by M. D. Massey
Clara’s head turned as she followed my gaze, just in time to see the old man come strutting out of a small copse of trees. He wore old, weathered blue jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, and a black western shirt with pearl-and-chrome buttons that reflected the bright moonlight. His eyes and hands glowed with a pale silver light, and his long white hair and beard were blown this way and that by the concentric circles of wind and magic that surrounded him.
But the craziest thing about his sudden, yet timely, appearance were the hundreds of small stones, larger rocks, and boulders that floated and spun in planetary circuits around him. Each of them orbited the master druid on a separate trajectory, in an absolutely deadly symphony of movement and magic. Some flew as close as a few feet away from him, while others flew in long ellipses dozens of yards away from the epicenter.
And where he walked, destruction flowed in his wake.
“You son of a bitch,” I said under my breath as a broad grin split my face. “That’s Cathbad’s Planetary Maelstrom.”
I’d been studying druid battle magic in earnest for the last several weeks, even the spells I was not yet skilled enough to cast. Finnegas had a number of scrolls, spell books, and grimoires that had been written by various master druids over the centuries, each detailing their favorite spells. Such documents were thought to have been burned and destroyed when the groves were purged, and they were a closely-guarded secret among druidkind. According to the old man, not even the Dagda knew he had them.
Now that they were secreted safely within the Grove, I’d been allowed to study them at will. And one of the spell books that absolutely blew my mind was written by Cathbad, the former high druid of Ulster. He’d primarily been known as a seer who prophesied the rise and fall of Cu Chulainn, but like the old man, he was a deadly battle druid. The spells he devised were insanely powerful, incredibly devious, and unbelievably difficult to cast.
I could never imagine being able to perform that casting, because it required the caster to set up and control dozens or even hundreds of weaves on the fly. Plus, powering it—I had no idea how the old man was managing. It basically involved manipulating gravity, but that was easier said than done. One thing was certain, though: Cathbad’s Planetary Maelstrom was an absolute battlefield clearing work of magic.
As Finnegas advanced on our position, the apogee of the orbiting boulders and rocks increased so they flew around the other side of the bridge, surrounding and protecting Clara and me. Meanwhile, any vampires that attempted to approach the old druid were struck by a hailstorm of smaller stones. It was a lot like being hit by cannon-fired grapeshot, effectively shredding them to bits. And every so often, one of the larger orbiting bodies the old man controlled flew out in a wider arc, splattering the odd fanger into vampire goo.
“Holy freaking hell, druid,” Clara said, jaw agape. “I thought you had some impressive moves, but that old man is scary as fuck.”
“Yep, that’s my sensei,” I said, plopping down on the coffin to watch the show. As I did, it rattled for a bit before settling.
“Go ahead, kill my brood,” the hoarse voice rasped from within. “I’ll simply make more.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes—shut up already,” I said as I cast a silence spell on the casket.
I glanced around and saw that Finnegas was almost to the bridge. Everywhere I looked vampire guts and body parts littered the surrounding fields and canal banks in some macabre imitation of Mardi Gras confetti and beads. Of the dozens that had converged on us, there were only a few vamps left, and those who remained were beating a path out of the park.
As Finnegas stepped onto the bridge toward us, I stood to greet him. “Hey old man, I was getting worried—”
My words stuck in my throat as Finnegas fell to his knees. Instantly, all the stones and boulders he’d been controlling succumbed to the laws of physics, centrifugal force sending them flying in all directions. Then the old man sagged to his left before falling slack toward the ground.
Without hesitation I ran toward him, too late to catch him before his body struck the pavement. I slid to a stop next to him, checking his pulse on instinct to make sure he hadn’t suffered a heart attack. It was there, but weak and thready, and his heart would skip a beat every so often.
“Finnegas, wake up,” I said, gently slapping his cheek.
When he failed to respond I checked his eyes, pulling his lids back to reveal pupils that were fixed and unresponsive. To make matters worse, one eye was fully dilated while the other was a pinprick. As I examined him, the left side of his face began to sag. Suddenly, I knew exactly what was going on.
