by M. D. Massey
“Explain to me again why can’t we just kill him and be done with it?” I asked with sarcasm in my voice. “Oh yeah, because that would only make things worse. Shame.”
“And easier said than done. Off with you! We have work to do.”
“Okay, okay. Sheesh.”
3
Training inside the Grove—or doing anything there, really—was a sort of cheat when it came to saving time. The Grove was a self-sufficient pocket dimension and the Oak was its gateway. When the Oak was on the physical plane, the Grove existed parallel to yet outside of the natural flow of time. This meant that time moved very, very slowly on the other side of the Druid Oak.
Thus, Finnegas and I had been using the Grove to steal time. We’d spent what seemed like months inside the Grove, while only hours had passed Earthside. That peculiar feature had turned out to be a unique advantage, especially since it had become a matter of life and death that I catch up on my magical studies. The time differential between Earth and the Grove had allowed me to get the equivalent of years of magical training in a very short period of Earth time. Not enough to catch up with, say, an immortal Celtic deity—but enough to save my bacon against Eliandres and Lucindras.
And just think—a few weeks ago, I could barely cast simple cantrips.
The Grove was where I did all my training these days, and also where I laid my head at night. Or rather, virtual night, since the day and night cycles there were completely artificial and arbitrarily attuned to my own personal preferences. Now that I was being hunted by Aenghus and other members of the Celtic pantheon, it was the safest place to sleep.
Not even Maeve knew how to get to the Grove, although I was certain she suspected its existence. As did the other gods, if Finnegas’ hunch was right. We’d tried to keep it a secret, of course. But as it turns out, when you’re able to travel great distances in the blink of an eye and make stupendous leaps in magical skill in a matter of days—well, it tends to raise a few eyebrows among the gods.
Why the Dagda gave it to me was still a mystery. Both the god and Jesse had given me hints, of course. Jesse told me it was because druidry was dying out and the Dagda wanted to ensure that his knowledge was passed on through me. I believed that to be partially true, but I had a sneaking suspicion that he had other motives as well.
It seemed to me that hidden hands had been steering me toward a showdown with the gods all along. Perhaps that was hubris on my part, to think myself so important in the grand scheme of things. But ever since my first clash with the fae, I’d found myself in confrontations with increasingly powerful entities. And every subsequent win brought me further under the Celtic pantheon’s scrutiny—no matter how hollow the victory.
The last of those “victories” had cost me more than I’d anticipated, in more ways than one. Although Fallyn and I had only dated a short while, I missed her dearly—especially knowing what she’d gone through and how much I was to blame for her ordeal. Maybe it was just guilt, but I badly wanted to see her, if only to ensure that she was recovering from what Diarmuid put her through.
Regardless of my motives, I couldn’t leave Austin without checking on her. And doing so meant communicating through proxy by way of her father, who definitely did not want to see me. That was just too bad. I was still Pack, even if Samson couldn’t stand the sight of my face. And as a Pack member, it was my right to speak with the Pack Alpha. Before Finnegas and I split town, I intended to exercise that right.
Maybe he won’t try to tear my head off when I show up. Yeah, right.
I reflected on all those things and more as I sat inside my Keebler cottage in the Grove. Finnegas waited outside, presumably having already cooked up another crazy training session in cahoots with the Grove itself. He and Maureen couldn’t mind link with it like I could, but they could still speak to it and make their wishes known.
The old man in particular had a knack for communicating with it, probably because he’d had plenty of experience in centuries past. At one time, there’d been dozens of druid groves and oaks, all bonded to a master druid and serving as the official training grounds and refuges of druidkind. But then they’d been destroyed, supposedly by the Roman Empire, their like never seen on Earth again until now.
Personally, I found that bit of druid history hard to believe, after seeing the power wielded by my own Oak and Grove. When I’d prodded Finnegas about it, he’d deflected. However, I’d bet my left nut there was a whole lot more to the story, and I’d bet my right nut that tale involved betrayal and more than a few Celtic gods.
Did the Dagda entrust me with the acorn to right past wrongs? Or was it in anticipation of some coming conflict? Is he the one who’s been pulling the strings behind the scenes, or could it be multiple gods?
“Damn it boy, get a move on!” Finnegas yelled from outside the cottage, breaking me out of my reverie. “I’m not getting any younger.”
“No, but you’re not getting any older right now, either,” I grumbled back. “Not much, anyway.”
“When you’re as old as I am, you’ll realize that every second is precious. Now, hurry it up so I can take a nap before facing the whirlwind that is Maureen.”
“Alright, I’m coming,” I said, reaching for my gun belt and sword baldric.
“No weapons today!” the old man yelled as he walked away toward the training grounds. “And yes, it’s going to be one of 'those’ sessions.”
“Oh, goodie.”
The training grounds were something I’d had the Grove cook up—to the old man’s specifications, of course. To accommodate our requirements, I estimated it had expanded itself by about 5,000 meters in every direction, although I couldn’t determine where it ended. If I ran from the “center” of the Grove where the Oak resided, and then kept on running, eventually I’d end up back where I started.
