by M. D. Massey
I’d executed the move countless times in the gym, using a grappling dummy to get thousands of reps in on the mats, and dozens in sparring matches with live opponents. Thus, my form was perfect. The valkyrie’s head collided with the rocky ground, my weight and our combined momentum serving to drive her at speed into the unforgiving surface of the Icelandic landscape.
On impact I felt her go limp, and that’s when I pressed the attack. If I gave her any chance to recover, she’d most definitely pull a shorter weapon out of some pocket dimension and shove it in my back. I wrapped myself around her like a boa constrictor, using my jiu-jitsu training to transition my way to a full back mount. Once there, I sunk in a deep rear naked choke with my legs wrapped in a figure-four body lock around her waist.
It took no more than a second for my opponent to regain consciousness, but by that point, I was already choking the shit out of her. However, I’d failed to notice that she still held her sword. I watched over her shoulder as the valkyrie flipped her sword around, grabbing the blade with one hand and one end of the cross guard with the other. Without a moment’s hesitation, the shieldmaiden drove the tip of her sword through her stomach, out her back, and into my torso.
Okay, that’s fucked up.
I’d been stabbed many times before, both in practice with Maureen and also in real-life battles. Yet seeing your opponent stab themselves through their own body in order to attack you was more than a little unnerving. And the pain was exquisite—first a sharp, piercing agony, and then a kind of dull ache accompanied by a nausea that I’d rarely felt outside of an all-night bender barhopping on Sixth Street.
Ignoring the throbbing torture in my gut, I squeezed even harder, cutting off all blood flow to the valkyrie’s brain while producing a few pops and crackles from her cervical spine. She responded by using the cross guard of the sword to twist her blade, widening the wound in her abdomen and mine, and increasing my nausea and pain to levels I’d previously thought impossible.
I choked down some bile and tried to find my happy place as I squeezed her neck with renewed urgency. The valkyrie continued to grind and twist her sword, but with every motion, she was expending oxygen that she could not spare.
Meanwhile, the wound in my abdomen was leaking blood and other body fluids at a surprising rate. Hot liquid seeped out around me, soaking the rocky earth in a puddle beneath us both. I soon became weak with blood loss, and while the valkyrie was fading much quicker than me, I preferred to end the fight before it resulted in our mutual demise.
“Yield,” I growled.
“Nay,” she croaked back.
“Yield, or I’ll snap your neck.”
She considered it for a few moments, then with a hissing exhale that could have been a sigh, she relaxed and released her blade. “I yield, druid. You have proven yourself worthy of the Valkyries’ assistance.”
I pushed her off me, removing both her and her blade as a loud groan escaped my lips. Clamping both hands over my wound, I began shifting into my full Fomorian form just as things started going dark. Then, I blacked out.
2
I was only out for a moment, but it was enough to make me nervous, considering that the valkyrie was within striking distance and armed. As I recovered, she stood up and pulled her sword from her abdomen, a small grunt the only indication of her discomfort. She stood over me, watching me shift with a look of casual curiosity—the kind of look a child might give a bug before they burned it with a magnifying glass.
“You have jötunn blood,” she remarked, her voice neutral.
“Fomorian,” I rumbled, while the “other” part of my brain considered potential ways the valkyrie might attack, calculating various countermeasures on the fly. While I was fully in control of myself in this form, I thought more like a Fomori—and violence was always at the forefront of a Fomorian’s mind.
“It is the same,” she said with a hitch of her shoulders. “All giantkind share similar ancestry. They came before the gods, you know.”
“And, in every case, were conquered by them.”
“I’m curious why you didn’t assume that form for our battle,” she asked, ignoring my comment.
Based on the tone of her voice and her seemingly casual indifference, I figured she was irritated that she’d lost to a human. No sense telling her I could partially shift—that info was need-to-know, as it provided me a distinct tactical advantage against supernatural creatures. I kept my deep, booming voice neutral as I replied.
“It takes too long to shift, so I would’ve needed advanced notice to do so. Besides, would you have respected me if I had?”
