Staked (Iron Druid Chronicles)

by Kevin Hearne

  “Wait here. I’ll deliver your message.” He flew away without any further pleasantries.

  In another hour, as the sun was sinking red into the west, Jupiter struck the earth as a thunderbolt nearby and startled Oberon and me out of our skins.

 

  No.

 

  Yes.

 

  Jupiter was fully armored—or at least armored by Roman standards, which left the legs somewhat vulnerable, though he did have greaves. His dark oiled beard jutted out below his helmet like a column of basalt, and lightning sparked in his eyes and in his fists. I thought we might be in trouble.

  “Don’t worry, this show isn’t for you,” he said. “It’s for Diana. I want her to see how very displeased I am.”

  “An excellent idea.” In my Latin headspace I called to the elemental of England, Albion, and requested that he bring Diana’s various parts up out of the earth so that we may talk to her. I continued to speak to Jupiter in the other. “May I offer a suggestion that might also urge her to accept a truce?”

  The Roman god of the sky nodded, and I continued: “I’ll remain out of sight and you talk to her. Please relay my offer that the Druids will speak to Gaia and take special care of the grove in which the dryads live—we will be sure the trees flourish, in other words, and their dryads along with them. I sincerely regret the unpleasantness and want to make it right, so long as I secure her pledge not to hunt me or have others seek my death.”

  “Understood.” He nodded once and then asked, “What news regarding this Ragnarok business?”

  “We are still in the opening moves of the chess match. I’m leaving tomorrow to try to secure a new ally—the dark elves of Svartálfheim. It’s why I wished to do this now—I’m not sure when or even if I’ll be back.”

  The earth parted between us and Diana emerged, severally. I stepped back behind her head—or, I suppose, at the top of her head, where she couldn’t see me. She had an excellent view of Jupiter, though, which must have been very intimidating.

  “Welcome back to the light, Diana,” he said. “I hope it will be permanent. The Druids are offering concessions and I hope you will consider carefully, because it specifically addresses the injury you claim to be fighting for.”

  Diana’s confident voice contained a bite of scorn. She had not been cowed by nearly two months of solitary confinement in the darkness. Mortals would have broken in mere days, but not an Olympian. “Go on, then,” she said.

  “They will protect the dryads and their groves and make sure that they flourish with the strength of Gaia. And they sincerely regret inspiring your anger. All that they ask is that you allow them to live and do not conspire against them.”

  The goddess of the hunt did not answer, and Jupiter eventually had to prompt her, eyes flashing.

  “Well? What say you? You go free and the dryads will be better off.”

  “I … accept.”

  The thunder god’s expression softened and the lightning in his eyes faded. “This pleases me. Swear to me that you will abide by the conditions of your release. You will no longer hunt the Druids and will not seek to bring them harm by any other means.”

  “I swear all this in your name.”

  “Good.” His eyes flicked up in my direction and I asked Albion to set Diana free. The chalky soil native to the area crumbled away, allowing Jupiter to reattach Diana’s limbs and head to her torso. From there the divine healing abilities of the Olympian immortals took over, and in minutes she was whole again. Jupiter helped her up, she brushed some dirt and dust off her arms and clothes, and then turned to see me standing there with Oberon.

  She clenched her jaw and then her fists, and I immediately regretted not casting camouflage, as the mere sight of me was a clear provocation to her. Such a provocation that a cry of rage ripped loose from her throat, and she charged me barehanded. I drew Fragarach, which set off spasms of pain all down my back, tried to set myself on a gammy leg, and warned Oberon to stay out of the way.

  “Diana!” Jupiter shouted. “You swore!”

  She kept coming. I readied a low swing at her midsection, something she couldn’t duck. And then Diana exploded into golden ichor and organ chunks, and Oberon and I both got covered in her viscera and cut up with little pieces of bone shrapnel. A crack of thunder accompanied the explosion and explained what happened: Jupiter had obliterated her with a thunderbolt rather than see her break her word.

 

  Oberon, do not lick any of that off! Ichor is poison to us. Let it sit and we’ll wash you as soon as we can.

  Jupiter growled a few choice curses in Latin and then apologized in English. “Sorry about that. I thought she would keep to her word.”

  “Blech. I thought so too.”

  “I’ll deal with her on Olympus,” he said, for she would re-spawn there after a while. The Olympians had a pretty sweet immortality deal compared to most other pantheons: They really couldn’t die. Get rid of their bodies and they’d come back in new ones. Most other pantheons just got a long life in one body, and after they shuffled off their original mortal coil they could manifest every so often for short periods of time, like the Morrigan did, depending on the power they derived from their believers.

  “How exactly will you do that, if I may ask?” I said, wiping golden gunk off my face. “She obviously can’t be trusted. Her word means nothing.”

  “No, but she can be watched and dealt with, as you just saw.”

  “And if you’re too late? If she slips past your guard? If she employs someone else to assassinate me?”

  “You will be safe,” he assured me. “It’s a matter of personal honor now. She’s given me insult.”

