The Land of the Silver Apples

They were stunned.

Jack woke up when he heard a sob. An elf lady had buried her face in her hands, and several others wept quietly. “Oh, make it stop,” groaned the lady. The men were crying too. Jack knew why, and, of course, this was why he’d suggested this particular hymn.

He’d been disgusted by the elves’ taunting of Thorgil and Pega. He knew they only wanted to make fun of humans. No mortal could possibly compete with them, and these bored, jaded—what had Thorgil called them?— toad-eating fops merely wanted entertainment. Well, they’d got more than they bargained for. This hymn came straight from Heaven, the one thing elves couldn’t have. It had to remind them of it. Pega’s perfect voice had been a nasty surprise too. Jack smiled grimly. This was the sort of revenge you needn’t feel guilty about.

“Stop!” a voice shouted behind them. Pega halted. Partholon was standing over Partholis, who had fainted.

Ethne screamed and ran to the queen. “You scheming mortals!” roared Partholon. “You’ve brought sorrow to this hall that has not seen grief for an age! Brude! Take the humans to the dungeons! I’ll decide on their fate later.”

The Picts were unleashed into the hall. Jack grabbed Thorgil’s wrist and said, “We can’t fight them.”

“I do not fear battle!” cried the shield maiden.

“No, brave warrior,” said Brutus. “There will be a time for war, but not here in the heart of illusions. Trust me. I know how these things work.” Thorgil spat on the floor near Gowrie’s foot, but she put her knife away.

The Picts surrounded them and herded them off.

Chapter Thirty-three THE PRISONERS

They went down long, winding tunnels. The light grew shadowy, and the noises of the outside world died away. Jack expected to be frightened. His other experience of dungeons had been at Din Guardi, where he’d been locked in a chamber haunted by the cries of sea monsters. But Jack wasn’t frightened. On the contrary, he felt better the farther down they went. His mind was clear, and he hadn’t realized it had been clouded. Memories came flooding back.

Brude walked ahead with a flaring torch. There was something familiar about him, and Jack suddenly knew what it was. “You were the man at the slave market!” he cried. Brude hunched his shoulders, rejecting any communication. “You bought slaves from Olaf One-Brow. You offered a fine sword for Lucy and a cheap knife for me. I guess I wasn’t worth much.” Jack smiled ruefully.

“It is him,” exclaimed Thorgil. “I wonder why I didn’t see it before. Between you and me, I should have sold Lucy to him. She’s been nothing but trouble ever since. Hauu nehahwa oueem?”

“Hwatu ushh,” said Brude.

Thorgil laughed out loud.

“You can speak Pict?” said Jack.

“Only a few words. I asked him where the tunnel went, and he told me to eat troll droppings.”

“Nice.”

“It’s my fault we’re here,” mourned Pega. She’d been crying most of the way.

“Nonsense, lassie,” said Brutus. “This is the best thing that could have happened. Those upper reaches are drenched in glamour. It’s impossible to think straight. Down here the air is clear.” He was right, Jack realized. The air was fresh and invigorating, which was odd considering they were so deep in the earth.

“I thought I’d like elves,” Pega wept. “B-but they’re so heartless.”

“Not Ethne,” said Jack.

“No,” she agreed. “Not Ethne.”

Jack thought about the elf lady. The others had been beautiful beyond compare, yet now he couldn’t remember their faces. Ethne was still in his mind. “She’s more there,” he said, trying to put his finger on the difference.

“She wasn’t laughing at Thorgil like the rest of them,” Pega added.

“Who was laughing at me?” demanded the shield maiden.

“No one,” Jack said quickly. But he did wonder. Out of all the elves, only Ethne had shown compassion.

In the distance Jack heard a strange sound. It echoed through the winding hall like an animal cry: Ubba ubba… ubba ubba… ubba ubba. Was it a seal? Or an owl? They rounded a corner and came to an iron door, guarded by a man Jack never expected to see again. He was as big as a bear and twice as threatening. He swayed restlessly from side to side, swinging his long arms and muttering, “Ubba ubba… ubba ubba… ubba ubba.”

It was Guthlac, he of the large demon possession. Jack thought he’d drowned in St. Filian’s Well. From the look of him, the demon was still in possession.

“Back!” snarled the Picts, driving Guthlac against a wall. Brude quickly produced a key and opened the door.

“Inssside,” he hissed. “Sufffferrrr.”

“And a fine hwatu ushh to you too,” said Jack, avoiding a blow. The instant the prisoners were inside, the door slammed and the Picts let Guthlac go.

“Gaaaaaa!” he roared, hurling himself against the metal. Jack heard his body thump and his fists pound. After a moment the noise stopped and there was only the monotonous “Ubba ubba… ubba ubba.”

“Good thing they locked the door,” observed Thorgil. The room wasn’t bad, compared to some of the places Jack had been. The floor was covered with clean straw, and a table held a water pitcher and cups, loaves of bread, and cheese. They wouldn’t starve. A small lamp on the table cast a pool of yellow light. It didn’t reach far, but it made the center of the room cheerful.

“I thought Guthlac was dead,” said Jack.

“It would be a mercy if he were,” came a voice from the darkness of a corner. Everyone jumped, and Brutus drew his sword. This was answered by a bitter laugh. “Have you come to slay us?”

“Noooo,” moaned a voice from an opposite corner.

“Courage,” said the first man. “With luck, you’ll only get a few thousand years in purgatory.”

Brutus put back his sword. Jack squinted into the darkness. “Why don’t you come into the light?” he suggested. There was a pause, and he heard a rustle from the first corner. Slow, painful feet dragged through the straw, and a monk emerged from the gloom.

“I remember you,” the monk said. “And you, spawn of Satan.” He glowered at Thorgil.

“Do you recognize him?” asked Jack.

Thorgil shrugged. “We pillage so many monasteries.”

“It doesn’t matter. I am but a shadow of my former self. Soon there will be nothing at all.” The man tottered to a bench and lowered himself carefully. Then Jack did recognize him. It was the monk who had been bartered to the Picts in the slave market. He’d been fat then.

“I’m truly glad to see you, sir,” Jack said. “I thought you’d been eaten by—um, er…”

“The Picts?” The monk laughed, which ended in a coughing fit. Another moan issued from the dark corner. “They no longer dine on men, though they’re careful to foster the rumor. It makes people fear them, and Picts like nothing better than fear. They have worse habits now.”

“There are worse habits than cannibalism?” Jack was concerned about the wretched state of the man before him. His robes hung loosely on his skeletal frame. Coughs racked his body, and there were feverish patches of red on his cheeks.

“They make sacrifices to the demons they worship. That’s what happened to the others who were taken with me. First they offered us to the elves as slaves. Those who were rejected were taken under the trees in the dark of