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Part 1: http://www.livejournal.com/users/gomich
Part 2: http://www.livejournal.com/users/gomich
Part 3: http://www.livejournal.com/users/gomich
Part 4: http://www.livejournal.com/users/gomich
Gravel crunched under the tires as James crept up the access road in first gear. It'd taken an extra half hour of driving back and forth to find this crappy little trail, and then an additional couple of loops before the highway was empty enough that he dared cut the chain blocking the entrance. His face and fingertips were still prickling from adrenaline. If a cop had driven by while he had the bolt cutters out, he not only had no good explanation, he had a fucking green alien in the car. He wondered what a cop would do if confronted with Ynyr. Best case, assume it was a costume. Worst case? Open fire, probably. He'd hooked the chain back over, so he was pretty sure they were safe from detection now. The rutted road curved along beside some rusted old railroad tracks between rough-blasted cliff walls. No one would see their lights from the highway.
He concentrated hard on not bottoming out the car on a rock. It was better than thinking about Ynyr's offer. It didn't need any more thinking about. He knew he'd made the right decision. He didn't want to live in a bronze-age culture, however fantastic. Even if he was promised luxury and wonders, and even if he trusted Ynyr any farther than he could throw him, he had things to do here in the real world. Things like a degree in materials engineering and a career inventing cool shit for lots of money. Like his family, whom he knew he really loved even when they made his teeth hurt. Another band -- not with Joe, that was just killing time, but with real musicians who wanted to make good solid rock instead of bullshit drama. Also, he very much doubted there was a pharmacy in Ynyr's world that could refill his prescription.
Finally, but perhaps most important... he wasn't ready to cut off contact with Jared. If nothing else, he owed the boy an explanation. You come around to make up, find another guy already in your man's bed, what are you going to think? You're gonna think you never meant a damn thing to him, that's what. Maybe we won't get back together, maybe if we do it won't last, but he doesn't deserve to think it only took me twenty-four hours to replace him. Knowing Jared had that wrong idea in his head made James's chest ache every time he thought about it.
Even so, a little immature voice in the back of his head really, really wanted to go to the magical green-elf world. That voice was sure he'd be a big ol' hero and get all the kudos he wasn't getting in this world. Not gonna happen, he told the little voice. I'm not going to go there and be a knight in shining armor, because they do not have the fucking metal to make shining fucking armor with. I'd probably just be a curiosity. You know that poor guy with the disease that made his face all huge who got showed off in circuses? I'd be that guy. Now watch the damn road.
"That's it!" Ynyr exclaimed, bouncing in his seat, and James hit the brakes. The car slewed in frozen mud. He turned it off, and night came down like a fire blanket.
"Reaching past you," James warned, and dug in the glove box for a flashlight. He turned it on and looked at Ynyr. The elf didn't look very impressed. James undid his seatbelt for him.
Out in the bitter night, they examined the steel doors set into the bluff. The cave mouth had once been much bigger than these doors, but had been filled in with cement to fit them. The cement was old and crumbly, so James experimentally kicked at a few wobbly spots, but it didn't look like he'd be able to open a hole big enough to get through. The doors were fastened with rusty chain looped through the handles, held there with a new-looking padlock. He shrugged and went back to the car. Ynyr followed him like a puppy, nearly getting elbowed in the gut when James pulled the trunk release. Afraid of the dark? He sure backed off fast enough when James got the crowbar and bolt cutter out.
"Hold this," James said, tossing Ynyr the flashlight. Ynyr, frozen-fingered, fumbled the catch and almost dropped the light on the rocky ground. James didn't bother yelling at him for it; there was no point, their acquaintance was ten minutes from over. He gave the elf his gloves instead.
The cutter made quick work of the lock, but he still needed the crowbar to get the rust-cemented chain off the corroded handles. He glanced at Ynyr to see if they were done.
The elf was still keeping his distance. He looked more scared of the doors than the car. Well, all that rust flying around, maybe if he breathed it he'd explode. Or just get cancer. James shrugged and gave one of the doors a pull. Stuck, of course. He slotted the crowbar between them and put his back into it. In a screeching of corroded metal and a shower of rust flakes, the door came open inch by inch, then suddenly swung free.
Dusting himself off, James stepped back, planted the crowbar and leaned on it. When Ynyr still didn't move, James jerked his chin at the black opening.
Ynyr didn't shine the light into it. James thought the normal response would be to try to see inside, but Ynyr angled the beam so not one stray gleam fell beyond the door. He stared at the dark as if looking with a kind of vision that didn't need light. James waited a bit, not wanting to be a jerk just as the guy was leaving, but eventually he got too cold.
"Well? Is that it or not?"
"Oh yes. This is the gate."
"Well, all right then. Door's open."
