by Jim Butcher
I started with the circle where I intended to trap the Erlking. The coil of barbed wire still gleamed with its factory finish. I uncoiled enough of it to give me several small holes in my fingers and to join into a circle about seven feet across. Though it wasn’t cold iron in the technical sense, it was very much what the faeries meant when they said “cold iron”—the wire had plenty of iron in it, and cold iron was the bane of the faerie world.
I laid the barbed wire out, straightening it slightly as I went, and tacked it down into the damp earth with horseshoe-shaped metal staples as long as my little finger. I double-checked every staple, and then clipped the barbed wire from the larger roll and used a pair of pliers to twist the loose ends together. After that, I marked out the points of an invisible five-pointed star within the circle, and placed several articles with an affinity for the Erlking; a heavy collar one might place on a hunting hound, a whetstone, a small bowie knife, flint and steel, and several steel arrowheads.
Then I placed my own affinity items opposite those of the Erlking’s, outside the circle; a used copy of The Hobbit, the splintered end of my last blasting rod, my .44, a parking ticket I hadn’t paid yet, and finally my mother’s silver pentacle amulet. I stepped back and went over the circle again, making sure that it was fixed solidly and that nothing had fallen across it.
In the back of my mind somewhere, I was aware of the approach of sunset. I don’t know how I knew it, really. It was already darker than most nights, and I certainly couldn’t judge when the sun would be down with all those rain clouds in the way—but that didn’t seem to matter. I could feel the sunlight still gliding down to be trapped in the overcast, could feel its presence and warmth with some part of my mind that wasn’t entirely beholden to mere physics. I could feel it fading, and felt the concurrent stirring of the magical forces of night as it did.
The energy of night was far different than that of the daylight—not inherently evil, but wilder, more dangerous, more unpredictable. Night was a time of endings, and this night, Samhain, All Hallow’s Eve, was particularly so. On this night, the forces of the spirit world, the wild things that haunted the Nevernever, drawn to death and decay, would flit freely back and forth. Spirits would turn restless in their graves and wander the world, mostly unseen by mortal eyes. The wild beasts could feel the night coming, and their metropolitan cousins could sense the knife-edge of danger and energy in the air. Dogs began to howl in the neighborhood around me, first one, then two, then dozens, and their long, low, mournful howls rose up in a haunting tide.
Dark was only moments away, and I stripped the black leather glove from my bad hand and knelt by the barbed-wire circle. Then I leaned down and pressed my left palm, all scarred but for the shape of Lasciel’s sigil like a living brand on my skin, against the nearest tine of barbed wire, pressing my flesh down with careful deliberation. I didn’t feel the wire cut me, but there was a trickle of warmth over a portion of the sigil, and my blood—black in the greenish chemical light—slipped down over the barbed wire, mixing with my will to send energy coursing into the cold-iron prison I had built.
The prison was built and the trap was set. I wished that there had been more time to assemble the articles I’d needed. If there had been months to prepare, I could have worked with Bob to figure out the best way to do the job. The materials might have been rare and expensive and difficult to attain, but it was within the realm of possibility to build a circle from which even a being like the Erlking could not lightly escape.
But there hadn’t been time, and if my quickie-mart Alcatraz was going to do the job, it would need all of my focus and determination.
So I shut my doubts into a closet in the back of my mind, along with my fears. I knelt in my coat in the rain, staff still in my right hand, and took slow, deep breaths. I envisioned myself drawing in power with each breath, and exhaling weakness and distraction. I felt the magic stirring around me and within me as I did, and I started building up my will, gathering my strength for use, until the wet grass seemed to sparkle with too many points of green-gold light and the hairs on my neck rose up on end.
I took in a final deep breath, and on the exhale night fell.
I opened my mouth and began to call out in the steady cadence of the summoning. My voice rang hollow in the wind and rain, muffled but strong, and I poured some of my will into the words, until the power in them began to make the air ripple around them as they flowed from my lips. There, in the darkness, I reached into the spirit world to call up one of the deadliest beings of Faerie.
And the Erlking answered.
One moment the circle was empty. Then there was a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and a disembodied black shadow appeared on the grass within the circle—the shadow of a tall, standing figure with no physical presence to cast it.
I barely stopped myself from flinching and breaking off the summoning chant—a mistake that would have freed the Erlking to leave at best, and freed it to kill me at worst. But I recovered myself and kept up the litany all the way through to the end. When I finished it, my voice had risen to a strident, silvery clarion, and on the last word lightning flashed down from the storm, green and white and eye-searing. It struck down upon the circle, slammed against it, and then scattered out around the circle in a hissing matrix of electricity and steam and magic, defining the cylinder of the magic circle in a sparkle of greenish light that rose up into the night for a moment, and then faded away.
When it was gone, the shadow within my circle was no longer alone.