It had always been that way; it’s just that it took me a bit longer to make that run than it had in days past. Obviously, the Grove was futzing with space and time to loop back on itself, because it wasn’t yet large enough to take on a spherical configuration. How it did it was beyond me. I just accepted it and took it as a matter of course that I couldn’t run off the edge and fall into the Void or In-Between Spaces.
Oddly enough, once I entered the training grounds I always stayed inside the boundaries until our training session was over. Again, that was a function of the Grove dicking with space and time in some unknown manner. I’d made a mental note to ask Click about it when next I saw him, but he hadn’t been around since my dustup with Diarmuid.
As for the training area, the construct was an oblong, roughly bowl-shaped valley approximately a mile long and three-quarters of a mile wide. The layout of the area inside the valley was malleable like everything else inside the Grove, and it would change based on what Finnegas wanted to accomplish during a given session. In the past those configurations had included a vast, grassy field, a clay-covered arena, wooded hills not unlike those found west of Austin, a maze of box canyons, and an expanse of rocky desert terrain similar to what we’d encountered in Big Bend.
Wondering what the old man had in mind for today’s session, I crested the short rise that marked the boundary of the grounds, letting out a low whistle as I took in the scene below. Currently, it had been set up to mimic an urban area, with wide dirt lanes separating makeshift city blocks. Each block had been populated with “buildings” formed of earth and rock. Additionally, the pretend city came complete with office buildings that were several stories tall, open and wooded areas that were probably meant to be parks, and smaller structures on the outskirts to simulate residential neighborhoods.
“You really outdid yourself this time,” I yelled to Finnegas. “Mind telling me what you have in store?”
The old druid watched from an observation platform some fifty yards away, casually leaning against the railing. The structure he stood on was a naturally-formed treehouse made of interwoven vines and branches, designed so he could supervise my training. A few
moments later a puff of smoke told me he’d lit his first coffin nail, indicating he was ready to watch me sweat and bleed.
“Not on your life,” he replied, magically amplifying his voice so he wouldn’t have to shout. “It’s a surprise you’ll have to deal with all on your own.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered, jogging down the slope on full alert toward the makeshift city. “I take it we’re working on magic today?”
“And tactics. I want to see what you do when you can’t rely on your toys and shifting abilities.”
I’d already spooled up a few spells—all from the basic battle magic repertoire I’d acquired thus far. Tactically-speaking, Finnegas insisted that it was best to lead with weaker spells, both to conserve power and so you didn’t tip your hand to a more experienced magic-user. The basic stuff included reliable old standbys like fireballs, concussive blasts, and lightning—my personal favorite.
But lately we’d been working on castings that were just as nasty as the ball lighting spell and Mogh’s Scythe. Some of it was druid magic, like a rapid-cast version of a quicksand spell, while other incantations and conjurations relied on my connection with the Druid Oak. Those enchantments allowed me to direct the Oak and Grove’s natural defenses—vine traps, poison thorns and darts, giant Venus flytraps, and the like.
Yet that wasn’t the extent of what we’d worked on over the last several dozen sessions. Defensive magic had been tops on Finn’s list of must-know spells, so I’d been working on controlling the Grove’s barkskin spell and using a version of Mogh’s Scythe to create a force shield of super-compressed air in front of me. Another defensive skill Finnegas had taught me involved manipulating the elements to create physical barriers or redirect the offensive spells cast by a hostile magician.
And finally, there was healing magic—the bane of my existence. As far as druid magic was concerned, I wasn’t very good at anything having to do with healing. Sure, I could do some basic rejuvenation magic, which pretty much consisted of deep breathing and meditation to speed up physical recovery. But stuff like closing wounds or knitting broken bones back together had eluded me.
Despite my frustrations with healing magic, I’d been quick to learn the basics of most spells. Some of them had proven more difficult to master than others. Mogh’s Scythe was still unreliable at best, since I’d yet to learn how to insta-cast it. Same for the ball lightning spell, the quicksand spell, and anything that involved combining different natural energies and elements.
For that reason, one of my favorite spells thus far was a chameleon spell, like the one Eliandres had used to hide from me earlier. It was useless if you were moving fast, which was why I hadn’t used it against him. But so long as I moved slowly it was almost as good as an invisibility spell—and it was the first thing I cast before reaching out to the Grove with a remote recon request.
“Ah-ah,” Finnegas said, just as my connection to the Oak and Grove was cut off like a Californian’s electricity in wildfire season.
It’s going to be like that, eh? Bring it, old man.
This was the first time the old man had cut me off from the expanded druid-sense I enjoyed while inside the Grove. Whatever Finnegas was up to, he certainly meant to offer up a challenge. Knowing that today’s training would be a bitch, I crept forward with my head on a swivel as I entered the simulated city.
As I did, I noticed a few things about my surroundings. For one, they appeared to be an amalgamation of places I’d visited in real life. The street I was on, for example, looked a heck of a lot like a neighborhood in my home town. And unless I was mistaken, the taller buildings ahead bore a sharp resemblance to those found in downtown Austin.
