The Land of the Silver Apples

shone with awful knowledge. They had seen the worst, been the worst. Hate radiated from them like the foulest stench. And stench there was as well. A thousand odors of corruption mixed and mingled in their breath.

Jack covered his nose, but there was no escaping it. Pega clasped her hands. Father Severus fell to his knees. Thorgil bent over and vomited, and she was not the only one. Utter terror swept over the onlookers, elf and human alike. Father Swein lay where he had fallen, gibbering with fear.

A tall shape within the fire reached out a long, long arm and pointed a charred finger, first at Jack, then Pega, then Thorgil. It hesitated at Thorgil. Shield maiden, said a voice like thunder rolling from a distant storm.

Thorgil stared back, unable to move. She had met her match, but even here, where all others were paralyzed, she managed to speak. “I am Odin’s shield maiden,” she gasped. Jack could see that it hurt her to speak. “I’m not yours.”

The Being laughed, shaking the ground. That remains to be seen, it said, but what have we here? The finger moved and pointed at Father Severus. I remember you. Do you remember me, when I whispered in your ear about the mermaid?

The monk was speechless. His hands clutched his tin cross and his lips moved, but no sound came out.

Ah! The exquisite flavor of guilt. The aroma of shame. Other voices hissed and burbled with appreciation in the bonfire.

“Leave… him… alone,” Jack managed to whisper. The finger hesitated.

Defiance. I like that, but it is not as tasty as shame.

“Go… away,” Pega moaned.

And loyalty. The voice sounded faintly surprised. Then, giving no warning, Thorgil suddenly lunged. She had no weapon, so she brought her fist crashing down on the finger. Lightning flashed. Flame engulfed Thorgil’s right hand. She screamed, frantically rolling on the ground to put out the fire. But it clung like a live thing. The Being turned its attention to her, laughing and shaking the earth.

The evil spell holding Jack and Pega wavered. “Pega,” gasped Jack. “Hold out your candle.”

He understood what the Bard had been trying to tell him in the vision. He is guarded by the need-fire, the old man had told the swallow. No illusion, no matter how compelling, can stand against—

Can stand against the simple fact of one true thing. He grabbed the fire-making tools and struck a spark onto the dried mushroom. A tiny flame appeared, pale against the roaring energy of the bonfire. Pega shoved her candle into it.

The candle ignited. Its light was small and humble, but it was real where all else was illusion. It came from the need-fire, drawn by the efforts of the villagers on the darkest night of the year. It was pure life force.

The light gently pushed away the sickly dreams of Elfland and the lies that gave Hell its deadly power. First it enveloped Thorgil and dowsed the fire that consumed her hand. The shield maiden groaned and drew herself up into a ball.

The light moved on—it was wonderful how such a little thing could overwhelm such a large space. The bonfire died. The grass and gardens of Elfland faded. The moon blinked and went out. Now the light reached the elves.

Their glorious robes and jewels melted. Their perfect faces grew gaunt; their ever-youthful bodies became what they truly were: the dry husks of beings whose time was nearly gone. Partholis turned into a hag. Partholon was a grasping scarecrow. Gowrie became a weasel-like thug with shifty eyes. Even Lucy, genuinely young, became the crude, selfish creature she really was. The silver necklace had turned to lead.

The whole elfin kingdom was a dirty cave full of rubbish and bones. But most amazing of all, where the bonfire had been was a gaping hole. Creatures crawled and slithered at its edge like giant sow bugs or the half- decayed things thrown up on beaches after storms.

The Being still inspired terror, though. It was a mass of tentacles boiling out of the hole, the knucker of all knuckers. And it still hissed and bubbled threats. I will have my tithe, it said in a deadly voice.

“And I will give it to you!” Guthlac, whose bonds had vanished in the candle’s light, seized Father Swein and hurled him into the midst of the tentacles. The abbot shrieked once and disappeared into the seething mass. Guthlac laughed. “A fit feast for my master!” he cried.

You fool, said the Being. He was mine already and no more toothsome than a crust of dried bread. Come forth and receive your punishment. Guthlac opened his mouth as if to scream, but a giant sow bug forced its way out instead. It oozed horribly, prying the man’s jaws apart until Jack heard them crack. The creature dropped to the ground and was swept up by one of the seething tentacles.

I guess you’d call that large demon possession, thought Jack wildly. He saw Guthlac’s eyes clear, and for the first time the man looked sane. And joyful. Then he keeled over and died.

I will have my tithe, howled the Being, rising out of the hole. One burned-out sinner is not enough. You elves know the pact. If I’m not satisfied, I take one of you! And with that, it swept up Gowrie.

The elf’s screams echoed horribly as the Being sucked him down the hole. The teeming hordes of sow bugs hurried after, throwing themselves into the darkness. Rocks groaned and clashed as they came together again. Thunder shook the earth, going deeper and more distant until at last it died away.

Chapter Thirty-eight FREEDOM

Elfland was dark. Only the light of the candle revealed the elves huddled in the shadows. They seemed stunned. Jack saw Thorgil curled up in a ball. He hurried to her side and tried to rouse her. “Thorgil,” he said, “I don’t think your hand is burned.”

She turned her face away. Her hand was hidden from him.

“The fire wasn’t real,” he said, falling to his knees beside her. “Everything was an illusion.”

“The fire was real,” she said.

“You’re in shock. Take hold of the rune of protection. It can heal you.”

“I already tried that, stupid, and it didn’t work.”

“Let me see.”

“Go away,” Thorgil said, curling up more tightly.

Jack saw Father Severus praying over the body of Guthlac. The monk placed his tin cross on the man’s chest and gently closed Guthlac’s eyes. Pega was still holding the candle, her eyes wide with shock. At her feet were two almost invisible bulges in the ground. “I really, really don’t want to go through that again,” said one of the bulges.

“If you’d listened to me, Your Noble Nit Brain, we wouldn’t have got into this mess in the first place,” said the other. Jack’s head jerked up. That voice sounded like the Nemesis!

“I had to save Pega,” the Bugaboo said.

“I was a fool to come with you,” growled the Nemesis.

“A very decent fool,” agreed the hobgoblin king. “Oh, Pega! I’m so glad to see you! Mmm! Let me kiss your dainty little feet.”

The girl jumped as though she’d been stung. “Stop that!” she yelled.

All around the cave Jack heard movement as the elves began to recover. “We’d better go,” said the Nemesis, standing up. “Once they re-create the glamour, we won’t know up from down.” Jack could see the hobgoblin’s shadowy outline in the light of the candle. He was wrapped from head to toe in motley wool and looked like a collection of smudges hanging in the air. Another collection of smudges was trying to hug Pega, but she was keeping it at arm’s length.

These were the secret allies Brutus had hinted at—the Bugaboo and the Nemesis had crept into Elfland to rescue Pega. They must have given Brutus the fire-making tools, but how had they known what to do?