by M. D. Massey
“And when she cursed him and he ended up back in Underhill, he wanted nothing to do with her.”
“Precisely,” Oscar said. “And he’s held it against her ever since.”
“Do they still speak?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not often. Only when necessary.”
“But you and your sister see her frequently.”
The demigod shrugged. “‘Frequently’ is a relative term. Once a decade, perhaps? Enough, I suppose, to know that she still loves Athair. Perhaps that’s why she favors you.”
I laughed, thinking he was joking. The stern look I received in response told me he wasn’t. “C’mon, Oscar. You don’t seriously think she’s partial to me, do you?”
“Let us count the ways, druid. You disobeyed her, you insulted her, and you betrayed her. You undermined her power, and turned her people against her, a goddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann. And yet, you live.” He snorted softly, and his voice became bitter. “If that’s not favoritism, I don’t know what is.”
Ah, now I get it. I stepped right in the middle of Oscar’s mommy issues.
“Son of a bitch—you knew I wasn’t a damned fetch when your fiann found us. You were just looking for an excuse to screw me over.”
“I’m half-Tuath Dé, druid. We have long memories and short tempers. Why should Máthair dote on a mortal, when you’re barely of our own bloodline? You may look like Athair, but you’re more Fomori than—”
He paused mid-sentence, as if he’d said too much. “Don’t stop now, Oscar,” I prodded. “You’re on a roll.”
“Pfah. It’s not worth wasting my breath to speak of such matters. But consider, druid—I and my sister are both closer to the gods than we are to men. Yet we would not dare challenge one such as Tethra. Diarmuid was like unto us, and still you managed to best him. And the avatar, the frost giant, the fire-breather, the godspawn, Caoránach—should I go on? How does one such as yourself, a human of only distant godly parentage, manage to accomplish such feats?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
He laughed derisively. “If you believe that, then you haven’t been paying attention. Luck among the Tuath Dé is bred, not had. Consider what you’ve overlooked with regards to your parentage, and perhaps you’ll find the answer to my question.”
I was about to encourage him to say more when he drew his horse to a halt at the crest of a hill.
“The time for idle chatter is over. We’ve reached Tethra’s borders, and I can go no further for fear of breaching the pact Athair made with the Fomori centuries ago. Travel straight forth to the mountain you see in the distance, and there you’ll find the king of these barren lands. Gird your loins and pray for an honorable death. I will say no more.”
With that, Oscar gave a grim nod. Then he turned his horse around, heading at a gallop back to his father’s keep with his men in tow.
“That was quite the send-off,” I said as I scratched my horse behind its ears. It nickered nervously and broke wind in reply. “My sentiments exactly.”
Ahead, the verdant, rolling plains gave way to much harsher environs. The land before me consisted almost entirely of gray limestone pavement, broken up here and there with sparse vegetation where some topsoil had managed to accumulate. Large fissures and smaller cracks crisscrossed the surface of the terrain in every direction, mirroring the dark gray skies ahead.
Strange, tree-like shapes dotted the landscape, each with drooping, stunted limbs that swayed gently in the wind. I squinted in an effort to make them out more clearly, but when the wind shifted and I caught the sour, ochre stench of death, I knew what they were. They weren’t trees, but corpses skewered on long, rough poles, left to rot in the drab, rocky expanse that made up Tethra’s borderlands.
“If that’s not a warning, I don’t know what is,” I said, dismounting.
I doubted I could safely guide the horse over the uneven geography, not with my meager skills of horsemanship. So, I removed its bridle and reins, then slapped it gently on its hindquarters to send it home to its master. As the horse disappeared behind the next hill, I reflected that it had been quite eager to leave this place. With nothing left but to continue on, I gathered my things and headed into Tethra’s demesne.
