Tom Deitz - David Sullivan 1 - Windmaster's Bane

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AboutWindmaster’s Bane

There are places on Earth

where magic worlds beckon . . .

where the other folk dwell

RIDDLE, RING, AND QUEST

In Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, tales are told of strange lights, of mysterious roads . . . of wondrous

folk from enchanted realms. All these are hidden from mortal men and those who have the gift to look on

them are both blessed and doomed. . . .

Young David Sullivan never dreamed that the myths of marvels and magic he loved were real. But in his

blood was the gift of Second Sight. And near his family’s rural farm lay an invisible track between

worlds . . . where he would soon become a pawn in the power game of the Windmaster, an evil usurper

among those the Celts called the Sidhe. David’s only protection would be a riddle’s answer and an

enchanted ring . . . as he began his odyssey of danger into things unknowing and unknown. . . .

“A SPECIAL MAGIC . . . A DELIGHT FROM START TO FINISH!”—Sharon Webb

“WINDMASTER’S BANE has heart, an easy humor, and the simple wisdom of

compassion.”—Michael Bishop

TOM DEITZ grew up in Young Harris, Georgia, a small town not far from the fictitious Enotah County

of WINDMASTER’S BANE, and has Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts degrees from the University

of Georgia. His major in medieval English literature led Mr. Deitz to the Society for Creative

Anachronism, which in turn generated a particular interest in heraldry, historic costuming, castle

architecture, British folk music, and all things Celtic. In WINDMASTER’S BANE, his first published

novel, Tom Deitz began the story of David Sullivan and his friends, a tale he has continued in

Fireshaper’s Doom, available from Avon Books, and hopes to pursue in several future volumes. Mr.

Deitz is also a car nut and would like to build a small castle someday.

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Publication Information

Contents

Acknowledgments

PART I

Prologue I: In Tir-Nan-Og

Chapter I: A Funeral Seen

Chapter II: Trumpets Heard

Chapter III: Music In The Night

Chapter IV: The Ring Of The Sidhe

Interlude: In Tir-Nan-Og

Chapter V: Fortunes

PART II

Prologue II: In Tir-Nan-Og

Chapter VI: Swimming

Interlude: In Tir-Nan-Og

Chapter VII: Oisin

Chapter VIII: Running

PART III

Prologue III: In Tir-Nan-Og

Chapter IX: Hiking . . .

Chapter X: . . . And Later

Interlude: In Tir-Nan-Og

Chapter XI: What The Lightning Brings

Chapter XII: On The Mountain

PART IV

Prologue IV: In Tir-Nan-Og

Chapter XIII: Choices

Chapter XIV: The Lord Of The Trial

Chapter XV: Of Knowledge And Courage

Chapter XVI: The Stuff Of Heroes

Chapter XVII: The Justice Of Lugh

Epilogue: In The Lands Of Men

Historical Note

Publication Information

About Windmaster’s Bane

eBook Version Notes

WINDMASTER’S BANE is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before

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appeared in book form. This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely

coincidental.

AVON BOOKS

A division of

The Hearst Corporation

1350 Avenue of the Americas

New York, New York 10019

Cover illustration by Tim White

Published by arrangement with the author

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 86-90795

ISBN: 0-380-75029-5

whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Adele Leone

Literary Agency, Inc., 26 Nantucket Place, Scarsdale, New York 10583.

First Avon Books Printing: October 1986

AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA

REGISTRADA, HECHO EN CANADA.

Printed in Canada.

UNV 10 9 8

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AND SO THE BANSHEE CAME FOR HIM . . .

David shifted the changeling so that it cradled awkwardly in the crook of his left arm. Slowly he eased

himself down to a wary crouch, but his gaze never left the eyes of the banshee—eyes that burned round

and red like living flame. Eyes that had nothing of beauty about them, only of hatred: hatred of life. He

freed his right hand and took a firmer grip on the knife.

“Greetings, Banshee of the Sullivans,” he said, swallowing hard. “I can’t let you have what you came

for.”

The wailing of the banshee faltered.