Stroke.
“Shit,” I muttered, turning to Clara. “Call 911!”
“Colin, we can’t take him to the hospital,” she said as she half-hopped, half-walked over to me. “The coven has members staffing every medical facility in town. That’s how they resupply our blood reserves.”
I held my head in my hands, unsure what to do and freaking out because of it. “Think, Colin, think!” I snapped my fingers. “That’s it—I’ll take him to Crowley’s with the sarcophagus. Then, I’ll have him send for one of Maeve’s healers on the sly.” I patted Finnegas on the shoulder. “Hang on, old man. I’m going to get you some help.”
“Well, we can’t stay here,” Clara replied. “Look.”
I popped my head up to evaluate the situation. We didn’t have much time, because the vamps who’d run were now coming back. Tears fell from my eyes as I picked Finnegas up in my arms like a child. He felt so thin and small, so helpless. I couldn’t believe this was the same man who’d looked so vital and deadly just moments before.
“Clara, grab his hand,” I said as I laid him on top of the casket. “I’m getting us out of here.”
I grabbed his left hand in mine, then rested my other hand on the coffin. As I did, I heard a crow caw from high above. Ignoring it, I mentally reached out to the Druid Oak.
Take us to Crowley’s farm.
14
Hell is a paradise.
That was my first thought when we reached our destination seconds later. The first clue that something was wrong was the time we’d spent in transit. Normally when the Druid Oak portalled me somewhere, it was instantaneous. The Oak was folding time and space, after all, and all it took was a split-second to pierce the thin membrane between one place and the next.
But the moment I asked the Oak to take us to Crowley’s, things went very wrong. Oh, so very wrong. For several long, very unsettling seconds, it felt as though we’d dropped acid and then stepped on a carnival ride gone mad.
First, everything went black. And when I mean black, I don’t mean “It was kind of dark, but I could see my fingers in front of my face.” No, it was black, as in everything blacked out even though I was fully conscious.
Then colors began to swirl in the blackness, and those colors soon coalesced into scenes. It’s hard to explain, because they moved by so very fast. It was kind of like we were seeing snippets of different locations—not just on Earth, but across several dimensions.
Some of the things I saw in those few short seconds will haunt me for the rest of my life. I witnessed wars fought by creatures I couldn’t recognize—or even categorize, for that matter. I saw demons tormenting lost souls, dark gods eating planets, stars collapsing, and The Void. And I don’t ever want to see those things again, because I know my mind would break if I had to bear witness to those events for even a few more seconds.
Thankfully, it was over quickly, and then we found ourselves at our destination. Not our intended destination—that was immediately clear—but somewhere other than tumbling through creation and all its alternate and parallel dimensions. I felt solid ground beneath my feet, at least.
I’d closed my eyes in hopes of sealing them from all the craziness. When the strange sensation of moving without movement stopped, the first thing I did was open them to see if my companions were still with me. I still felt their hands in mine, but my brain was so confu
sed I didn’t trust the sensation as reality. When I cracked my eyes open, I spent a few moments looking and feeling to make sure they were real.
Clara stood next to me, gripping my hand so hard I thought it’d break. “Clara, let go. Let go of my hand, Clara!” I yelled as I pried my fingers from hers. Her eyes were shut tightly and she was shivering. Not because she was cold, obviously—she was a vampire, after all—but from fear.
I couldn’t blame her. I think I was shivering a bit too.
Failing to rouse the vampire from her catatonic state, I turned my attention to my mentor. Finnegas lay atop the coffin, still and lifeless save for the slow, ragged breaths he took. He looked much the same—ashen-faced with that lopsided, droop-faced expression. It made me want to bawl, but now wasn’t the time for it, because I knew someone or something had interfered with my connection to the Oak.
And how did I know that? That was easy—I couldn’t feel the Oak’s presence.
