous workmanship, though in fact it was part of his body. He it was who had spoken.
“I
know
that’s not true, Nuada,” David said quickly. “About the souls of the dead, I mean.”
“
Do
you?” the Faery lord gave him back. A lifted eyebrow showed humor the rest of his face denied—apparently something was bothering him too. “Have I told you as much?”
“No, but you have souls; you can have kids and be injured. Even die, if you do it right.”
“Which proves nothing except how limited are your kind’s notions of life and death. But that is not the matter of this meeting.”
David bit his lip and frowned. There was no use putting it off any longer. “Okay, so what do you want with me?”
In reply, Nuada reached to his golden belt, unhooked two plain, cross-hilted swords, and held one out in either hand. Fionchadd claimed one immediately; and at his nod David reluctantly took the other.
“I sense misgivings,” the Faery said, as David backed away. “Yet you yourself once agreed that it would be worth your while to learn something of weapons-work.”
“I wasn’t expecting it quite so soon, though,” David replied, relieved to discover that Silverhand’s mysterious summons held no more ominous portent. “I kinda thought we were talking in abstracts.”
“Ah, but it is never wise to expect anything of the Sidhe,” Oisin said, chuckling. “They pride themselves on being unpredictable.”
“Yeah, tell me about it, man.”
“But you should consider yourself honored,” Fionchadd teased. “You are to have the best master in all of Tir-Nan-Og; for who better to instruct in weapons-work than the Warlord of the High King himself?”
“And to observe than Oisin,” Nuada added.
“But he’s blind!” David protested before he could stop himself.
“So much the better,” Nuada said calmly, “for eyes can be deceived. But Oisin can tell how blows fly, where they land, and with how much effort; all from the pitch of parting air and the sound and rate of your breathing.”
“Uh, speaking of blows,” David interrupted, surveying his scantily-clad body, “shouldn’t we be wearing, like,
armor
, or something? I’ve got some back in the boat Morwyn gave me.”
Nuada shook his head, though his eyes glittered briefly. “Armor is only as good as the body it protects. For a master, there is no need. Besides, there is a special quality to these weapons.”
David raised a dubious eyebrow.
“When they bite flesh they do no damage.”
“Well that’s just
great
,” he muttered, with heavy sarcasm.
“That does not mean there will be no pain,” Nuada went on obliviously. “For pain is a necessary thing for a man to learn. But the blows will do no lasting harm.”
David glared at him askance. “How
much
pain?”
“Enough that you will avoid it, enough that you will remember.”
“But Finno’ll chop me to ribbons!”
“Of course he will. Yet he too has things to learn.”
“And we’d best be at it,” Fionchadd said, laughing, grabbing David by the arm. “Otherwise this cowardly human will surely talk away his lesson.”
“There is always time in Faerie,” Oisin noted, “though sometimes less than others.”
“I don’t know about this,” David grumbled, as Fionchadd led him to the center of the stone circle. He felt rather like a sacrifice about to be made at some Druidic rite, and found himself wondering who had built this enclosure.
“You are not required to be good,” Nuada told him, when they had taken their places. “And truly you will never be as accomplished as the least of the Sidhe; but you might find a basic competency very useful.”
“Yeah, sure,” as he faced Fionchadd.
“The first thing you have to learn is how to stand,” Nuada told him. “And since you will not be using shields, you must stand to present as little target as possible. Observe how Fionchadd does it.”
David did, or attempted to. The Faery boy faced him side-on, left leg leading, the sword in his right hand and poised horizontally above his shoulders so that blows might be delivered with the full force of the body behind them. That much, at least, David thought he could manage, so he copied the pose.
Nuada frowned and strode forward, made minute adjustments on David’s posture, then frowned once more. “You’re wearing your body wrong,” he said at last. “Relax. It knows what to do, even if you do not.”
David made another attempt, but something was still slightly off.
“Let me show him,” Fionchadd suggested.
“Huh?” David snorted. “What do you know that Silverhand doesn’t?”
“Nothing,” the Faery boy replied patiently. “But there is a thing you and I can do that you and he cannot.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Do you not remember, foolish mortal? Once before, when I had no form, you and I shared bodies. Allow me to do that again, and I will show you.”
David hesitated, though he knew what Fionchadd had said was true. The Faery had only lately returned to the realm of the living; before that his soul had been trapped in a well-lizard in Tir-Nan-Og. But then David had tasted of that well, and for a while both their consciousnesses had occupied his body. It had been interesting—and had saved David’s life. But did he want to do it again? Suddenly the idea appalled him. Still, he was here to learn. And it wasn’t like they hadn’t done it before.
“Oh, go ahead,” he sighed.
Fionchadd’s hand brushed his, their gazes met. And suddenly the world slid out of focus, and it was as if he had been thrust out of his body. But then his own brain overrode, and he tensed automatically.
No!
a thought rang out.
Relax!
I…
Let go and trust me.