Strangely enough, the further I walked into the transitional area between the fiann’s lands and the leaden landscape ahead, the harder my progress became. It was almost like walking into a strong wind, but the air had stilled when I left the prairies behind me. As lush grass gave way to rocky plateaus and shallow canyons, I struggled against an unseen resistance, some invisible force that did not want me to continue. After fighting my way forward for several minutes, I’d progressed mere inches, and I considered turning back. But as I persisted the pressure eased, allowing me to continue into the Fomorian’s territory.
Then the wind picked up again, bringing with it the overwhelming odor of dust and rotting flesh. I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt as I trudged on, picking my way through the inhospitable landscape with care. Hours later I had fine, dusty sand in every crack and crevice, and my lips and throat were dry as a bone.
Deciding it was time to rest, I sat on a large rock, sipping water as I stared at my destination in the distance. I’d been walking for quite a while, but the mountain seemed no closer than it had when I started. Suddenly, I felt very stupid for sending my horse away. At this pace, it’d be weeks before I reached the mountain—or, if I ran out of provisions, I might never reach it at all.
As I rested on that rock, stewing in my own frustration, a young crow cawed as it landed on another boulder not more than ten feet away. Immediately I snatched a stone from the ground, intending to chase it off, but when I saw the intelligence in its bright blue eyes I stayed my hand.
“You’re not Badb,” I said.
“Clever, as he is fair,” the crow replied in the silky-sweet voice of a woman in her youth. Like her sister, she affected an American accent—midwestern neutral, this time. It was curious, to say the least.
“So, you’re one of the other sisters. Not Nemain, because I’d recognize that battle-axe’s voice anywhere. Nope, gotta be Macha.”
The crow stared at me for several long seconds without blinking. “You’ll never reach the Formori’s stronghold this way, you know.”
“Never know until you try,” I replied.
“The land resists you,” she said. “As its master has commanded. Fight it, and you’ll wander these wastes until you die a mortal death.”
I scratched my head and sighed sharply. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your suggestion, then?”
“You are a druid, are you not? You speak to the land—does the land speak to you? Or do you not hear it calling, whispering in your ear? Perhaps it longs to flourish once more, to feel the gentle ministrations of one who appreciates what it can give. A druid would understand these things. But a Formori knows only death.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen how he decorates. Charming, if a bit morbid.”
“He and my sister are much the same. Given the opportunity, she would gut you and feast on your entrails while you watched.”
I sniffed, wiping the dust away from my nose with a knuckle. “Then why are you here, instead of her?”
“Does a farmer bother to chase the fox from his lands? No, he sends his hound to do the work instead, as the fox is beneath him, a mere nuisance easily forgotten.”
“And what am I to you? Wait, don’t tell me—I ‘amuse’ you.”
The crow cocked its head at me. “I am a goddess of war. While Badb sows confusion in her lust for power and Nemain lives the life of a warrior monk, I hold true to our original purpose.”
“And that is?”
“Inciting battle, striking fear into our enemies, and encouraging those who worship me to great deeds, until they die a glorious death.”
I spat a gob of phlegm and dust. “Yeah, but I don’t worship you.”
“Bloodshed and strife follow in your wake like a flood after a heavy storm. R
ather than fleeing from the most implacable of foes, you race to battle like a boar after the tender shoots of spring. Then, you lay waste to your enemies with a vengeful hatred I’ve not seen since the days of Cú Chulainn himself.” She blinked, once. Since I could only see her one eye, it probably qualified as a wink. “If that’s not worship, I don’t know what is.”
I was about to tell her where to stick it when a pebble clattered down a shale wall behind me. On instinct I whipped my head around, searching for signs of danger, but there was none to be found. When I turned back again, Macha was gone.
Every moment I spent wandering aimlessly represented the old man’s life slowing ticking away, so I decided to take Macha’s advice. Settling down as comfortably as possible, I opened my druid senses to my immediate surroundings. I was instantly overcome with an overwhelming sense of despair, the sort of hopelessness that comes from a prolonged, impoverished existence.