The Erlking stood better than eight feet high. Other than that it looked more or less like a human dressed in close-fitting leathers and mail of some dark, matte black substance. It wore a bucket-shaped helmet that covered its face, and the horns of an enormous stag rose up and away from the helm. Within the slit of the helmet’s visor, I could see twin gleams of amber fire, and as those terrible eyes settled upon me, I could feel the presence of the being behind them like a sudden raw and wild hunger that pressed against the outside of my skin. I could feel the Erlking’s lust for the wild night, for the hunt, and for the kill. Lightning flashed again and the rain came down harder, and he raised his arms slowly, dismissing me and stretching his body up to glory in the storm.
It is time, mortal. Release me.
The words suddenly appeared in my head without going through my ears, scarlet and glowing and scalding. This time I did flinch as the Erlking’s will sent meaning into my thoughts like a well-thrown spear. I tore my attention away from that lance of thought and spoke aloud in reply.
“I will not release you.”
The glowing eyes within the helm snapped back to me, flaring larger and brighter. I am no beast to be lured and trapped, mortal. Set me free and join me in the hunt.
Images came with the thoughts this time—the rush of rain and wind in my face, raw hunger in my belly that I was about to sate, the strength and power of my body and that of the mount beneath me, and the glorious thrill of the chase as the prey fled as it was created to do, testing my strength, speed, endurance, and will while the night called and the storm raged around me. To my surprise, there was no sense of hate in it, no twisting bitterness of despair. There was only a wild and ferocious joy, an adrenaline sense of excitement, of passion, of savage harmony red in tooth and claw.
I barely managed to pull my thoughts back into my own control, grinding my teeth and reminding myself that I was kneeling in Murphy’s backyard, not pursuing game through the forest primeval. The Erlking might not be evil incarnate, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t far too dangerous to be allowed to go free. “No,” I growled. “I will not release you.”
His amber-flame eyes narrowed, and he dropped slowly into a crouch, knees bent, his fingers resting lightly on the grass just inside the barbed wire. Those eyes were barely three feet from mine, and he considered me in silence that swiftly became a torment of suspense.
You are he, the Erlking cast at me. He who defied Queen Winter. He who slew
Lady Summer.
In those thoughts, I saw Mab standing over me as I lay stunned beside the Summer Lady’s corpse, offering me her hand. I felt Aurora’s blood drying on my skin, tasted it, harsh and sweet, in my mouth. I had to force myself not to try to spit the phantom taste from my tongue.
“I am he,” I said.
We are not foes, came his thoughts. And…he was curious about it. Even baffled. In sending me his thoughts, I also got flashes of emotion from him. You are part of the hunt. A predator. Why do you call me if not to join me?
“To prevent another from setting you free this night.”
The Erlking tilted its head. There was no sending of thought, but I read the gesture clearly enough to interpret it as if he had. Why?
“Because your presence would mean suffering and death for those people I would protect.”
Man suffers. Man dies. It is how things are.
“Not tonight it isn’t,” I growled.
Hunter, cast the Erlking. You are not strong enough to hold me. Release me, lest I turn the hunt upon you.
And suddenly I felt the other side of the hunt. I felt my legs singing with the strength of terror. I felt my lungs burning, felt my body moving with the power and grace that only the approach of death can summon from it. I fled over the rough ground, bounding like a deer, and knew the whole while that there was no escape.
“Thrice I say and done.” I gasped, forcing the words out in a defiant scream. “I will. Not. Release you.”
And the Erlking rose, an unearthly scream piercing the night. The chorus of howling dogs rose with it, louder and louder, and the storm lashed at the air with sabers of wind and lances of lightning. The sound was deafening, the light searing, and the freaking ground started to tremble as the Erlking lashed out against my circle with his will.
I stood my ground, facing the Erlking and casting my will into the circle, forcing it against his own power, struggling to contain him while he sought to burst free from my enchantment. It was an enormous struggle, and almost hopeless. I felt like a man straining to push a car up a hill. Not only was it a difficult weight to begin to move, but a greater force was working against me, and if I allowed it to move even an inch it would begin to gain momentum and crush me beneath it.
So I fought for that inch, refusing to give it to him. The Erlking wasn’t an evil being—but he was a force of nature, power, and violence without conscience or restraint.
He screamed again, and the howling wind and rain and the call of beasts grew even louder. Again he surged against the circle of my will, and again I held him in. Wild, the Erlking shook his head like a maddened beast, and his antlers slammed against the confining wall of the circle that imprisoned him, sending ripples of greenish light out through the circle. Then he reached to his side and drew a black sword from its scabbard. He lifted the blade, and a lance of green lightning flashed down from the storm, touching upon its tip and wreathing it in blinding light. Then he took the sword in both hands and brought it down upon the barrier.
I have little memory of what the third blow was like. I remember it in much the same way I do the burning of my left hand. There was too much light, too much energy, a tide of agony, and I was terrified. My vision faded to a blind field of white, and I thrust my staff hard against the ground to keep from falling.
And then my vision began to clear. The tide began to recede. And within the circle, whirling in a frenzy of frustration and need, was the Erlking. His power was fading, and the circle I’d built had been good enough to give me enough leverage to hold him.
I thought I heard a muffled voice somewhere amid all the wind and rain and thunder and the swift pounding of my own heart. I started to look around for the source of the noise.