"Thank you for that. I could not have done it. If I had come near enough to try, my strength would have failed me."
"No problem." James wiped his rust-filthy palm on his jeans and stuck out a hand. "Nice meeting you, Ynyr. Sorry I was such a dick to you. I'm glad I could help. Really."
Ynyr looked at James, the door, then James again. He seemed to make some private resolution. He strode forward and clasped James's hand. "I, too, apologize."
"Don't worry. Nothing to apologize for."
"Not yet."
While James was still processing this ominous phrase, Ynyr moved with shocking speed to snatch the crowbar away with his gloved hands. He swung it back like a baseball player.
"Holyshit!" James yelped, and tried to dive out of the way.
Ynyr was faster.
* * *
Disoriented and sick. Throbbing head. Confusion, so much confusion -- he scrambled for threads of memory but they slipped away. He managed to remember he'd got hit in the head, but how? Something about baseball? There was a time when he'd tried to jump out of a tree onto his big brother's back, slipped on the branch, and given himself a concussion, but that wasn't now. Right? No, there had been stitches then. He wouldn't remember the stitches if they hadn't happened yet. Right? Besides... baseball.
Gradually he found his bits and catalogued them. Fingers, toes, all there and wiggle-able. Stomach horribly present, full of dull gray nausea. Heart laboring like he'd downed three triple espressos in an hour. Mouth full of a metallic taste. Ears giving him woods sounds. Wind in leaves and grass, trickling water. Not baseball. But not the jumping-out-of-a-tree stunt either. Finally he had a go at opening his eyes.
A long time later, when he'd recovered from the searing agony of the first attempt, he shielded his eyes with his hand and tried again.
Overcast daylight, summer breeze, vague sense of green.
A familiar voice, which, although pleasant, made him inexplicably angry: "Oh, thank fortune. James, tell them I didn't strike you."
He swallowed a few times, working the dry out of his mouth, rubbing at his eyes. There was something gooey on his face. He looked at his hand, and found it smeared liberally red. Well, at least it's not some little pussy bump on the head. Got a good reason for lying down here. "Where's my glasses?" he grunted.
A greenish blur that he'd thought was part of the scenery leaned over him and slipped the familiar shape into his hand. He got his glasses on, wincing as the earpiece touched a tender spot. Sitting up, he put his palms to his head and groaned.
"James, please," the annoyingly pleasant voice insisted. "They're getting impatient."
"Who? What?" He frowned at the greenish-helpful-annoying person, blinking until he got focus.
It all came rushing back.
He opened his mouth to start yelling, but no sound came out -- because then he also saw the dozens of furry, mud-caked monsters aiming spears and arrows at him.
His head throbbed.
He squeak-whispered, "What the fuck?" Yelling and explanations-of-assaults-with-crowbars could come after this monsters-with-spears thing was resolved. Unless the resolution involved him dying, in which case he wouldn't care why Ynyr hit him with a crowbar and dragged him off to...
Summer.
He'd been concussed in a bitter Midwestern February. Now he sat on green grass beneath green leaves, and the temperature felt like a nice friendly 75 Farenheit. He recalled a conversation in which the words 'Summerlands' and 'Winterlands' had passed without comment. Now he really wished he'd asked more questions.
In a soft, soothing voice, Ynyr said, "We unfortunately encountered a hunting party of wild humans while I was tending your wounds. They believe I inflicted them upon you." His eyes begged James not to confirm that belief.
"Oh. Uhm. Why do they care?"
"For a Trueblood to strike a Child of Iron is sacrilege, James. It's unthinkable. It's bordering on heresy for me to touch you even to bandage your poor head."
"I see. Well. Waitasec. These are --?" He raised his head and looked properly at the creatures surrounding them.
They were, he saw now, men. Their faces were daubed with various colors of mud, their hair was matted and dreadlocked, their beards were long and greasy, but they were human. They were dressed in furs, tied on instead of sewn. Wild humans, Ynyr had said. Well, they looked it. They looked like cavemen, really. Not the cool cavemen he'd seen in a thing on the History Channel, where they'd had shaved heads and swirly tattoos and leather pants. No, these looked like cartoon cavemen.
"You know," he commented mildly, "you never think a flint spear is scary until you're looking down one."
"They understand us, James."
"Oh. Uh. Hi?" He raised a hand partway, but froze when the nearest man shifted his weight slightly. "Please don't, uhm, stab me. I'm not trying anything."
"He's injured," Ynyr said sharply, as if translating. "It would be dishonorable to attack him, by your own laws."
Okay, so I'm supposed to play like I could fight if I wanted to? I dunno how well I can keep that up, Ynyr. And from what you said, they're like this because they thought you hit me. So -- "Why are they threatening me if they think you committed sacrilege?"