Moreover, they’d diverted us somehow. I didn’t think that was possible, but apparently it could be done. I glanced around, taking in our surroundings to determine where we’d been sent.
My first impression of the place was that it was very, very green. “Verdant” would be the word I’d use to describe it, and idyllic, like those pictures of Ireland that they use in travel destination advertisements. We stood at the foot of a large, grass-covered hill, with rolling plains and fields laid out before us in every direction. Some of the fields had been cultivated, that much was clear. Crops stood in neat rows in the distance, and animals grazed the plains—although they didn’t look like any cattle I’d ever seen.
I scanned the cloudless sky above, which was perfectly, uniformly blue from horizon to horizon. I found no sun there, no orb to tell me what time of day it was, or which direction was east or west. The light that illuminated this place seemed to come from everywhere above, which was weird—although we did cast shadows. And that light had a strange pink cast to it, which made things look a little warm and hazy, like we were living inside one huge photo filter.
Lots of little clues hinted at our location. But the dead giveaway was the fact that it was daytime, and Clara wasn’t being fried to a crisp. Besides the Grove, there was only one place where creatures who feared the sun could walk in daylight.
Fuck. We’re in fucking Underhill.
-Figured it out yet, boy?- The Butcher’s hoarse, rasping voice spoke directly into my mind. -You’ve walked right into a trap.-
“Get out of my head, fanger.”
-You are my jailer, young druid. Do you think I’ll leave you be, just because you ask? If you want me out of your mind, release me.-
“Nope, not gonna happen. And now that I think of it, back in New Orleans you were full of threats and fighting to break out of that sarcophagus. Suddenly you’re all mellow and shit. What gives?”
-This sarcophagus is impenetrable. Thus, I’ve determined that the only way for me to escape is to cut a deal with you.- The thing laughed. -And I am amused. That’s a rare occasion for one so old as I—although I daresay we’ll soon meet entities whose longevity dwarfs my own. Congratulations.-
“Congratulations? Why?”
-You have powerful enemies, for one so young. Most humans tread through their existence without so much as leaving a trace of their passing. It takes someone who is truly destined for greatness to draw the ire of a god. Speaking of which, be on your guard—riders approach.-
I wasn’t inclined to trust a 2,500-year-old vampire any further than I could throw his ashes, but I perked up just the same. When I heard the sound of many, many hoofbeats from beyond the hill, I was not surprised at all. And when a dozen mounted, armored warriors wielding Bronze Age spears, swords, and shields rounded the hill at a charge, I took it as a matter of course.
Yep, this day keeps getting better and better.
Just to be on the safe side, I readied a few spells. Nothing major, just something that would allow me to disorient them and abscond with Finnegas. As for Clara, she’d have to fend for herself. And Saint Germain? I could come back for him later.
The riders galloped to a halt in a half-circle, surrounding us at a distance of ten yards or so. There were a couple of warriors with longbows—those were trained on Clara as it seemed they considered her the greater threat. Every other rider had a spear at the ready, and all those long, leaf-shaped blades pointed in our direction. While their weapons looked to be of inferior quality, I’d seen what the Tuath Dé could do with bronze, so I had no illusions as to the deadliness of the arms they carried.
The riders wore a mish-mash of bronze chainmail, scale mail, and plate, although some chose to go bare-chested. Regardless of each individual’s preference for armor, all wore pointed and horned helms made of the same material. Every bit of metal I saw was burnished to a high sheen, and beneath their armor they wore tunics and loose pants tucked into soft, moccasin-like leather boots.
As for who or what they were, I had my suspicions. They looked human with their pale skin, long, braided hair, and lean, rangy builds that gave them a fierce, predatory appearance. But until I knew exactly where I was in Underhill, I had no way of knowing for sure if my hunch was correct.
Initially when they pulled up they remained silent, and I stood still with my hands in clear view since they gave no indication they would attack. Then, they began muttering amongst themselves in a Gaelic dialect I did not recognize. As their conversation grew more and more heated, and as their gesticulations became increasingly animated, I picked out a few words here and there.