But in this instance, it wasn’t a poverty of wealth—it was a poverty of life. There was none to be found in any direction; no birds, small mammals, or insects to feed on the corpses of the dead. Even the grasses I’d seen along the rare islands of dry, dusty soil were brown and devoid of moisture. It was as if a blight had fallen over the entire landscape, sucking every last bit of vitality from it until nothing could bear to survive.
Yet beneath all that nothing and death dwelt the spirit that belonged to this land, and it mourned its current decrepit state. When I reached out it immediately latched onto me, and for several long minutes I fought hard not to be swept away in the river of sorrow that poured forth from its depths. Eventually the sensation of despair receded, to be replaced with the kind of sad companionship you’d get from an abused and neglected dog.
So, I did what any good druid would do—I sat shiva with it, sharing in the sense of loss and loneliness it felt, as well as the longing for what it once was. The land sent me images of its former glory, and if they were to be believed, this place had once been a thriving ecosystem full of plant and animal life. But that had been long ago, before Tethra conquered the land. When the Fomorian arrived, he’d exerted his will and influence until all life was driven from it. Now, all that was left was this scraggly, barren expanse.
Once I was certain I understood what it was all about, I showed the old, weathered soul what I’d come to do. Then, I asked if it would shorten the path to the Fomorian’s stronghold. At first it warned me away, sending me impressions of death and unmaking that were echoes of what it had endured for millennia. After I insisted for a time, it acquiesced. Based on our final few moments of communion, I was left with the impression that I had its permission to proceed, if not its blessing.
It took several minutes to bring myself out of that trance. As I slowly came back around to my own reality, I opened my eyes. Before I’d faced an unwelcome and unforgiving landscape, but now a smooth and level stone path curved off into the distance toward Tethra’s mountain.
On instinct, I jumped to my feet and pulled a bottle of water from my Bag, along with one of the tracking seeds from the Grove. I found a small patch of dirt just off the path, where I planted and watered the tiny little bit of grain that contained just a spark of the Grove’s life force. Then I waited, curious to see what would happen.
Nothing. Well, it was worth a shot.
Downing the rest of the water, I took off at a brisk jog down the path, keeping my eyes lowered all the while. I knew from past experience that time and distance were malleable in Underhill, sometimes compressing and other times expanding, depending on where you traveled. Rather than attempt to wrap my mind around whatever the land might do, I decided I’d give it room to work its space-bending magic.
I counted my breaths and steps as I ran, just like Finnegas had taught me so many years ago. It was a common trick used by long distance runners and soldiers to take their mind off the suck on extended marches and runs. As I plodded along, I could almost hear the old man’s voice in my head.
-One foot in front of the other! In for six breaths, out for six breaths, hold for six breaths. Again!-
As a drill master, he’d been an unforgiving son of a bitch. Knowing what I knew now, I couldn’t blame him for being tough on us. He knew what we’d be facing, and being soft on us wouldn’t have been any kindness at all. Slowly but surely, he’d molded me into a survivor with a warrior’s heart. I could never repay him for the time and effort he invested in me, but I’d start today by ripping out Tethra’s liver with my bare hands.
Or maybe with a little magic. Okay, a lot of magic—as in, a metric shit-ton of druid magic.
Thinking of ways to slow the Fomorian god-killer down, I ran through any and every spell that might help me last more than a few seconds against him. Plúr would only need a window of a few minutes to save the old man, and I intended to spend what remained of my very short life to ensure she had it. Step by step, I spooled up several of my deadliest spells as my feet took me ever closer to what might be my final, very bloody swan song.
20
The path descended into a deep, winding slot canyon with high, narrow walls that obscured the horizon. A half-mile in, the ravine opened abruptly onto a concave sandstone plain with a bulbous, mist-covered mountain sitting dead in the center. High cliffs circled all the way around the mountain and depression, making it look like one huge canker sore on Mag Mell’s ass.
Not a sore—a scar. It’s a crater, and that mountain made it.
