by M. D. Massey
“Understood. Is there any message you’d like me to convey?”
The unspoken implication was that I wasn’t coming back from this fight. I thought about it for several seconds, then cleared my throat.
“Um, yes. Tell the old man what I did, and ask him to look after my mom, alright?”
“Of course.” Silence. “And, druid—good luck.”
After ending my conversation with Plúr, I spent several minutes organizing my gear and finalizing my preparations for the coming fight. Deciding I should conserve my energy, I resisted the urge to run, and instead strode purposefully at an unhurried pace toward the fortress. When I’d nearly reached the halfway point, I noticed someone standing atop the massive wall.
-He’ll kill you.- Saint Germain’s psychotic alter-ego whispered in my mind. -And then do you think the demigods will heal your master?-
What’s it to you?
-Call it an enlightened self-interest. If you die, I’ll be trapped, forever. You have no guarantee that the Celts will follow through, should you meet your end. The only way you can be certain your master survives is for you to survive. To do that, you will need my help.-
Again with the bargaining. Give it a rest.
Saint Germain laughed. -Consider this, druid. If the witch merely needs a short window of opportunity to heal your master, why aren’t her kin here to assist you? Wouldn’t you stand a better chance of distracting that monstrous god-killer with their help, rather than face him alone?-
He had a point, but I’d run out of time. Tethra had already leapt from the top of the wall to the ground, hitting with enough force to shatter the rocky ground beneath his feet. Despite the height of the wall, the Fomorian landed flat-footed, like he’d just jumped out of the bottom bunk to watch Saturday morning cartoons.
To top that feat off, he plunged his greatsword into the rocky plain like it was a block of cheese. The sword was impressive, sure—a huge claymore-looking thing with a long, upswept hilt and a broad, thick blade made of darkened steel. But he’d stabbed it into bedrock. That told me he was either incredibly strong, or the sword had magical properties. I suspected both.
Yay—this should be fun.
Tethra was a big fucker, easily twelve feet tall and built like an old-school bodybuilder—very muscular, but athletic too. He wore no armor, which was something else I’d expected. Fomorians didn’t need armor, because their skin was so thick and tough. All he had on was a pleated, knee-length skirt made from thick cloth and studded leather pteruges cinched at his waist with a wide leather belt.
Beyond that, he was nothing like I’d imagined. When I changed I turned into a monster—but this guy was good-looking. Some might have even described him as beautiful, with his smooth olive skin, dark and curly hair, bright gray eyes, and chiseled Roman features. If it wasn’t for having an extra digit on his hands and feet and a second row of teeth, he could’ve had a career in Hollywood.
“Trespass is considered a challenge in my lands, little son of Og,” he said in a sonorous, pleasing voice. “But I suspect you already knew that.”
Tethra the Fomorian spoke perfect English, as many immortals did. Finnegas said that after the first few hundred years, life got boring for long-lived species. For that reason, they tended to take up a lot of hobbies, languages being chief among them. His accent was strange though—not Irish, but more Mediterranean, which was a bit of a surprise.
“What do you mean, ‘Son of Og’?”
“Do you know nothing of your own people?” He stared at me for a moment, his steely gray eyes boring through me. “Nay, I see you’re greatly ignorant of your birthright, as you’ve barely tapped your potential.”
“I’ve tapped enough of it, believe me. Damned ríastrad’s been nothing but a pain in my ass since it first surfaced. Sure, it’s allowed me to kill an avatar, a godspawn, and a demigod or two, but beyond that I haven’t really seen much benefit to turning into a ten-foot-tall monster.”
“Monster? The Fomori were not monsters,” he said, gesturing expansively. “We were like unto gods, the mighty men of yore. We did great deeds, built cities, conquered nations. We were both feared and respected by the other races.” A smile teased at the corners of his mouth. “We even subjugated the Tuath Dé, for a time. I’m certain you can see the benefit in having that kind of power.”
“Yeah, but at what cost? From what I understand, you guys were the boogeymen of the ancient world. People hated your guts, so much so that they ended up driving you from your home and killing you off. Is that what it means to be Fomori?”
