Staked

“Yes. We do this.”

“But … the horse.”

Perun looks across the pasture at the horse, which has now pressed itself against the far wall, hoping to remain unnoticed.

“Oh. Yes. We need horse, but is afraid.”

“Drag me a bit closer?” I ask. “I can talk to it, after a fashion.”

With many grunts and sharp gasps on my part, I’m lifted to my feet and manage a half walk, half shamble with Perun’s help toward the white horse of Świętowit. My occasional twitches and convulsions make the progress difficult and emphasize that we are both, as a result of our shape-shifting, very nude. We’ll have to remember to get dressed before going upstairs.

I keep trying to reach out with my consciousness to the horse until we finally make contact.

Hello, I tell him. Or, anyway, I send him greetings. I hope my words translate into meaning in his mind somehow. We may not yet be at that level of understanding, but my patience at this point is strained, since I have so much else to worry about. I am the chestnut mare. Human now. I take both forms. Are you ready to greet the sky once more?

The stallion tosses his head and snorts. Not really a yes—he’s still spooked. He will need some convincing, and there won’t be a way to hurry through that. I sigh and force myself to take the time to do it right.

I am Granuaile. Do you have a name?

His reply is that, long ago, some humans used to call him Miłosz.

Miłosz, I would like to take you to a group of women who will protect you from the god who branded you.

The thought of the god who branded him upsets Miłosz quite a bit. He whinnies, rears up, and then bucks around.

Let us go together. We will run there under the sky. There will be apples and oats.

Apples appear to be a pleasant thought, and he settles down. I get a question from him next and an image of a grotesque four-headed man that I can only assume must be Świętowit.

No, Świętowit won’t be there. We are looking for him too. We would like to reunite you. Do you know where we might find him?

Miłosz has no idea, but he walks toward us and I feel or sense the moment when he recognizes Perun as a friend of Świętowit. That reassures him and he is ready to leave with us.

I’m not positive that the Sisters of the Three Auroras will be able to withstand a concerted effort by Loki to take Miłosz back, but I do know that they won’t make it easy for him and could quite possibly bring him under their power again. Getting the horse there while Loki is still wounded—and while I’m still wounded—will be the trick.

We return to the stable area and get dressed. I have to lean against the wall to put on my jeans; I’m not yet steady enough on one leg to manage it without support. Pulling on my shirt is excruciating, considering the wounds in my back and gut; the skin, ragged and oozing blood, is at least closed up at the dermis level, and the internal bleeding is all right for now, but the tissue damage will take much longer to deal with. Orlaith volunteers to carry Scáthmhaide in her mouth until we’re up top, and I thank her.

I try walking by myself to the exit, but it’s slow, erratic progress, since I’m never sure when my legs will obey me or decide to contract or extend on their own. I fall down twice, which is not fun, but I’m so relieved that I can walk at all that I insist on struggling the whole way to the bridge. There I ask Perun if I can hitch a ride on his back until we get to the other side. I don’t trust my legs enough to risk them over a snake pit.

As we walk away on the other side, I ask Mecklenburg to raise the floor of the pit so that it functionally ceases to exist as a pit and the snakes will have a chance to get out. Likewise, we open all the rat cages as we leave, allowing them to escape or not as they wish. Perun gives me another piggyback ride up the stairs so that I don’t tumble down them, and when we’re finally out of there and standing on the turf of Rügen under the afternoon sun, we all smile. Or, at least, Miłosz and Orlaith demonstrate the equivalent of happiness by prancing around.

We walk to the ferry, and by the end of that walk I’m feeling confident with my muscle control. The toxin’s been nullified and I have my motor control back. I still have plenty of work to do on my torso, but at least it’s not preventing me from being mobile.

I charge up the silver reservoir of Scáthmhaide to continue healing during the ferry ride, and we get some looks boarding with a horse and hound—or maybe its concern over my bloody shirt—but no one gives us any trouble.

The sun has almost set when we reach the mainland and a figure separates from the shadows. Despite the chill he’s bare-chested, which draws plenty of stares. The fact that he’s in phenomenal shape and has a wide golden belt supporting bright red pants of a flowing material probably has something to do with it too. Or maybe it’s the huge, club-like weapon he has slung over his shoulder. His skin is a dark, rich brown and his hair is cut close against his skull, as if perhaps he had shaved it a couple of weeks ago and hadn’t kept up with it. Everyone’s looking at him, but he’s looking right back at us as we disembark.

“Perun,” he says, nodding once to him. “And you must be Granuaile.” His voice is a thrumming bass, and I can’t place his accent but I love it.

“I’m sorry, have we met before? I think I would remember.”

Brilliant teeth flash at me. “We have not met. If you were to ask Odin, he would say I am here at his request. But in truth I do not care what Odin wants. I am here because I wished to meet you. I am Shango.”

“Shango? The Orisha? God of thunder?”

Lightning dances in his eyes, just as it does in Perun’s every so often, and he nods at me with a tight grin. “The very same.”

“Why did you want to meet me?”

“I have heard you delivered a long-overdue beating to Loki. I would like to hear the story from your own lips. And Odin tells me that this horse is rather important to Loki. You have some distance to travel to his new home, and there’s a chance that Loki might show up along the way. I hope you will allow me to accompany you. If Perun and I are both with you, it may serve as a deterrent, and, failing that, I would be honored to fight him by your side.”

Oh, damn. I really like to listen to him talk. I want to take him to dinner and just have him read the menu to me. And he’s so polite.

“I see. And why did Odin ask you to meet me?”

“He does not want Loki to have this horse any more than you do.”

“His name is Miłosz. And this is my hound, Orlaith.”

He makes eye contact with both and greets them properly, calling them by name. Lots of people would not pay them that respect, and he rises another couple of notches in my regard.

“I’d be delighted for you to join us,” I tell him. “Though I hope to hear more about you as well.”

“We will be running all through the night, yes? Plenty of time.”

It will be my second run across Poland, although we’ll be crossing the northern half and from west to east rather than east to west, but at least it won’t lack for sterling conversation. And every step will get me closer to the time when I can address the real reason I became a Druid. My stepfather has lurked in my mind like dishes left over from a dinner no one enjoyed and no one wants to clear away. A divination cloak will finally allow me to attend to that chore in privacy. I think it’s long past time I cleaned house.