She pursed her lips, pausing for a moment before she replied. “Not as much. But we Valkyries are accustomed to fighting the jötnar. It would’ve mattered little to me either way.”
Yep, she’s pissed.
Already well on my way to being healed, I pushed myself to my feet. “Are we good? I’d prefer to have this conversation while in my human form, but if you’re going to attack again…”
Her upper lip curled back in a sneer. “The Valkyries are of their word, druid. You will not be attacked—not by my kind, anyway. Take the form you wish.”
I checked my abdomen to ensure that the wound had closed, probing it with my thick, calloused fingers. It was still tender, but it’d have to do. Seconds later, I’d shifted back to my human form, but my clothes were shredded. I took the time to change into a fresh outfit that I’d pulled from my Craneskin Bag while the valkyrie looked on.
“You obviously know who I am. What’s your name?”
“You may call me Gwen.”
“Strange name for a valkyrie—I’d expected something with way too many consonants and syllables. But it fits, I guess.” I laced my boots as we observed each other with the caution expected from two people who’d been trying to kill each other moments before. “Mind if I start a fire?”
She tsked. “If it suits you. I do not mind the cold.”
Despite Iceland’s valiant reforestation efforts, trees were a rare sight on the island, giving rise to the Icelandic saying, “Where there are three trees, you have a forest.” For that reason, I’d taken to storing firewood in my Bag, which I resupplied from deadwood provided by the Grove. I pulled several foot-long pieces of split firewood from my Bag, arranging them in a teepee before lighting them with druidic magic.
“What else do you carry in that Bag?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Liquor, for one. Would you like a glass?”
She gave a single nod and grunt in reply, so I produced a bottle of Reykja Vodka—I called it “wreck ya’”—and a couple of glasses. I poured two fingers in a glass, handing it to her before I served my own.
After capping the bottle and nestling it between two stones, I took a seat on a small boulder, sipping my vodka as I eyed Gwen across the fire. She downed her glass and then gestured that I should pass her the bottle. I did so without remark.
“You drink like a little girl,” she remarked.
“Maybe I like the taste.”
“Then you should drink more of it,” she stated, pouring her glass nearly to the rim. She took another healthy slug, topping her glass off before tossing the bottle back to me without bothering to replace the cap. I caught it one-handed, only slightly bobbling it before setting it down.
She chortled and shook her head. “You obviously are no good drinking companion. So, tell me what you need, druid, before I grow bored of your company.”
Fucking Vikings.
I took a swig of vodka, swishing it around before swallowing so I could savor the light vanilla notes and peppery finish. Despite the quality of the liquor, it still burned as it went down. Warmth spread through my throat and chest as I considered how to broach the topic. Many failures and rejections had led me to this point, and I damned sure didn’t want to blow it.
“I’m looking for someone,” I said, deciding to take the direct approach. Considering Gwen’s blunt manners and brusque tem
perament, it was probably my best bet. “A god, actually.”
“One of ours?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
“No. I’d rather avoid yours, if possible. I have enough problems with the Celtic pantheon as it is.”
“Ah, you seek the Physician,” she said as she scratched her nose with a knuckle. “He was welcomed with open arms on his arrival, some centuries ago.”
“Because you lack a god of healing,” I observed.
“Eir used to serve in that capacity, but she is no more. And believe it or not, even gods require healing sometimes.”
Sipping my drink, I stared into the fire. “As I’m aware. I understand Loki avails himself of Dian Cécht’s services on occasion.”
Gwen frowned, deeply. “We do not speak of that one. After being poisoned and weakened, he was banished here and cannot leave the island. Despite his diminished state, we Valkyries of the island find his presence to be quite—vexing.”
“So, there is some truth to the legend. He really was chained to a rock—figuratively speaking, that is.”
“Yes. Odin couldn’t bear to see his son killed, despite his act of fratricide. While Baldur remains with Hel, we are left to contend with his murderer.” She spat in the fire, causing it to flare briefly. “I’ll not have anything to do with that one, but I will send one of my sisters to aid you in your search.”