“Our civilization and culture went into decline because we chose to intermarry with the Tuath Dé. They stole our secrets and weakened our bloodlines. Had we remained pure, we would have ruled forever.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, stroking the air with my left hand. “Xenophobic despots always say shit like that.”
“You merely think this way because you were not raised among your people. You have much to learn about your heritage, and it would be a shame to cut your life off so soon. Are you certain you want this battle? I’ve been known to show mercy to my own kind—especially since there are so few of us left.”
I looked around at the many piles of bones that littered the landscape. “You didn’t show mercy to any of these poor bastards.”
“Am I not Fomori? Are battle and conquest not in my blood?” He squinted at me as if I were a difficult problem he was determined to solve. “Ah, now I see that Badb was right about you. You are much more human than Fomorian, and the blood of the Tuath Dé runs even weaker in your veins. Again, what a shame. Had you been my son, I’d have brought you up in the ways of bloodshed and battle. You would have been a god.”
“God, shmod. Look, it’s nothing personal, but you’re standing in the way of something I need. So, you can either move aside and let me into Fionn’s tomb, or I can go through you. Your call.”
He chortled with genuine amusement. “I must say, though you lack the stature and bloodthirsty nature of our kind, you certainly have a Fomorian’s stones. Fine. Know then that once we cross blades, there will be no more offers of mercy, and no amount of begging or pleading will stay my hand.”
“I’ve never pled to anyone for my own life,” I said, drawing Dyrnwyn from her scabbard. “Don’t expect I’ll be starting today.”
“Fine words, little one. Let’s see if you’ve the courage to match.”
And with that, the big fucker came at me like a Brangus bull on bath salts.
Coming into this battle, I knew I had a lot going against me. For starters, the terrain was almost devoid of life, all rock and dust. It’d be difficult, if not impossible, to use certain druid tricks on the smooth sandstone surface that comprised Tethra’s killing fields. That meant vines, brambles, and poisonous plants were out. I couldn’t grow something from nothing, after all.
My quicksand spell was also a no-go, as it was a hell of a lot harder to soften rock than soil. With dirt and sand, all you had to do was draw up moisture from deeper in the ground—voila, mud pit or quicksand. On the other hand, rock had to be melted if you wanted it liquified, and I didn’t think I had the juice to turn a bunch of sandstone into lava on the fly.
Likewise, my defensive magic was out of play as well. My bark skin spell was no good in this environment, for the same reasons I couldn’t use plant life offensively here. And raising earth walls would take a lot of energy, because all I had to work with was a bunch of sandstone. Maybe Finnegas could shape stone at will, but I wasn’t there yet—at least, not without the Druid Oak to back me up.
Too bad I’m not a necromancer, because this place is skeleton heaven.
As for my opponent, I knew I’d be facing someone or something that was a lot like my Hyde-side. And while it turned out that Tethra was a lot more, shall we say, civilized—he’d be just as dangerous. More so, if Plúr was to be believed.
When dealing with giantkind, usually they relied on brute strength and not a lot of finesse—the
y’d just come at you like gangbusters swinging for the fences. But I had a sneaking suspicion Tethra would be different. That sword of his was a good nine feet long, and he held it with a calm, almost workmanlike confidence.
Granted, no matter how strong you were, the laws of physics reigned supreme, so it wasn’t as though he could use his sword like a rapier. Still, his swordplay would likely be closer to what I’d expect from a broadsword man than one who favored the claidheamh mór, more fencer than headsman.
When facing an opponent who was much larger than you, standing your ground was the sucker’s play. A larger, stronger opponent with an advantage in body mass and reach could easily overpower a smaller person, given the opportunity. If I went at him blow for blow, Tethra would only need a few well-timed swings to beat my guard out of the way so he could slice an arm or leg off. And with no Fomorian healing factor, that would be the end of Colin.