Not only were the exterior surfaces of the buildings similar to those found in real life, but their interiors appeared to be realistic as well. The windows lacked glass, allowing me a clear view inside. Walls, floors, ceilings, stairways, and even crude furniture gave the appearance of a sort of still-life in sculpture. It was creepy and a bit overwhelming, considering that the Grove had made all this—and I was its master.
How powerful is this place, really? And how much of its power do I control?
Momentarily preoccupied with gawking at my surroundings, I was three blocks in when I heard soft, muffled footsteps coming up behind me. I quickly and quietly ducked into a strip mall storefront, dropping back into the shadows so I could observe whatever or whoever might be in pursuit.
At first I couldn’t locate the source, since whatever followed remained well-hidden as it advanced. Knowing it’d show itself eventually, I stood absolutely still, falling into a light trance to slow my breathing and heartbeat. I waited like that for several minutes, until my patience was rewarded.
Damn, the old man done went and outdid himself.
I first spotted it a block away, a dark shape that was nearly invisible until it moved. Temporarily lacking the ability to track it using the Grove’s senses, I cast a minor cantrip to enhance my vision so I could get a closer look. Once the spell took hold, details began to emerge as it came near. Lo and behold, it was a rough facsimile of a fae assassin made from leaves, bark, branches, and twigs.
Flitting from shadow to shadow, the thing moved with a level of grace and stealth that only the fae and certain supernatural creatures could match. Figuring that the Grove had created it based on memories of my recent battle, I had a hunch that the simulacrum’s skills and talents would be similar to those of Eliandres and Lucindras. Coming fresh off my victory against those two, I decided to emerge from my hiding spot so I could take it out quickly with a burst of magic.
Before I took that first step, I saw something move in the street outside. Just a flicker of movement, right at the edge of the building’s shadow, there and gone in an instant. A less paranoid person would have written it off, but I’d learned never to underestimate my mentor when it came to the sheer deviousness of these training exercises.
Hmm… must be two of them.
Rather than take them both on at once, I waited for the one at ground level to pass. Then I Ieaned out the doorway and quickly incinerated it with a fireball before ducking back to cover. Once inside, I took off at a dead run for the rear exit. I was almost at the back door of the “store” when an explosion rocked the front of the building. The noise was followed by a wave of heat and pressure that took me off my feet, through the exit, and face-first into the opposite wall in the alleyway beyond.
What the hell was that?
Thankfully, the earthen wall of the building behind the strip mall was relatively soft, sparing me from any serious injury. Shaken and mostly intact, I stumbled to my feet while wiping dirt from my face. That’s when I noticed that I’d inadvertently dropped my chameleon spell.
Damn it!
I wasn’t seriously injured, but face-planting into what was essentially a hard, earthen berm at thirty miles an hour had left me a bit disoriented. Struggling to cast the spell again, I scanned the area for any sign of the other simulacrum. The rooftops were clear, but a flicker of shadow inside the building told me it was headed my way.
Fuck it.
Hoping I hadn’t already given away my position, I hid just outside the doorway that I’d been blasted through seconds before. Straining my senses, I waited until I heard almost imperceptible footfalls inside the room beyond. Once I was certain that my “opponent” was within range, I spun around the doorway, luckily catching the simulacrum unawares as it searched a far corner of the room.
Sensing that victory was close, I blasted the leafy doppelgänger with a lightning spell from one hand and a fireball from the other. After the smoke cleared, I searched the room for signs of movement, but strangely, nothing remained of my foe. Not a leaf, branch, or even a scrap of bark to show it had been standing there a moment ago.
What the hell?
I spun around just in time to see a tall, willowy figure across the alley. A millisecond later there was a flash of light, heat, and force that blasted me across the room like a rag d
oll. Just before I collided with a solid surface for the second time that day, I remembered that the walls inside this particular building were made of stone instead of dirt.
This is just not my day.
4
When I returned from my brief trip to the land of concussions and regret, Finnegas was kneeling next me working some druid healing hoodoo. Soon the pain in my head subsided and my thoughts became less foggy and more coherent. The old man grabbed me firmly by my chin, lifting my head to turn it this way and that as he inspected his handiwork.
“Bit lopsided, but I’m pretty sure it was like that before. You’ll live.”
“Gee thanks, Doc,” I said as I slowly pushed myself into a sitting position, using the wall I’d just collided with as a backrest. “Anyone ever tell you that your bedside manner sucks?”
“You, at least a dozen times.” He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his knees cracked loudly. The old man plopped himself down on a stone facsimile of a desk nearby, rubbing his knees with a scowl. “Gah, these old joints just aren’t what they used to be.”
I ran my hands over my head and face, checking for signs of permanent injury. “Should’ve saved the healing magic for yourself then. Incidentally, what happened?”
“You assumed you knew your enemy, that’s what happened. Those golems might’ve looked like the assassins you fought earlier today, but just because an enemy looks familiar, you can’t make assumptions about its abilities.”
“I’ve never known a fae assassin to use magic, Finnegas. I was simply acting on what I knew.”
“And that’s my point. Your experience is extremely limited where the fae are concerned, never mind the Celtic gods. Now that they know you’ve grown in power, it’s guaranteed the next team they send will be skilled in both physical combat and magic.”