David did—reluctantly. And felt his body slip into a new, more comfortable stance. The changes were subtle: an inch here, a half inch there, a slight twist somewhere else. But the whole felt exactly right, felt, in truth, as if raw energy coiled right between his shoulders, ready to strike out at any threat.
Abruptly that second presence vanished, and he found his vision clearing.
Nuada eyed him critically. “It is close enough for now; his body will remember.”
“Where shall we begin?” Fionchadd asked.
“I think sword blocks will be sufficient for today,” Nuada replied, facing David. “There are three basic ones: head, body, and legs. Each starts with the weapon in the same configuration: vertical before you. To stop a blow to the head, you swing the blade up and twist the wrist, bringing it horizontal. For a body blow, a simple left or right suffices. For legs, swing the blade down to meet your opponent—show him, Fionchadd.”
The Faery nodded and readied his weapon. His eyes glittered disarmingly above the white flash of his flawless grin.
“Now, David, strike him, quickly! Aim for the head!”
David swung the sword, feeling arm and shoulders and back—even hips—swing smoothly around in one fluid motion he would not have guessed he possessed. The blade flashed straight for the Faery’s ear.
But did not connect.
Because Fionchadd’s sword was there before him, whistling up and over to intercept him. Metal clanged on metal. The hilt thrummed painfully in David’s hand, and before he knew it, he had flung up his other one as if to fend off further attack.
“No!”
Nuada shouted. “Tuck your free hand in your waistband, otherwise you will try to use it for a shield.”
David followed his instructions, then resumed position.
They practiced the other forms, then, with David throwing blows more or less at random and Fionchadd showing him how to counter. The first few rounds were deliberately slow and gave him little trouble, but gradually the pace increased until eventually the Faery’s arm was a silver-tipped blur. Not one of David’s blows connected, though; and in no time at all his arm began to ache.
“Now it’s your turn.” Fionchadd chuckled wickedly. “Your turn to defend, I mean. I will call out the blows and you parry.”
“Crap!” David groaned. He was already worn out simply from swinging the sword’s unfamiliar mass. His fingers hurt, too; and likewise his wrists and shoulders. It was like slinging hay, he thought. Only more elegant—and far more demanding.
“Head!” Fionchadd cried abruptly.
David blinked. Almost too late he swept his blade up.
“Body!”
—Sword lowered, swinging to the left to block the blow that hissed in from that direction.
“Body!”—but from the other side; blade flipping sideways to meet it.
“Leg!”
He met it—barely.
“Body!”
Yeah, okay; he managed that one too.
“Head!”
“Body!”
“Leg!”
“Head!”
“Leg!”
Too fast—or he was too slow, the weapon a burden in his hand. Metal slammed into his unprotected thigh, and a fine, clear pain slid through his flesh. Before he could stop himself he glanced down—and saw Fionchadd’s blade embedded almost an inch deep in his leg.
The world went momentarily colorless.
Fionchadd jerked the sword away, and David gasped. There was no blood, no wound—and no pain any longer.
“The hardest thing for our kind to learn,” Oisin said from his place between two stones, “is how to deal with pain.”
*
Fifteen minutes later it was over, because by then David was so numb with fatigue he could not have raised a weapon if his life depended on it. “Sorry, guys, I’ve had it,” he panted, as he flopped down on a slab of mossy stone beneath a trilithon.
“Already?” Fionchadd sighed. “Surely you can go a
little
longer.”
David could only stare at the Faery in helpless frustration.
How dare he look so calm!
Oh true, Fionchadd’s usually pale face was flushed a little, and there was the merest sheen of sweat along his long, smooth limbs, but nothing else gave any indication of exertion. The little sleaze was not even panting—damn him!
A shadow fell across David’s face. “Not a bad beginning for a mortal,” Nuada said. “Perhaps in another few decades you might even prove quite accomplished.”
“Decades!”
David moaned. “I’m not gonna be able to
move
for at least a century. And anyway, who am I gonna fight? My kind don’t go in for that sorta thing anymore; and you folks don’t need to bother with it to get at us. Two words and snap-your-fingers and we’re goners. Even me—now that the ring Oisin gave me’s lost its ability to protect me.”
Nuada glanced at his companion. “A sorry thing that, though ruined in a righteous cause.”
“Yet a man must be the source of his own strength. Reliance on anything beyond oneself can only lead to disappointment.”
David scowled thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I agree with that. No man is an island, and all.”
“No,” Oisin replied. “But a man should be able to
function
as an island if he must. I have not said that isolation is desirable, only that the ability to deal with it is. A man should be the source of his own strength, but likewise should he let it flow out from him and merge with others, and drink from their strength as well.”
“Okay, okay,” David protested wearily. “My poor old brain’s too addled for this kind of heavy thinkin’.”
“And in any event, we must depart,” Nuada said. “Lugh has a grievous problem on which we must be ready to advise him. Fionchadd, are you coming?”