Since I knew that a straight-up fencing match would be the death of me, I came fully prepared to cheat. Drawing Dyrnwyn had merely been a ploy, one designed to make him think I wanted to go toe to toe. When he came at me, I sheathed that sword and dropped a Willy Pete grenade at his feet—then I ran for dear life.
I’d designed my grenades so they didn’t have near the range of an actual M34 like the military used. The effective blast radius of the real deal was about one-hundred feet, but for my party favors it was more like twenty-five. And that’s about as far as I ran before I stopped and cast the shield version of Mogh’s Scythe.
As I’d expected, when the little glass jar rolled toward the Fomorian’s feet he sneered and jumped over it—big mistake. He was right above it when it detonated, all spread eagled in a hurdler’s leap that left his twig and chuckleberries exposed to the blast. When the thing went off the explosion made his skirt fly up and, wouldn’t you know it—Tethra wasn’t wearing a codpiece underneath. Yep, the dude took a few hundred grams of burning phosphorus right where the sun don’t shine.
The smell of burning pubes and fried cock and balls hit me shortly after the Fomorian’s scream, and if I hadn’t been so busy trying to finish the guy off, I’d have tossed my cookies. Earlier, I might have talked a lot of shit about being willing to die to save Finnegas, and that was a fact—but it wasn’t exactly my intended course of action. I still had magic to learn, revenge to be had, and gods to kill—and dying here in this godforsaken desert would’ve really put a crimp in those plans.
Knowing this would be my only chance to whoop Tethra’s ass, I wanted to put him down and keep him there. To that end, I cut loose with everything I had… and I do mean everything. Lightning, fireballs, ball lightning, concussion spells—you name it, I cast it. When all was said and done, Tethra lay on the ground covering what was left of his sack and sausage with his hands—a twelve-foot long, unmoving heap of charred, smoking flesh.
Holding my breath, I drew Dyrnwyn again and watched the Fomorian for several seconds, sword held high as I waited for him to so much as twitch a finger. When I was finally convinced that he wasn’t going to get up, I let out a long, slow sigh of relief. Then I staggered toward him, intent on removing his head so I could be absolutely certain he wasn’t coming back for round two.
I was about five steps away when his eyes popped open and he cracked a wide, wicked grin.
“Impressive, little one. Now—my turn.”
Mom didn’t raise no fool, and neither did Finnegas, so I started backing up as soon as that fucker twitched. The problem I faced now was that I was spent. Magic required energy to cast, and I’d just blown my wad spectacularly, gambling that if I hit him with everything all at once I’d live to see tomorrow. I was knackered, as Maureen might say. And without my connection to the Druid Oak, I had no reserves to draw on now that my internal magic stores had been depleted.
Sure, if we were on Earth I could use the power of nature to get me back in the fight. But here, in Mag Mell? This land was as foreign to me as the Void, and I had no hope of using its power to win this battle so long as Tethra was its master.
As all these things went through my head, the Fomorian giant’s flesh was growing back right before my eyes. Blackened, desiccated skin and muscle flaked away, and new healthy tissue reformed in its place. It was a lot like watching one of those anatomy videos where they peel the human body away layer by layer—except in reverse.
Huh, so that’s what that looks like.
I’d figured it must look pretty damned freaky when my healing factor did its thing, but I’d never really seen it from the outside looking in. Honestly, it was damned unsettling, especially since I knew that fucker had been dead just moments before. Hell, even his pecker was regenerating. Not that I was specifically looking in that direction, but his skirt had burned away, so it was kind of hard not to notice.
When I saw how quickly he was recovering, I cast obfuscation and chameleon spells on myself with what little magic I had left. Then I ran, just as fast as I could go. Out of some sense of morbid curiosity, I looked back over my shoulder to see how Tethra was doing. When the cheeky son of a bitch kipped to his feet, I knew I was fucked.
The only good news was that he’d been out of commission for several seconds, so maybe Plúr had time to help the old man. I pulled the little snail shell from my pocket, holding it up to my face and whispering in it as I sprinted for the path out of the crater.
“Yeah, Plúr? Any luck on healing Finnegas?”
