Trapped

"Saint Lassie be praised!"

I examined the steak. Clearly it had been carefully placed. There was no dirt on the sides or top, as there would be if it had tumbled haphazardly from someone’s grasp. It was discolored in several places, more than would be expected by simple exposure to air; there were subtle shadings of red that Oberon’s canine eyes wouldn’t have picked up. Something had been sprinkled on it. What the poison was didn’t matter to me. What puzzled me was Oberon’s insistence that he’d seen no tracks nearby. I had doubted that because I figured he’d simply been blind to anything except the steak, but there truly were no tracks here except his and mine. That led me to several unsavory conclusions.

It probably wasn’t a deity; a deity wouldn’t have silenced all the creatures. Still, it was something with the ability to manipulate the earth like a Druid—or it wasn’t touching the earth at all. Something that could fly.

“We have to get back to Granuaile,” I said. “Right now!”

That’s when I got an arrow in the back.

Chapter 11

I should probably back up a wee bit. As I was telling Oberon we needed to return to the cave, his ears pricked up and he looked into the distance behind my right side. And then, saying nothing more than "Atticus!", he leapt at me, knocking me down. As a result—due to the fall—the arrow intended for the middle of my back hit me high in the left shoulder, scraping along the top of the blade. When I hit the ground, the impact drove it all the way through and nearly stabbed Oberon, who landed on top of me.

I cast camouflage on us almost by instinct, then belatedly remembered as another shaft whizzed overhead that I should camouflage the bloody arrow sticking out of me too.

"I saw something move up in the trees back there and it wasn’t a bird."

Go, Oberon! See if you can circle around and flank them.

"Got it." He bounded away and I struggled to my feet. The shock was wearing off and I was beginning to feel the pain. I triggered my healing charm, drew Moralltach, and looked about me for enemies.

I didn’t have far to look. A squad of five yewmen, spread in a skirmish line, approached from the direction of the watering hole, bronze leaf swords raised high over their right shoulders, advancing as samurai would through the brush. Their tiny dark eyes searched for me—and found me. They could see through my camouflage.

Though only three feet tall, they were terrifying creatures, knotted and gnarled with anger, sprung from the boughs of the enchanted guardian trees in the Morrigan’s Fen. They were the Morrigan’s answer to many of the Tuatha Dé Danann, for while they were living, they weren’t animals and thus weren’t subject to Flidais’s control; Moralltach meant nothing to them, for they were not made of flesh, and Aenghus Óg’s old sword would not affect them except in the way any normal blade would—which wasn’t much. I’d be better off with an axe. Someone had done their homework to send them against me.

In Druidic circles, yew was the harbinger of death, an omen of ill news, and this, coupled with the fact that they were the Morrigan’s creatures, meant that even among the Fae the yewmen were feared; they were creatures that made goblins wake up sweating in the night. They served the Morrigan for a hundred years, guarding the Fen—which was really her stronghold as the Fae Court was Brighid’s—itching for a fight and never getting one, until she let them go to Tír na nÓg, where they became eager mercenaries.

I had little to no hope that the Morrigan would appear to defend me now. She’d made it clear some years ago that she depended on me to take care of myself, despite her vow to prevent my death by violent means.

Oberon, they have swords and they know how to use them. I don’t want you engaging them. What they don’t have are bows and arrows. See if you can find the archer and tell me where he is.

"Okay."

These lads didn’t fly, and that arrow had come from a higher angle than they could conceivably achieve. Whoever had dropped that steak wasn’t a yewman, and he was out there ready to take a potshot at me; that’s why I bothered to keep my camouflage on.

Their stances gave me an idea—they were providing such lovely targets. I created a binding of like-to-like, so that their bronze blades abruptly bound together on either side of the one in the middle. The effect was amusing, because the yewmen didn’t want to let go. They were yanked by their swords toward the lad in the center, and once he was holding not only his sword but four other yewmen with their swords bound to his, he had a bit of trouble, and the whole mess of them fell in a heap to the ground.