There was probably a story behind it, but I was too busy scanning the landscape to give it more than a passing thought. Strange piles of sticks and stones stood here and there in the empty space around the mountain, but otherwise the ground was barren of any other notable feature. Storm clouds gathered in a tight halo around the mountain’s peak, and lightning flashed at intervals, lighting up the rocky slopes and the purple, bruised sky above.
After making peace with the land, I estimated that I’d run the equivalent of ten Earth miles, or perhaps ninety minutes at the pace I’d kept. The mountain had likely been much farther away before I’d communicated with Tethra’s lands, which is why it paid to be a druid. Of course, I’d never have considered that option if Macha hadn’t suggested it, but I’d take my victories where I found them.
Macha—I wonder where she fits into all of this.
That was a question for another day, because I had more immediate concerns. Oisín and Plúr had characterized Tethra’s home base as a stronghold, and indeed it was. A semi-circular stone wall stood at the base of the mountain, made from massive stone blocks taller than a grown man stacked a hundred feet high.
It was an impressive structure, that much was certain, and it made Oisín’s keep seem like a child’s play set. But its strangest feature was that it had no gate or door, at least none I could see. How anyone got in or out of there was a mystery, and for the life of me I couldn’t understand why Oisín had failed to mention it.
Nothing stirred in or around the seemingly impenetrable fortress, save for shards of stone blasted from the mountainside every time a lightning bolt struck its slopes. Keeping my distance, I enhanced my eyesight so I might better examine the structure. Indeed, there was no gate, and neither were there handholds in the smooth, expertly fitted stone blocks that comprised the walls.
Frustrated by this turn of events, I sat on a nearby rock as I considered the dilemma before me. From what I understood, Fionn’s tomb was located beneath the fortress. The goal was to distract Tethra long enough for Plúr to sneak the old man past his magical defenses. That was all well and good, but since I couldn’t see a way to enter the fortress, I’d have no way of knowing if our plan succeeded.
Exhaling heavily, I pulled out the snail shell Plúr had given me. I wasn’t exactly sure how to use it, so I held it up to my ear like the world’s smallest mobile phone. Feeling like a complete idiot, I raised my voice like I was talking to an old person.
“Yeah, Plúr? I’m here, but there’s no door.” I waited for a reply and heard none. �
�Um, over?”
Plúr’s tinkling laugh echoed in my ear. “It’s not a walkie-talkie, druid. We can carry a normal conversation. The reason I didn’t answer immediately was because I was tending to the Seer.”
“Oh, right. How’s he doing, by the way?” When I didn’t get an immediate reply, I began to panic. “Plúr? Tell me something didn’t happen.”
“No, he’s still with us, but his condition worsens by the hour. If you’re going to challenge Tethra, do it quickly.”
“Okay, sure. Say, can you eavesdrop through this thing?”
“Indeed I can. Strange that Macha chose to offer her council, is it not? It makes me wonder if she’s seeking revenge for some old slight or feud. Regardless, I will know when you engage in battle with the Fomorian. And at such time, I’ll summon a portal to the tomb.”
“Great,” I said, releasing air from my lungs that I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “So, what next? I just walk up to the castle walls and call him out?”
“No need—he’ll meet you outside the fortress as you approach. If you look closely, you’ll notice the remains of previous challengers decorating the plain. The entire area surrounding the stronghold serves as his killing fields, and the piles of bones he displays as trophies—and as a warning to any who might challenge him.”
My eyes skimmed over the broad expanse before me. Sure as squirrels shit acorns, the piles of sticks and stones I’d noticed earlier were actually skulls and bones. Each and every pile was a unique composition, the skeletal remains of various species stacked purposefully in a gross imitation of modern art. It was both macabre and narcissistic all at once, and it made me wonder if I could use his ego against him.
“Now I’m just brimming with confidence,” I quipped. “Listen, I’m going radio silent now. I don’t want to tip Tethra off that you’re coming.”