Dearg-due…
Neamh-mairbh…
Draíocht…
An ealaín dhubh…
“Yep, we’re fucked,” I muttered under my breath. When I spoke it must’ve startled them, because one of the riders loosed an arrow at me, and another launched a spear at Clara.
Bad idea.
I wasn’t so much worried about Clara, as she could take a spear to the gut and be fine after a few feedings. But poor Finnegas was absolutely defenseless, and if they missed—well, I didn’t want to think about it.
A quick gust of wind took care of the projectiles, throwing them off course enough so they missed by a wide margin. Then the fuckers started screaming and beating their spears against their shields, so I tossed up an earth shield, using druid magic to create an eight-foot-tall, semi-circular berm of dirt around us.
I had a few seconds before they rode around it to flank us, so I ran over to grab Finnegas and split. I’d intended to cast an obfuscation on us, then I figured I could toss him over my shoulders in a fireman’s carry and hide somewhere. But just as I reached for the old man, The Butcher’s voice echoed in my head.
-If you move your master, he’ll die.-
“Come again?” I said as my eyes darted to edges of the berm for signs that our guests were about to charge over or around it.
-His life force ebbs away as we speak. I can feel his heart beating ever slower, ever weaker as the moments pass. Moving him will only speed his passing. You must either abandon him or fight. Or…-
“Don’t tell me—if I release you, you’ll slice these jokers up and then you’ll heal Finnegas with alchemy.”
-I could, yes.-
“Yeah, let’s not and say we didn’t,” I said as I checked the old druid’s pulse. It was definitely weaker than before. In desperation, I tried to contact the Oak again, but the lines were dead. That left me only one option—violence. And if I could rouse Clara, it might help even the odds.
“Clara, wake up,” I said, as I grabbed the little vampire by the shoulders, shaking her like an Etch-A-Sketch. She remained as blank-faced as before, and a small bit of bloody drool ran down her chin where she’d bitten her lip. Pushing her to the ground with a frustrated hiss, I cast obfuscation spells on them all.
About that time, I heard the riders split up. Half were going left around the barrier, the other half to my right. After backing up the hill to get a clear view of the battlefield, I
summoned a fireball in one hand and lightning in the other as I waited for the first of the warriors to round the berm.
“Come on, you stupid bastards,” I muttered, my eyes darting back and forth from one side of my makeshift wall to the other. “Come and get some druid magic.”
I didn’t want to hurt these guys and gals, not if they were who I thought they were. Likewise, I didn’t want to injure their animals. Hell, it wasn’t the horses’ faults that their riders were a bunch of superstitious, ass-backwards, trigger-happy idiots. That’s why, instead of blowing them out of their saddles, I let them run straight into a trap.
The berm was way too steep for the horsemen to ride over, and it was mostly loose soil. They could’ve gone over the top if they’d tried, but it would leave them exposed for too long and they knew it. It’s damned hard to fight a battle on two fronts, so I figured they’d come at us in a classic pincer maneuver. And I was right—hell, that’s what I would’ve done if the circumstances were reversed.
When the riders came barreling around the outside edges of the berm I sprang my trap. First, I drew water up from underground, saturating the top few feet of soil. This effectively turned the ground beneath the horses’ hooves into a soft, squishy marsh, immediately slowing them without injuring their defenseless horses.
Then I started dancing around like a mad man, spouting gibberish. Well, not gibberish exactly—I was actually quoting the witches’ spells from Macbeth.
“Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, witches’ mummy, maw and gulf. Of the ravenous salt-sea shark, root of hemlock dug in the dark.”
They wouldn’t understand it, but that wasn’t the idea. The point was to make myself look like an evil, powerful druid who wanted to blast them to smithereens. I continued jumping around, tossing ball lightning, lightning bolt, and fireball spells over their heads. The plan was to do that until their horses were in a panic and it looked like the whole lot of them were ready to beat a quick retreat.