  “I’ll leave it in your hands, then,” I said, for there was very little else I could do. Though I didn’t give voice to them, I already had serious doubts that I would ever be safe from Diana. Whether by design or accident, I’d been outmaneuvered. Jupiter had turned all my leverage to goo. Diana or one of her proxies could strike at any time in the future and then Jupiter’s assurances would be meaningless, because I’d be dead. And what would he do if someone were to confront him, anyway? Shrug his shoulders and say, “My bad”? As Manannan Mac Lir had already discovered, while “working” with Poseidon and Neptune to search for Jörmungandr in the ocean—an entirely fruitless endeavor so far—the Olympians were unreliable allies at best.

  “Farewell, Druid,” Jupiter said.

  I chucked my chin at him and braced myself for his exit—it came a split second later in a thunderbolt that made my hair stand on end and burned the air, leaving us alone in the English countryside.

  Oberon’s charged fur stuck out all over and he shook himself, which got rid of some of Diana’s gore but did nothing to improve his appearance. he said.

  I agreed and decided my best move would be to impose on Sam and Ty’s hospitality until it was time to meet up with Brighid. Besides, I needed to leave Oberon somewhere safe. There was no way I’d risk taking him with me to Svartálfheim.

  Ty’s jaw dropped open when he answered the door and saw us standing there in slimy, golden glory.

  “May we use your bathroom, sir?” I asked.

  “My God, Atticus, you look like you had an orgy with egg yolks and orange juice.”

  “We might need a loofah,” I admitted.

  “Dare I ask what happened?”

  “An Olympian exploded on us and it was yucky.”

  “Damn. Why can’t you get your kicks by BASE jumping or parasailing, like regular folks?”

 

  Ty opened the door wider and stepped aside to let us pass. “Well, you know where the bathroom is.” />
  “Thanks.”

  Get in the tub, I told Oberon privately, but don’t you dare wreck the shower curtain this time. I don’t care how ugly it is.

 

  I’m going to tell you about someone who burned down a convent for love.

 

  That would be an excellent guess.

  CHAPTER 9

  Contrary to my expectations, I have absolutely no trouble finding the Sisters of the Three Auroras when I get to Warsaw. When I shift into the city with Orlaith, using a tethered black poplar tree in an expansive park called Pole Mokotowskie, they are waiting for me, having a picnic. All around the tree, in fact, doing it properly with blankets on the grass and baskets full of bread and cheese and pierogies. A few of them have glasses of wine in their hands, which is the sort of thing that is widely practiced but truly only permissible until the police arrive to issue citations.

  Orlaith says, just as Malina Sokołowska raises a half-eaten baguette to hail me around a mouthful of sandwich.

  “Ah, Granuaile! Welcome!”

  Thirteen pairs of eyes fix on Orlaith and me and it’s pretty uncomfortable, because I’m acutely aware of being targeted. I don’t really know them that well, except by reputation and a brief meeting. When we were first introduced—I mean the ones that never messed with Atticus and the Tempe Pack at Tony Cabin and died for it—Atticus and I had been naked in an onion field near Jasło, running from Artemis and Diana. The coven had been waiting for us there because they’d seen something big coming in advance, which turned out to be Loki rocketing out of the sky to confront us. Pulling the same I-knew-you’d-be-here trick again, except specifically applied to me, only emphasizes why I need shielding from divination.

  The new coven members had never been introduced to us. And now that I’m possibly at the receiving end of whatever they want to throw my way, I realize I don’t know what to expect. Do they use wands to direct their spells? Flailing jazz hands and eyes rolled back in their heads? I remember Atticus saying they’re quite fast and skilled in physical combat but recall very little information in the way of offensive magical attacks. Atticus claims that Malina can summon a hellwhip out of the air, but surely I don’t need to worry about that in such a public place. Especially since I’m not actually from hell, just Kansas.

  “You’re in no danger, I assure you,” Malina continues in her mild Polish accent when I do not reply. “We saw that you wished to talk and so here we are, enjoying the day. No one will bother us. Please, sit.”

  Orlaith, I say privately, I know these people but do not trust them yet. Do not accept any food from them.

 

  Out loud, I say, “Thank you,” and then mutter a binding in Old Irish to keep all my hairs on my head, a precaution that Atticus recommends when dealing with them. I move to take a spot on a blanket to the coven leader’s left but with a basket between us. The nearby witches make minute adjustments so that they can see me better, while the ones on the opposite side of the trunk move so that they have a clear view. They’re not dressed alike, to suggest that they’re anything but friends, or in any fashion that might suggest they’re into the occult. They’re wearing clothing appropriate for a sunny but chilly late autumn day. Some wear jeans, others leggings under skirts with their feet shoved into boots and purple scarves around their necks. Light jackets of varying materials and colors, and a couple of cute knit hats on their heads. Besides Malina, whose long straight blond hair instantly identifies her, I think I recognize four other original members by Atticus’s shorthand descriptions: Owl-Eyed Roksana, Bedhead Klaudia, Kazimiera Who’s Damn Tall, and Cherubic Berta.

