Free The Firehills by Steve Alten Page A

and
the echoes boomed around Sam. Frantically, he looked for cover. He began to
run, pounding along the path, peering into the pools of shadow between the
great boulders, seeking an exit. The riders were close behind him now. He
glanced over his shoulder and saw the leader, tall and pale, bearing down upon
him. His horse was as black as night, and fire flickered in its nostrils.
Without a word, the riders hauled on their reins and brought their mounts
skidding to a halt, clouds of dust billowing around their hoofs. Sam darted off
the path and began to scramble among the boulders. Behind him, in the silence,
he heard a solid thud as a pair of leather boots
impacted the ground. The lead rider strode toward him, confident, unhurried.
Sam forced himself between two great slabs, ducked beneath a third and, on
hands and knees, scuttled through the dust.
    The ground was sloping upward now, ever steeper. Pushing
through a final gap, he came up against the wall of the tunnel. Turning, he
flailed with his legs, kicking himself backward until he felt solid rock
against his spine. He thought about changing shape and tried to picture
something—a bird, a mouse, anything—but in his panic no clear shape would
form in his mind. He stared at the gap in front of him, panting in desperation,
waiting for the inevitable pale face to appear. I need a
doorway, he thought. Why is there never a doorway? He cast his mind out into the rock behind him, straining for that alien
strangeness he had tasted in the Long Man gateway, the Door of Air. And fell,
tumbling over backward. Light flashed before his closed eyes—on, off, on,
off—as, head over heels, he rolled down a long slope. With a crash that
knocked the air from his lungs, he came to rest in a tangled heap against a
thorn bush.

    ‡

    Charly reverted to her human form a short distance above
the garden of the Aphrodite Guest House and skidded across the lawn. I must work on my landings, she thought as she came to a
halt in the shrubbery. She scrambled up and brushed the dead grass from her
clothes, then headed indoors.
    Her mother was frantic. She jumped up from a chair in the
residents’ lounge at the sound of the door and ran out into the lobby.
    “Where have you been? ”
she roared, “I’ve been worried sick!”
    Mrs. P. emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a
tea towel, and stood in silence, staring at Charly.
    “Mum!” she began, “I’m OK. Don’t fuss—”
    “Don’t fuss! I’ve—”
    “I’ve been with Sam. We went to rescue Amergin.”
    “You went . . . oh, terrific.” Megan raised her eyes
to the ceiling. “So where are they?”
    “Erm,” began Charly, “there was a bit of a
problem.”
    “Megan, Charly,” interrupted Mrs. P., “I think we
should go and sit down, and you can tell us what happened.” She ushered
Charly through into the lounge. Megan ran one hand distractedly across her
face, then followed.

    ‡

    Five minutes later, Charly had finished her story. Silence
fell. Eventually, Megan said, “What am I going to tell his parents?”
    Charly stared at the floor.
    “I don’t believe this is happening,” Megan
continued.
    “At least, Amergin is an adult—there’s a chance he
can look after himself. But Sam . . . ? How could you be so stupid?” She gave
Charly a despairing look. Charly felt tears spring to her eyes once more.
    “Megan, dear,” pleaded Mrs. P., “don’t be too
harsh on the child.”
    “I’m going to my room. I need to think.” Megan stood
up. “You, young lady, are so grounded—” She paused, then turned and
marched out of the room.
    Mrs. P. stared at Charly for a long moment. “Foolish and
headstrong,” she said. “And utterly reckless.”
    Charly screwed up her eyes and tried not to sob.
    “And you’re not much better,” continued Mrs. P.
    “Huh?” Charly looked up.
    Mrs. P. was smiling. “Your mother, dear,” she
continued. “She was just like you, when she was your age. But not quite so
talented.