David carefully laid the changeling before him on the porch floor. “I have a child here, aFaery child. I

don’t know if he has a soul or not, but I guess I’ll have to find out very shortly, unless some things change

real fast. This knife—thisiron knife—will have some effect.” He raised his voice and looked up. “You

hear me? I’m going to kill the changeling. The Sidhe took my brother; I claim this life for myself!”

He raised the blade . . .

“Delightful . . . it kept this reader turning pages late into the night.”—Robin W. Bailey

“A FUN, FAST READ!”—A. C. Crispin

“Superlatively drawn . . . one of the most original heroes in modern fantasy!”—John Maddox Roberts

Other Avon Books by

Tom Deitz

DARKTHUNDER’SWAY

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DREAMBUILDER

FIRESHAPER’SDOOM

THEGRYPHONKING

SOULSMITH

SUNSHAKER’SWAR

STONESKIN’SREVENGE

Coming Soon

WORDWRIGHT

Avon Books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions,

premiums, fund raising or educational use. Special books, or book excerpts, can also be created to fit

specific needs.

For details write or telephone the office of the Director of Special Markets, Avon Books, Dept. FP,

1350 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10019, 1-800-238-0658.

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AVON BOOKS NEW YORK

For Louise

who started it

For Vickie

who sustained it

and

For Sharon

who said what she thought.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to:

Mary Ellen Brooks and Barbara Brown

Joseph Coté and Louise DeVere

Linda Gilbert and Mark Golden

Gilbert Head and Margaret Dowdle-Head

Christie Johnson and Lin McNickle-Odend’hal

Klon Newell and James Nicholson

Charles Pou and James Pratt

William Provost and Paul Schleifer

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Vickie Sharp and Mike Stevens

Sharon Webb and Leann Wilcox

eBook Version Notes

v1.0 May 2005 – Desktop & PocketPC .lit

Scan, conversion, and proofing.

PART I

Prologue I: In Tir-Nan-Og

(high summer)

p. 3A sound.

A sound of Power.

A low-pitched thrum like an immense golden harp string plucked once and left to stand echoing in an

empty place.

And then, ten breaths later, another.

But it was the golden Straight Tracks between the Worlds that rang along their sparkling lengths, as they

sometimes did for no reason the Sidhe could discover—and they had been trying for a very long time.

Success eluded them, though, for the half-seen ribbons of shimmering golden light that webbed the

ancient woods and treacherous seas of Tir-Nan-Og—and which here and there rose through the skies

themselves like the trunks of immense fiery trees—were not of Sidhe crafting at all, and only partly of

their World.

In some Worlds they were seen differently, and in some—like the Lands of Men—they werenot seen.

This much the Sidhe knew and scarcely more, except something of how to travel upon them—andthat

was a thing best done only at certain times.

Yet the Tracks were there, inall Worlds. And they had Power—in all Worlds. For Power was the thing

of which they were chiefly made.

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p. 4It was the half-heard tolling of that Power whispering through the high-arched windows and thick

stone walls of the twelve-towered palace of Lugh Samildinach which awakened Ailill Windmaster a little

before sunset.

At first Ailill did not know it as sound, for the song of the Track was as much felt in the body as heard

with the ear: a swarm of furious tiny bees trapped in his bones and teeth, a tingling in the blood like the

bubbles in artfully made wine, a dull tension in the air itself that sang to him alone.

Ailill allowed a smile to twitch at the corners of his mouth. It had been a long, long time since the Tracks

had sung a song his particular Power could answer.

It was not that he lacked Power himself, that wasn’t the situation at all; Power was as much a part of him

as his black hair and night-blue eyes, as his tall, lean body and devious wit. But when Power came from

Without as well as within, it was best to grasp it, to shape it at once to one’s will—or risk the

consequence. Power loose in the World was not a good thing, as all the Sidhe knew from bitter

experience. For it was such random sounding of the Tracks that once of old had wrenched them from the

place of their beginning and sent them wandering along the Straight Tracks to this World, where they had

founded Tir-Nan-Og and Erenn and Annwyn and the other realms of Faerie that now lay scattered in the

web of the Tracks like the tattered wings of dead insects.

No, unbounded Power was not a thing to be ignored, and Ailill was never one to ignore Power in

whatever form it presented itself.