  “Would you like a cucumber sandwich or something to drink?” Berta asks. She has rosy cheeks and I suspect she might be a bit sloshed, judging by the besotted grin on her face and the nearly empty glass of wine in her hand with an even emptier bottle nearby.

  “No, thank you,” I say. “I ate recently and I’m not hungry.”

  “I’d introduce you to everyone, but I expect you’re here for business rather than pleasure,” Malina says. When I nod and grimace by way of apology, she smiles in understanding. “We appreciate you being direct and forthright with us. What did you wish to talk about, then?”

  “Your predecessor placed a cloak around Atticus’s sword that shielded it from divination. I wonder if you can do the same thing to me?”

  “Yes. We can provide you with a divination cloak. But it’s not the sort of thing for which we accept coin.”

  “That’s good, because I don’t have a single, uh … I was going to say penny, but you probably don’t use those in Poland.”

  “No, we use the grosz for small coins,” one of the witches says—since her legs appear longer than some people are tall, I think she is Kazimiera.

  “Don’t have a single grosz on me either.”

  “Then you can earn your cloak,” Malina says, “by helping us find the white horse of Świętowit.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She’s moving quite fast—she probably already knew what I was going to ask and what she would ask in return.

  “Świętowit is an old Slavic god of war and divination. There are slightly different spellings and pronunciations of his name depending on which Slavic country you’re in, but he was—or is—important to Polish pagans like ourselves.”

  “And he had a white horse. Did he lose it or did somebody steal it?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Why is the horse important? Why isn’t Świętowit looking for him?”

  “We are not sure Świętowit is still alive, actually. But we believe that the horse is.”

  It appears that there are no quick answers to my questions, since I’m missing context. “You’d better start at the beginning.”

  Malina turns to one of her coven with overlarge glasses and a thicket of frizzy, dirty blond hair tamed into a thick ponytail. “Roksana, you’re better at this sort of thing. Will you give her the condensed version?”

  “With pleasure.” She smiles primly and swings her giant peepers in my direction. “To the northwest, off the coast of Germany in the Baltic Sea, there is an island called Rügen.”

  “Really? Named after Count Rugen, the six-fingered man?”

  “What? No. Named after the Rujani people, a Slavic tribe that occupied it from the ninth to twelfth centuries. The current name is a German corruption.”

  “Oh.”

  “On the northeastern tip of the island, at Cape Arkona, there was a fortified cult site called Jaromarsburg. They had a temple there to the god Świętowit. It was the last outpost of Slavic paganism before the Danish king laid siege to it in 1168 and defeated the Rujani. The Danes burned down the temple and the carved idol of Świętowit and forced everyone into Christianity afterward. The Rujani were eventually assimilated into the Germanic tribes nearby, and their language died out in a couple of centuries. But what happened to Świętowit and his horse is what we wish to find out. They disappeared.”

  “You mean they were physically present at Jaromarsburg?”

  “Perhaps not Świętowit himself. But his horse was, until—we are guessing—immediately before the Danish invasion.”

  “And how do you know this if it was almost a thousand years ago?”

  “The priests of Świętowit were using the horse to divine victory or defeat in battle. Had the horse been present before the invasion, they would have known about their imminent defeat and abandoned the site.”

  “Forgive me, but I’m not sure that follows. Men have been known to be stupid on occasion and not listen to sense when their pride is on the line. That’s pretty much the history of every war ever.”

  The witches stare at me until Klaudia snorts in amusement. She’s the sleepy-eyed sensual one with short, wild hair and a coppery tan. Her lips, soft and poufy like pillows, quirk upward, and they are so
beguiling and infinitely kissable that I cannot look away until Malina says, “Klaudia! Stop that.”

  “Sorry,” she says, as I blink and shake my head, free of the charm. “But it’s fun to play with the Druids.”

  I remember Atticus warning me about their charms and telling me that something very similar had happened to him. I see the pattern: Malina wants me to know that her coven could kick my ass if they wanted, but she doesn’t want to communicate that herself. She has Klaudia do it with those movie-star lips of hers and then disciplines her—very mildly—to give me the impression that she’s the fair one who looks out for my well-being. It’s the friendliest of threats, brandishing a pair of delicious lips instead of a weapon, but it’s still a threat.

  “Apologies, Granuaile,” Malina says, and then hurries on before I can escalate her message into a confrontation. “The reason we believe the horse is still around has something to do with Loki, which we thought you might find interesting.”

  “Yes, you’re right about that.”

  “We haven’t confirmed any of this, but it’s a mysterious pattern of absences, and we think you might be able to confirm it one way or another. After Loki escaped us, thanks to the strange interference of that Finnish god, we began a series of rituals to try to divine his connections to other pantheons. Do you know of the Slavic god Weles?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “How about Perun?”

  “Him I know.”

  “Weles is Perun’s nemesis, a sneaky trickster type. The parallel with Thor and Loki is quite clear, in fact. We are fairly certain that Perun is alive but not on this earth.”

  “That’s correct. He’s a guest on the Fae planes.”