And then someone hit me on the back of the head.
I remember that part, because I’d been through it before. A flash of light, pain, a sickening whirling sensation as I fell, and a disjointed looseness to limbs that had suddenly gone useless. I fell to one side, shocked that the whole world had suddenly tilted on end. The grass suddenly felt cold and wet against my cheek.
With a shriek of triumph, the Erlking shattered my circle into a cloud of golden light that faded and vanished. There was a roar of wind, and then an enormous horse landed in Murphy’s yard as if it had just vaulted over the whole of her house. The Erlking flung himself up onto the black steed’s back and let loose an eerie cry. When he did, all the howling music of the dogs, primitive and fierce, seemed to congeal into flashes of lightning that leapt up from the ground and into the clouds. For a second there was silence, and then the screaming winds warbled and whistled into deeper, more terrifying howls than any dog had ever uttered. From the shadows rushed a great hound, a beast the size of a pony with dark fur, gleaming white teeth, and the flaming amber eyes of the Erlking himself. More hounds came leaping from the shadows, bounding in bloodthirsty joy around the Erlking’s horse.
The Erlking whirled his steed, lifted his black sword in a mocking salute to me, and then cried out to his steed and his hounds. The black horse gathered itself and leapt into the air, then started churning its legs as if running up a hill—and kept going up. The hounds leapt and followed their master up into the teeth of the storm. Lightning flashed in my eyes, and when it died again, they were gone.
The Wild Hunt was loose in Chicago.
And I had been the one to call them here.
I struggled until I began to move. I wasn’t able to get enough balance to rise, but I managed to roll over onto my back. Cold raindrops slapped against my face.
Cowl put the barrel of my own .44 to the end of my nose and said, “An impressive display, Dresden. It’s always such a pity when someone with such talent dies so young.”
Chapter
Thirty-four
I looked at the cavernous barrel and thought to myself that a .44 really was a ridiculously big gun. Then I looked past it to Cowl and said, “But you aren’t planning on doing it yourself, are you? Otherwise you’d have just shot me in the back of the head and had done with it. With me groggy like that, you might not even have had a death curse to worry about.”
“Very good,” Cowl said approvingly. “Your reason, at least, seems sound. Provided you remain very still and give me no reason to think you a threat, I’ll be glad to let you live until the Erlking returns for you.”
I held still, partly because I didn’t want to get shot, and partly because I thought I might throw up if I moved my head too much. “How’d you find me?” I asked.
“Kumori and I have been taking turns tailing you most of the day,” he said.
“When do you people sleep?” I asked.
“No rest for the wicked,” Cowl said. His tone was amused from within his heavy hood, but the gun never wavered.
“Someone had to keep an eye on me,” I said. “You and Grevane and Corpsetaker all wanted the Erlking to be in town. It didn’t matter to you who called him as long as someone did.”
“And you were the only one with an interest in keeping him away,” Cowl said. “All I needed to do was watch you and ensure that you did not actually trap the Erlking.”
“And that’s why you followed me,” I said.
“It’s one reason,” he replied. “I think you might actually have done it, you know, had I not interrupted you. I was the only one of the three of us who thought you might succeed.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “I thought that you guys hated one another’s guts.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then are you working together or trying to kill each other?” I asked.
“Why, yes,” Cowl said, and what sounded like a genuine laugh bubbled in his voice. “We smile at one another and play nicely all in the name of Kemmler’s greater glory, of course. But we are all planning on killing one another as soon as it’s convenient. I take it that Corpsetaker tried to remove Grevane last night?”
“Yeah. It was a real party.”
“Pity. I would have enjoyed watching the
m in action again. But I was busy with the actual work. That’s how it usually works out.”
“Taking out the city’s power grid.”
“And phone lines, radio communications, and quite a few other, subtler things,” Cowl said. “It was difficult, but someone had to do it. Naturally it fell to me. But we’ll see how things settle out before morning.”
“Heh,” I said. “They think they’re using you to get the serious technical magic done, while they save up their juice for the fight. And you think you’re lulling them off guard, so that when the Darkhallow goes down, you get the power.”
“There’s no real reason to practice my swordplay and summoning of the dead when I have no intention of entering a tactical contest with them.”
“You really intend to make yourself into a god?” I asked.
“I intend to take power,” Cowl said. “I regard myself as the least of the possible evils.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Someone is going to get the power. Might as well be you. Something like that?”
“Something like that,” Cowl said.
“What if no one got it?” I said.
“I don’t really see that happening,” he said. “Grevane and the Corpsetaker are determined. I intend to beat them to the prize and use it to destroy them. It’s the only way to be sure one of those madmen does not become something more terrible than the earth has ever seen.”
“Right,” I said. “You’re the correct madman for the job.”
Cowl was silent for a long moment in the rain. Drops fell off the end of my pistol in his gloved hand. Then he said, his voice pensive, “I do not perceive myself to be mad. But if I were truly mad, would I be able to tell?”
I shivered. Probably from the rain and the cold.
Cowl took a step back from me and said, voice firm and confident again, “Did you find him?”