He sighed reflectively and folded his arms behind his head. The time for action was not yet. Sunset

would be better and midnight best of all, for Ailill was night-born, and at midnight his own Power would

be at its height. This particular resonance would not last that long, though; of that he was reasonably

certain, and so sunset it would have to be. It was a good thing it had come today, too, for at midnight

tomorrow would be the Riding of the Road, and that he would not miss in spite of certain apprehensions.

Meanwhile he studied his quarters: those apartments located high in the easternmost tower of Lugh’s

palace which were byp. 5tradition set aside for the Ambassador of Erenn. In particular his eyes were

drawn to the high-relief sculptures worked into the four square panels of cast bronze set deep in the pale

stone opposite the window: Earth and Water, Fire and Air.Human work, he thought with a frown.And

wondrously well done. Why can the Sidhe not do such things?

A rampant horse first, for Earth, which was substance; to its right, a leaping salmon for Water, which

was the force that bound substance together and made it move. And below them, their mirrors: the

displayed eagle of Air for spirit; and for Fire, for that which bound spirit together and allowedit to act,

the two-legged dragon called a wyvern. Framing them all was a rectangular border that bore the

endlessly interlaced image of the serpent of Time which enclosed all things. Earth and Water, Fire and

Air—and Time. Of these five things the world was made.

And of these, the greatest is Fire, one form of which is Power,Ailill thought.And of Power I am

very fond, indeed.

Ailill arose then, and dressed himself in a long robe of black velvet, dark gray wool, and silver leather

elaborately pieced together in narrow lozenges. A fringed cloak of black silk covered it, and a

thumb-wide silver circlet bearing the fantastically attenuated images of a procession of walking eagles,

worked in rubies, bound his long hair off his face.

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He took himself from the palace without being seen. A close-grown grove of splendid redwoods soared

about him, their summits yet less lofty than Lugh’s walls, but Ailill chose a narrow gravel path that ran

eastward through a tightly woven stand of stunted hazel trees, where tortured branches twisted together

like the knotted brooch that fastened his cloak on his left shoulder. As sunset approached he increased

his pace, Power now sparking through his body like the cracklings of summer lightning.

Eventually, his lengthening strides brought him to the low embattled wall that bordered the grove on the

eastern side. Impulsively, he leapt atop that barrier, and stood transfixed as the empty immensity of

darkening sky exploded before him.Glorious, he shouted in his mind alone,absolutely glorious! Ailill

smiled, but no good showed in the sensual curve of those thin lips. Carelessly he stepped closer to the

edge of the white marble merlon, let the rising wind send the shining silk of his cloak flapping behind him

like the wings of the Morrigu. He did not fear to fall, for he couldp. 6put on eagle’s shape and ride the

breezes back into the High Air—far higher than the tall palace of Lugh Samildinach that now erupted

from the wood-wrapped peak above him.

Power,he thought as he edged closer to the brink.Raw as rocks. Free for the taking, free for the

shaping. But what to do with it? he wondered as his eyes narrowed and his brows lowered

thoughtfully.

All at once he knew.

He reached into the air, drew on that force he felt coiling there, shaped it into the storm it wanted to

become, and held it poised in an indignant froth of wind-whipped clouds as he called upon the Power

and looked between the Worlds upon the homely splatter of silver lakes, gray-green mountains, and plain

white houses that marked the Lands of Men. The sun setting behind him—in both Worlds today, which

happened but four times a year—cast a shimmer of red light upon the landscape. But even to Ailill’s sight

the shapes twisted and blurred like a torch reflected in unquiet water, obscured by the same shifting

glamour Lugh once had raised to further hide his realm from mortal eyes.

Thatwould be an excellent place for his storm, Ailill decided, laughing softly—even as tingling sparks

shot from his fingertips and thunder rumbled among those lesser peaks.

And so he caused it to be.