I thought of binding the yewmen together in the same way, except that I was afraid of what would happen if I tried. These were the Morrigan’s creatures and would hardly be effective against the Tuatha Dé Danann if they could be bound like any other piece of wood. Rumor had it that the Morrigan had prepared for that—perhaps it was a rumor she’d spread herself. Still, it would be silly to allow her yewmen to be bound and unbound by their bark; they had to have protection. Olympia, however, might be able to help me. The yewmen were never intended to walk on this plane; they were the boogeymen of the Faerie lands, but to Olympia they were simply odd trees.

The yewmen did not have vocal cords. It was part of their mystique, playing the silent, implacable killer. But if they could have roared in frustration, they would have. Wherever their bodies touched the ground, roots sprouted and clutched handfuls of earth, grabbing Greek real estate like foreclosure vultures. Swords forgotten, they tried to pull away and even leap away from one another and the earth, but Olympia was determined to make them feel at home. They were immobilized inside a minute, save for their arms and heads, a new miniature grove among the undergrowth. In the pursuit of harmony, Olympia would work steadily on the Morrigan’s enchantments until the yewmen were nothing but trees again. In the meantime, they were acutely aware of what had been done to them and who was responsible. I jogged past them, grinning, and their black eyes held bloody promises as they followed my progress.

“Heh! Fuck yew,” I said.

The arrow in my shoulder bounced awkwardly before me. Had I not shut down the pain, it would no doubt be giving me all kinds of trouble. I concentrated on the shaft of the arrow—a hollow aluminum one, I noted—and unbound its molecules near the exit point until it crumbled away like a wafer cookie.

It occurred to me that I should have been so calm and rational about the arrow Ullr shot into me in Asgard, but once that fight began, little was calm or rational.

Have you found the bowman yet? I asked Oberon as I approached the pond.

"No, I haven’t spotted him. I think I heard him, though. He’s around somewhere in the canopy."

He’s neutralized for the moment, since he can’t see us; let’s go back to the cave and help Granuaile. It’s a more defensible position anyway.

"Okay."

As Oberon turned from wherever he was and picked up his pace, I heard his footfalls—tiny pads, soft pantings, the occasional rustle. I could get a vague fix on him based on that. As I tried to spy where he was moving, an arrow lanced down out of the canopy and thudded into the earth next to the stream, just below the pond.

"Hey! That was close!"

Top speed back to the cave, Oberon! Our assassin must have camouflage of his own. There was no way I could get to him up in the canopy with only a sword. I needed one of Granuaile’s throwing knives. Or five.

Oberon dove into the bushes and sinuously wove between them, his passage clearly marked by the wake of quaking branches and leaves. If the assassin remained where he was, the angle for a shot was increasingly poor; his arrow would turn awry as soon as it hit the undergrowth. To get a good shot at Oberon now, he’d have to fly out and shoot straight down.

I took a slightly different path and offered much the same target; movement could be tracked by the bushes moving out of my way, but I kept low and there would be no clear shot unless the shooter moved from his current position.

Oberon would get to the cave first.

Don’t barrel into the cave announcing your presence. You will sneak in there like a Celtic ninja. Don’t pant.

"You know that’s like me telling you not to sweat, right?"

I know, but try to keep a lid on it until I get there.

"Do Celtic ninjas have to wear pajamas?"

No, silly! Celts always freeball it.

"Okay, good. Just making sure."

No arrows whistled by me on the way to the cave. Oberon wasn’t attacked either. Part of me was relieved, but another part was worried about where the assassin was.

A steady stream of cursing and percussive knocks greeted my ears once I got to the cave. Granuaile was under attack.