"I'll explain later," Ynyr hissed desperately. "Just tell them I wasn't the one who wounded you!"
James sighed. He looked the nearest man in the eye. "I walked into a low doorway," he said with as much conviction as he could summon. "Just one of those things."
Ynyr sighed sadly, shoulders slumping.
"What?" James demanded.
The caveman shifted his spear to point at something near James's feet. It was the crowbar, its shaft sticky with blood.
Oh. Well, that's what you get for dragging your damn murder weapon around with you, idiot, he thought morosely. "Are you insane? That's iron, he can't touch that! I was holding it when I walked into the door, I must've fallen on it."
The spear pointed at a pair of gloves.
What, did you bring everything I fucking own? Did you drive my car in here too? "Those are my gloves," he said, as if that explained anything.
In a voice like the deep creaking of a tree falling over, the man said, "Do you swear to me by what is holy to you that this Blood did not strike you?"
Ynyr stiffened with a sharp intake of breath. James glanced at him. The elf's expression was outraged. Apparently that wasn't a nice thing to ask someone to do. But Ynyr didn't say anything. James sighed. Of course Ynyr wasn't going to be any help. He got them into this stupid situation in the first place. Ring of fucking spears, like something out of an old B movie -- could it even get any more ridiculous?
Wincing at the throbbing of his head, James reached over and got the crowbar. He climbed slowly to his feet. He expected this to make the cavemen act more threatening, but instead they faltered, some of them backing up a step. He gave the creaky-voice man a tired glare.
"Okay, look," he said reasonably. "I don't know who died and made it your job to check up on human-greenguy relations around here, but I'm not from around here, and it is none of your damn business what happened to my head. What if I just popped out of nowhere and told you to swear on your holy stuff that what you've got under that smelly bear carcass is any bigger than my little finger? Would that sit right with you? Because that attitude doesn't go over so well with me. I have the mother of all headaches just now, and I'm holding a crowbar, and I don't feel like having my honor protected by the caveman chorus. Not to mention the pure retardery of aiming your pointy rocks at me when you think he crossed the line."
They appeared hypnotized by his speech. As he ranted on, they backed up further, until only the man who'd spoken was still holding his ground. It was hard to guess their expressions under all that mud and hair, but he thought they looked sort of sheepish.
Well, it's working, whatever the hell I'm doing. I'm backing them down. Wish I knew why. "If you're going to use that on me," he said to speaker-guy in the same wearily threatening tone, "I probably can't stop you. I can hardly see you, and I think I'm about to throw up, so you can probably poke a hole or two before I wallop you. And your friends can finish me off. And you can all tell the story of how you stabbed a guy with a head injury because you couldn't think what else to do. If that's the kind of people you are, you go right on the fuck ahead."
The man's shaggy brows drew down in a scowl, flaking the mud on his forehead. "You suggest we have no honor?"
James wasn't sure what the guy was getting at, but he didn't like that tone. "I'm asking if you do or not. Cuz your spear is still pointing at me, buddy."
The man stared at him. James met his eyes steadily. Slowly, the man put his spear up. The others followed suit in short order, looking glad to have permission.
Behind him, he heard Ynyr heave a sigh of relief. "By Three, it's about time."
"Oh, shut up, Ynyr," James snapped, grounding the crowbar and leaning on it. "I think I'm gonna puke."
The cavemen looked startled, for some reason. They murmured among themselves. One stepped forward, identical to the others except that he had a lot more blue mud on him. "You are Ynyr?" he asked the elf.
The elf stood, dusted his knees, and gave a slight bow. "I am he."
"Tarlach's hound?"
A slight hesitation. "So some call me."
James wondered whether Ynyr's name had gotten them in trouble, but blue-paint bowed fractionally. "Had you told us your name, we would have understood."
"I had hoped to travel secretly."
Blue-paint's mouth quirked, making his beard bristle. "Carrying a human over his shoulder is not the best way for a Blood to travel without comment."
"Especially what looks like a dead human," said a younger voice out of one of the bearded faces. His neighbor quieted him with an elbow to the ribs.
"We are surprised a Blood dares touch a man of Iron even with gloves. His blood is on your clothes," blue-paint commented. "But if you say you did not violate the law, we will believe you."
"And I will pretend," said creak-voice slowly, "that I did not hear the thrall suggest we are dogs who would slay a womanish chamber-slave, be he injured or not."
"I'm what?" James said blankly.
Ynyr explained with a wicked little smile, "Only house-slaves shave their faces, James. And one of those could never lift his hand in anger to anyone, let alone offer to duel a wild man. He thinks you are unhinged by your injury."
"Oh. Can't say I'm not. I'm gonna sit down for a minute," James said quietly, and fainted.