“Nay, I’ve not been able to pierce the Fomorian’s defenses.”
“Ah, hell. I hit him with everything I had, and he shrugged it off like it was nothing.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, druid. Unless you can render him unconscious, or slay him, I won’t be able to enter the tomb.”
Just then the ground shook, knocking me off my feet and sending my helmet flying. Cradling the shell so I wouldn’t crush it, I placed it just inside my Craneskin Bag as I got to my hands and knees and froze. Not more than thirty feet away Tethra hammered at the ground with his fists, cracking the stone beneath him in a huge, spider-web pattern.
The giant started pulling engine block-sized chunks of rock from the ground, throwing them in a random pattern that would eventually zero in on my location. At first he appeared to be working his way around the area, but then he spotted something on the ground, just beyond where I stood. My eyes followed his, and when I saw what he was looking at, my heart skipped a beat. My helmet lay on the ground not ten feet away, completely visible as it was no longer obscured by my magic.
Shit, shit, shit.
I leapt to my feet and began to run just as one of those enormous boulders impacted the ground next to me. The rock shattered on impact, sending shards of stone in all directions. One struck me on the arm, another on the shoulder, and a third grazed my head, stunning me. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground, staring at the ugly, gray sky overhead.
“There you are, little one,” Tethra said as he leapt fifty feet to land right next to me. My chameleon spell had failed the moment I lost consciousness. Before I could cast it again he grabbed me by my throat, holding me off my feet at arm's length. “Time to end this. You’re just about the right size to fill my pot, and I haven’t tasted man in a long, long time.”
I drew Drynwyn, but he merely batted it out of my grasp. Then I pulled my Glock, emptying the magazine in his face and torso. He laughed and shook me like a puppy, stunning me. Out of desperation, I reached into my Craneskin Bag just as Saint Germain’s voice echoed in my head.
-Release me, and live.-
Meanwhile, Tethra was slowly squeezing the life out of me. My vision was turning black around the edges, I could barely breathe, and I was pretty sure I’d heard one of my vertebrae separate. Suddenly I was faced with the stark realization that I had lost.
Finnegas was going to die.
Fuck.
I pulled out the snailshell and spoke into it. “Send the coffin to me, now!”
“What?”
“Just do it, Plúr!”
21
A portal appeared about twenty feet behind Tethra, and a long silver object came sailing through. He was choking the life from me, but I still hesitated to open it, not knowing what I might unleash. The coffin hit the ground with a loud clanging sound as the portal closed, causing the Fomorian to look over his shoulder. Recognition dawned in his eyes as he looked back to me, then he raised his sword.
“Scaoil,” I rasped.
The latches on the sarcophagus snapped apart as the wards burst like a balloon at a porcupine convention. Instantly, the lid crashed open and a figure that was, and was not, Saint Germain sat up, looking around the area with a feral, hungry expression. He appeared just like the mannered but haggard-looking vampire who’d climbed into the coffin just a day or two before, but it was not the same person looking at me from behind those ruby-red eyes.
As before, the creature’s face was gaunt and his build thin, with loose skin hanging from his neck and jowls like a fat man three months into a crash diet. But that was where the resemblance ended. This Germain’s skin was gray and translucent, his mouth full of needle-sharp teeth, his clawed feet bare. His bony, talon-tipped fingers clicked against the sides of the coffin, sizzling as they touched the silver-plated surface. And the beast didn’t even blink.
The creature fixed his eyes on the Fomorian, then he shot forward like a rocket, alighting on his back. Using Tethra’s shoulders like a pommel horse, Le Boucher vaulted sideways and kicked the greatsword from the giant’s hand just before he cut me clean in two. Then the creature skittered around the giant’s body like some great four-legged arachnid, sinking its claws deep into his skin and muscle as he settled on the giant’s back.
Meanwhile, Tethra had tossed me aside to deal with the more immediate, urgent threat. Apparently even a god-killer thought that having a master vampire on your back was bad news. He kept reaching around, first this way then that, attempting to get a grip on the vampire so he could pull it off his back.