She was cornered by a faery assassin—the kind of faery with wings. At the moment he wasn’t flying, because the cave didn’t have sufficient room. He was casting a glamour and protesting loudly in the visible spectrum that she was doing him wrong and he meant no harm, while in truth he was trying to stab her with a wicked pair of silver knives. Granuaile wasn’t falling for it; she was fending him off by fighting against the outline of his true form. The iron caps on the end of her staff—probably only an eighth of an inch thick—weren’t hurting him. He was armored with hardened leather and she hadn’t touched his skin yet. I wondered how long the fight had been going on; she seemed to be holding her own fairly well, but the fact remained that she was playing defense and she didn’t have much room to back up.

I told Oberon, Bark your head off to distract him, but don’t engage. What you see isn’t what he looks like. I’ll take him out.

"Okay. Tell me when."

Now.

Oberon can sound deadly when he wishes. His loud, abrupt arrival startled the assassin, causing the faery to step back and take his eyes off Granuaile for a second. That was a critical error. Her staff whipped low, and she swept his feet out from under him. He landed hard on his backside, crying out because it probably hurt his wings. Before he could flip up and away, I stomped on his left wrist, dissolved my camouflage except for the arrow in my shoulder, and pointed Moralltach at the space between his eyes.

“Drop your knives,” I said. “Now.”

“Why should I? I’m dead anyway.” Granuaile had moved to pin his right arm down as well.

“Because if you do, I pledge to report to Tír na nÓg that you died honorably. If you do not, I will take your body back and report that you died a coward, casting shame on your family.”

“Your word?” he asked.

“You have my word that I will report you honorable if you drop your weapons and answer my questions.”

He dropped his knives. “There is no shame in falling to the Iron Druid. My name is Dubhlainn Óg of Shannon Heath. Make it quick.”

“I will. Who sent you here?”

“I was paid by the Svartálfar of the Norse.”

“What? You can’t blame this on the dark elves. How did you find us here?”

“The dark elves are paying me, as they paid everyone here today. They are spending significant money on your head. But it is also true that someone in Tír na nÓg betrayed your location. I was informed anonymously.”

“Informed how, precisely?”

“In writing. A note delivered by a pixie. It said to search the woods near Litochoro. I found the dog first and used him to draw you out.”

There was much there to think about. “Am I the target, or is Granuaile?”

“The contract specifies either or both, with a bonus to be paid for both. The apprentice, however, is the softer target.”

“Ass malt,” Granuaile muttered, and in so doing managed to ruin one of the few charms of the 1950s for me.

“You say the dark elves are paying others. Who are they paying?”

The assassin shrugged with his eyebrows. “They are paying faeries. They are paying their own kind. Beyond that, I do not know.”

“Who among the dark elves wants us dead?”

“I cannot say. Assassination is a business of intermediaries.”

Not for the first time, I wished I had Fragarach instead of Moralltach in my hand. I might not get any better answers out of this faery, but at least I could be sure that they were truthful.

“How many in your band?”

“Aside from myself, there’s a pod of yewmen and their shifter.” The yewmen were incapable of shifting planes by themselves, a wise precaution of the Morrigan’s. The shifter must have been the one with the bow.

“Dubhlainn Óg of Shannon Heath, may Manannan see you safely home,” I said to him. I flicked my eyes to Granuaile. “Would the soft target like to do the honors?”

Without answering, she crunched the iron cap of her staff into the faery’s forehead. He grunted once, stiffened, and crumbled to ash.

“We cannot stay here,” I said.

“I know.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. Feeling pretty good, actually.” She flashed a grin. “I kicked a little bit of ass.”

“Yes, congratulations. You did well to track his movements through the glamour. But whose blood is that on your arm?”

A crinkle appeared between Granuaile’s eyes. “Where?” She looked first at her right arm and then at her left, which she had curled around her staff. One end of the staff rested on the ground, and she was leaning on it a bit, hand above the elbow. That’s where she saw what I saw. A trail of blood from the outside of her wrist wove down to her elbow, where it dripped. “Huh. He must have nicked me. I didn’t even feel it.”

“Not a good sign. These guys probably favor poison.” Even as I said it, Granuaile’s knees buckled and she dropped to the cave floor, her confidence replaced by confusion. Her staff tumbled out of nerveless fingers.