Druid Arcane: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 11)

by M. D. Massey

  By the time I’d worked through that conundrum, the creature was only a handful of footfalls away. I needed to do something, and fast, else I was going to end up in that big hairy fucker’s belly. On instinct, I was reminded of the “magic bubble” that Click had cast around us when we first appeared on this plane. That spherical shape had obviously been designed to keep the toxic atmosphere out—could I use it to trap something coming at me as well?

  I’d never cast a mass stasis spell, and the largest stasis field I’d ever pulled off was the one that was currently keeping Finnegas alive. That was because the difficulty in casting such spells was directly proportionate to the volume of space affected. Volume was the greatest limiting factor to using time magic; the more matter you attempted to affect, the greater the resistance. Which meant that, in theory, if the volume of the stasis field did not exceed my abilities, the shape of the field didn’t matter.

  The giant four-forearmed ape-thing was almost on me.

  No time to think, Colin—just act.

  I exerted my will, perfectly envisioning the shape I wished the stasis field to take. Then, I released the spell. The configuration I’d settled on was a hollow dome approximately fifteen feet across and three inches thick. The construct itself had a rather large surface area, but a relatively small internal volume in comparison to the area it could potentially affect, so it actually wasn’t all that hard to cast.

  Now, let’s see if it works.

  The magical effect that I called a stasis field actually wasn’t, because stasis fields didn’t completely halt time. Instead, the spell slowed time drastically within the affected area. So, when the giant space gorilla hit the field, nearly all forward momentum halted for the parts of its body that had entered my spell’s area of effect.

  However, the rest of its body kept moving forward. This caused a rapid and rather spectacular deceleration of the space ape’s body, almost as if it had hit a brick wall. The parts of its body that had come into contact with the spell became stuck like a bug in a glue trap. Even better, the more it struggled, the greater the surface area that came into contact with the stasis field, and the more the creature became entangled.

  In awe of my own ingenuity, I finished transforming and watched in complete and utter fascination while the creature tried to free itself. As the great beast struggled, opening its misshapen mouth wide to release silent screams of frustration, it occurred to me that the spell had a great many applications. Essentially it worked like a force field, which was kind of like the holy grail of defensive spells.

  In druidry, we manipulated physical matter to form protective barriers, but that approach was cumbersome at best. And in standard wizardry, a spell caster could use wards to create a force-field-like effect, but it took a great deal of time to draw the glyphs and symbols necessary, and it wasn’t something you could do on the fly. Not to mention powering them up and imbuing them with enough magic to function. Even then, your wards had to be tuned specifically to repel whatever you wanted to keep out, which was another limiting factor to such spellwork.

  Thus, effective force field creation was a magical conundrum that had baffled magicians for centuries. In fact, the problem had eventually been named after a famous theurgist who’d spent most of his life trying to solve it—Julian’s Enigma. And I had just solved Julian’s Enigma.

  So, what am I going to call my spell? A stasis barrier? Stasis blockade? Stasis fence? Stasis wall? Hmm... field, shield. Stasis shield. Yeah, that works.

  The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I’d created the perfect defensive spell. The only real drawback was that it required the use of time magic, so it wasn’t something I could use in front of witnesses. At least, not if I didn’t want to be hunted by the gods and demigods of every single pantheon in existence. Meaning, I could never let the world know that I’d just solved one of the greatest challenges ever known to defensive magic users.

  Well, shit.

  Still, it was one of those spells that I could always pull out of my ass if I got in a bind. But I could worry about that another day. Right now, I needed to decide what I was going to do with Magilla.

  Although I could breathe the planet’s harsh atmosphere just fine in my Fomorian form, I didn’t have a lot of room to move inside my stasis sphere. If I wanted to get out of here, I’d need to drop the spell and fight the beast. I was almost ready to do just that when a dozen more of the giant gorilla thingies showed up to help their friend.

  A couple of them tried pulling their friend out of the stasis field, nearly ripping one of his arms off in the process. Then, they started throwing those black shards at me with deadly precision. Based on the speed with which they were able to throw them and the placement of said shards when they hit my stasis shield, I had no doubt that I’d play hell if I had to tangle with them.