It was a delight to command such things, he thought when he had finished. Windmaster, they called him,

and not without reason: Windmaster, Stormmaker, Rainbringer—all were names that had become

attached to him, and he gloried in every one. His mother had told him—she who had been a queen in

Erenn before his father had put her away—that a storm had raged in both Worlds on the night he was

born, and thus, just as a person’s Power was strongest at the same-hour of his birth, so did one feel

closest to the weather that had watched him into the world. He shrugged. Whatever the reason was, he

did not care; it was the storms themselves that mattered. He was a storm child. The storms he forged

were his children—a truer reflection of himself than the son of his body could ever be. And this was an

especially fine one.

For a long while after that he listened to the echoes of his handiwork frolicking noisily in that other

World. The Tracks no longer called to his blood, and he relaxed into languid reverie.

p. 7Gradually, though, another sound, a gentler sound, began to creep through the grove to disturb his

contemplation: the distant, muffled crunch of soft leather boots on the path that threaded the wood a

short way behind him. It was a very faint sound, but clear to one of Ailill’s lineage.

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All at once the need came upon him to follow those footfalls, and so he did, leaping with easy

recklessness from merlon to merlon as the battlement spiraled precipitously down the mountainside until

at last a clearing opened among the dark shadows of the ancient oaks to his right. He paused there at the

edge, masked by a gnarled gray branch that grew close against the wall—and he saw who came there,

tall, golden-haired, and dressed in white: Nuada Airgetlam, who, if not yet his enemy, was certainly not

his friend, and who certainly would not like his storm.

Pointless, that one would say. Irresponsible. The World shaped itself in its own good time and to its own

good purpose. To impose one’s will upon it without good reason was to set oneself above the Laws of

Dana. It was always the same tiresome litany.

Ailill sighed and craned his neck. Nuada had knelt and was carefully inserting a hand among the ivory

blossoms of an unfamiliar bush that flowered in the glade. He sprang from the wall then, silent as leaf fall,

but Nuada looked up, frowning, as Ailill’s long shadow fell dark upon his.

“Well, Ailill, do you like it?” Nuada asked when the other showed no sign of speaking first. “A

Cherokee rose, mortals call it. I have but newly brought it from the Lands of Men.”

“I like it better like this,” said Ailill, languidly extending his left hand in an apparently careless gesture.

Blue flames at once enfolded the white blossoms, through which the flowers nevertheless shone

unwithered.

Nuada did not reply, but the slanted brows lowered over his dark blue eyes like clouds over deep

water, and he scratched his clean-angled chin with a gauntleted right hand.

“. . . or maybe this way?” Ailill continued as a subtle movement of his first two fingers quenched the

flames and encased the flowers in sparkling crystals of ice.

“. . . or like this?” And the bush burned on one side and glittered frostily on the other.

“I like it like this,” said Nuada with an absent flick of his wrist, and fire and ice were gone.

p. 8Ailill sighed and leaned back against the mossy parapet, arms folded across his chest. He shook his

head dramatically. “What is it with you, Airgetlam, that you favor the things of dull mortality above that

Power which is born into us, to use as we see fit?”

Slowly and deliberately Nuada stood and turned to face Ailill, eyes slitted. “Ours touse, not misuse . . .

and as for the dullness of mortality, do you not findimmortality dull? Were it not for mortal men I would

long since have left this World from boredom.”

“I find mortal men most boring of all,” Ailill replied, glancing skyward in arrogant avoidance of the

other’s searching stare. “It is seldom indeed that they do anything worth noting.”

“We shall see, we shall see,” Nuada mused, his eyes shining faintly red in the reflected light of sunset,

“for as the suns of our two Worlds align ever nearer to midnight and the strength of the Way to Erenn

waxes, time again draws near for a Riding of the Road. Who knows what may happen when we do?”

“That Track still passes too near the Lands of Men,” snapped Ailill. “This I have told Lugh more than

once. I do not see why he tolerates such things.”

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摘要：

AboutWindmaster’sBaneThereareplacesonEarthwheremagicworldsbeckon . . .wheretheotherfolkdwell RIDDLE,RING,ANDQUEST InGeorgia’sBlueRidgeMountains,talesaretoldofstrangelights,ofmysteriousroads . . .ofwondrousfolkfromenchantedrealms.Allthesearehiddenfrommortalmenandthosewhohavethegifttolookonthemareboth...

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