Gwen downed her glass and stood. I set my own glass down, following suit. “This is a matter of life and death, so your assistance is appreciated.”
“Think nothing of it. We know that one of the Morrígna has set herself against you.” She glared at the fire. “My sisters and I have no affection for those three. The one I send will arrange a meeting with the Physician. You have but to return to your camp and await her contact.”
With a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder, she was gone.
“Fucking hell, woman!” Cursing both the valkyrie and the ringing in my ears, I sat by the fire and stealth-shifted, sipping vodka while I waited for my hearing to return.
Since trees were such a rarity on the island, it was a pain in the ass to hide a mature oak tree in Iceland. Of course, the Druid Oak’s magic was such that people tended to overlook it when it was there and forget about it when it wasn’t. That said, a gigantic fucking oak tree would stand out like a sore thumb in the mostly rocky and barren Highlands, so I’d decided to plant it among the wooded slopes of Öskjuhlíð.
Öskjuhlíð was a sort of local landmark in Reykjavik, a sixty-meter-tall, partially-wooded hill topped by a glass-domed edifice that contained a museum, a few restaurants, and a manmade ice cave. At first glance, it seemed to be the most convenient place in the city to plunk the Oak down. But in hindsight, I really wished I’d done more recon before I’d chosen that location for our home base.
The upside to locating there was that it was within walking distance to a great MMA gym and a geothermal beach, and only a mile or so from some of the best dining in the city. The downside was that it was a very popular destination for local hikers and mountain bikers. And apparently it was some sort of holy site for the huldufólk.
No matter where you go in the world, you’ll find some version of the fae. West Africa has the Aziza; in the east you have Yōkai, Mogwai, Peris, Tien, and Yaksha; Latin countries have Duende; while the Greeks have various creatures such as sylphs, nymphs, dryads, satyrs, and the like. Indonesians and Malaysians have the orang bunian and orang halus; the Maori have the Patupaiarehe; Slavic nations have Viya, Rusalka, and such; and Iceland has the huldufólk.
For the most part, the culture of the fae in each area directly reflects the culture of the local peoples. In less-developed areas, the fae tend to be closer to nature, while in more technologically-advanced nations, the Fair Folk tend to adopt more modern customs and appearances. But as for the huldufólk—well, they were a people with one foot in the present and two in the past. And they were hellaciously picky regarding places they’d claimed as their own territory.
I had no idea the can of worms I’d be opening when I planted the Druid Oak on that stupid hill. Over the years, Öskjuhlíð had been variably been used as a quarry, as a location for bunkers during WWII, and now as a recreation area and tourist trap. And as far as I could tell, the local fae had shown little interest in it prior to our arrival. But as soon as I’d decided to set up camp there, the fucking huldufólk had a conniption fit.
Click said they were just being territorial because they didn’t like the idea of some Irish druid putting down roots on their island. I then pointed out that I wasn’t Irish except by heredity, and that we were only passing through. His reply was something along the lines of, “Tell ’em that, lad, an’ see if they care.” Then, he disappeared and left me to deal with them.
Could I have moved the Oak? Sure, but the fuckers wouldn’t give me a straight answer regarding where I might find a suitable temporary location. And then they’d started casting curses on us, petty shit like spells that would make your coffee go cold or untie your shoelaces at inconvenient times.
The huldufólk were a far cry from their Álfar ancestors, and they didn’t have a lot of magic—they drove modern cars, for fuck’s sake. Thus, it was nothing for me to set some wards that reflected their curses back at them. Even so, it hacked me off. I’d decided they were just being dicks, so I said “screw it” and kept the Oak where it was.
So, when I pulled into the museum parking lot at the top of the hill and saw a small contingent of huldufólk waiting for me, I wasn’t surprised at all.
Like the fae back home, they looked just like humans at first glance, but anyone with a grain of magical talent would see them for what they were. Never mind that they were tall, model-thin, and supernaturally attractive with straight, coal-black hair that made them stand out from the locals like an ant in a sugar bowl. If the high fae back home were a bunch of self-important, pretentious pricks, the huldufólk were their bureaucratic, officious, meddlesome cousins from afar. And, personally, I could do without them both.
As I opened the door of my rented Land Cruiser, three tall, imperious figures hopped out of a white Škoda Octavia and marched right toward me, hemming me in. It’d been a long drive back from the Highlands, so I was not in the mood for any bullshit. Even so, I pasted a smile on just to piss them off.
“Máni, Rós, Sigi,” I said with a nod, purposely emphasizing a very American pronunciation of their names as I swung my door open and forced the trio to retreat a step. I exited the vehicle, speaking over my shoulder at them as I walked around the back to open the hatch. “To what do I owe the honor on this fine day?”
Máni spoke up first, straightening his light-gray tie, which had been elegantly matched to the charcoal business suit he wore. He looked a bit like Gavin Rossdale in Constantine, albeit with a prissier appearance. “Mr. McCool, as you know, you’re encroaching on the sacred ancestral land of the huldufólk. You’ve been warned several times to move your abode—”
“The gall of him, using magic to accelerate the growth of a tree on our lands,” Rós muttered behind him.
How someone could be both off-putting and attractive at the same time was beyond me, but the female fae somehow pulled it off. Dressed to the nines in a gray plaid Prada dress and matching double-breasted wool coat with black Louboutin block-heel boots, she looked the part of a European model. But her expensive cosmetics and 500-dollar haircut couldn’t make up for the bitchy expression that seemed to permanently mar her fine elfin features.
Máni gave her a sharp look over his shoulder before continuing. “Ahem. As I was saying, you have been warned—”
“Many times!” Sigi chimed in, his mousy hipster mustache and beard all aquiver as he emphasized his displeasure by shaking his head vigorously. He was the sole slob among them, dressed as he was in gray hiking pants, a grayish knit wool sweater, and an almost black all-weather outdoor jacket. Salewa hiking boots completed his ensemble, making him look like a reject from an REI catalog.
Their
nominal leader cleared his throat loudly, looking back over his shoulder. “Do you mind?”
Oblivious to their mutual faux pas, the two shook their heads. “No, do carry on,” Rós said.
“Indeed,” added Sigi.
“Your shoes are untied,” I added, glancing down at their feet.
To his credit, Máni managed to continue with nary a hitch. “And after being warned of your trespass and the consequences, you were given a deadline for removal of said abode—”
“Which he ignored,” Rós interjected.
“Numerous times,” Sigi added as he knelt to tie his laces.
“—which you ignored, numerous times,” Máni finished with a straight face.
“Tell him about the invasive species!” Sigi said apoplectically.
Máni blinked several times as he released a short, frustrated sigh. “I was just about to get to that.” Gathering his composure, he pulled out a piece of legal paper, scanning it perfunctorily as he continued. “Additionally, we have found your oak tree to be an invasive species, in violation of HC 6.253.1, subsection 84.11: ‘Invasive species prohibited to be used as domiciles by non-native wizards, sorcerers, magicians, witches, warlocks, and enchantresses.’”
“Well, then I’ve done nothing wrong,” I said. “I’m a druid.”
“A magic-using druid!” Rós shrieked.
I slammed the hatch closed and turned on the trio, with Dyrnwyn sheathed in one hand and a foot-long birch twig in the other. On seeing the stick, the three of them stepped back with a collective gasp, their skin turning just a bit paler at the sight. It took everything I had to resist cracking up as I observed the looks of distaste and horror on their faces.
The length of birch was just a bit of trash I’d found in the woods. After I learned that the huldufólk knew little of druidry, I’d carved some meaningless symbols in it and started carrying it around with me. They, of course, assumed it to be my magic wand, and since their curses had bounced right off me, they also assumed that I was a force to be reckoned with. All I knew was, pulling out that stick in front of them was always good for a laugh.