  Fighting a baker’s dozen of those big hairy sasquatch-looking things sounded like a lot more work than I was willing to take on at the moment. After all, I’d already learned something new—why put myself out unnecessarily? So, I sat cross-legged in the dirt and began to meditate, eyes open so I could monitor the threat in front of me.

  4

  Click showed up an hour or so later, appearing inside my stasis shield as if he’d known exactly where I’d be at that moment. Of course, he pretty much did, within certain limits of probability. Then again, there was also a chance that I’d be dead when he returned, and that he’d have found me roasting on a spit over Magilla’s campfire.

  Each time Click placed me in mortal danger for the sake of these “lessons,” I tried not to think about how he’d likely witnessed all the gruesome ways I might die, well in advance of said peril. And I ignored the fact that he had weighed the potential risks and benefits of each dicey encounter, sifting the threads of my existence like so much sand in the name of my education as a mage and druid. Or, as he liked to put it, to transform me into “a druid, most arcane.”

  I set those thoughts aside after he appeared. Else I might attempt to strangle him, and frankly there was no way I could take the guy—Fomorian form or no. Meanwhile, he glanced this way and that, hands clasped behind his back like a math teacher searching for an error in his student’s work.

  “Ahem,” I said, gesturing at my stasis shield. “You’re not even going to comment on the fact that I solved Julian’s Enigma?”

  Click waved my question off, replying with indifference in his voice. “Pfah. I solved that problem 900 years ago. Was curious if ye’d do the same. Surprised ya’ made the field so thick. Works just as well with a fraction o’ the volume.” He frowned as he peered at my work. “Sloppy, but I s’pose it’ll do.”

  “Whatever,” I huffed.

  Truth be told, I was hacked that I wasn’t the first to solve the problem. I thought I deserved some recognition, considering that I’d only started learning time magic a few months ago. Or years, depending on how you measured such things.

  “Ya’ sound a bit miffed, lad. Did I say somethin’ ta’ offend ya’?” Click asked as he made faces at Magilla through my stasis shield.

  “Well, yeah. What is it with you immortals and the grudging praise? Finnegas is the same way—getting even the slightest nod of approval from the guy is like pulling teeth. I mean, by the time you solved Julian’s Enigma, you had, what—a couple of millennia under your belt as a chronourgist? I’ve been at this only a fraction of that, at most.”

  “Beginner’s luck, no more,” he said with a shrug, turning his head this way and that as he examined Magilla. Meanwhile, the space apes were going, well, ape-shit on the other side of the barrier. “Do ya’ think they stand on their hands ta’ eat? Or do they take turns tossin’ food at each other’s noggins?”

  It suddenly occurred to me that the immortal magician was acting very nonchalant considering the feat I’d just pulled off. I snapped my massive fingers, producing a sound not unlike a gunshot—more than loud enough to startle Click.

  “You’re jealous!” I excla
imed.

  Click stuck his thumbs in his ears, waggling his fingers as he gave Magilla the raspberries. “Nonsense, lad, nonsense.”

  There was a hint of irritation in his voice, a tautness I hadn’t noticed before. “Yep, you’re definitely upset I was able to pull off that spell.”

  “Doesn’t take much effort,” he replied, feigning indifference as he mimicked the space ape’s facial expressions, which was quite a feat considering their anatomical differences. “Just a bit o’ ingenuity.”

  “Was that a compliment I just heard?” I asked, grinning smugly.

  The magician formerly known as Gwydion threw his hands up in the air as he turned on me. “Fine, yer a feckin’ prodigy, ya’ little prick puddin’! Is that what’cha wanted ta’ hear? Took me damned near a century to learn how ta’ cast simple stasis fields, never mind this construct ya’ pulled out’cher arse. Outdone by a feckin’ upstart twpsyn. Un-feckin’ believable.”

  I wiped the smug smile off my face, partially because I knew it looked hideous when I smiled in this form. “Well, I had an excellent teacher,” I said, perfectly serious.

  Click blew a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Stop blowin’ smoke up me backside and let’s get ya’ back ta’ yer’ damned tree, afore I blow a feckin’ fuse.”

  “Ready when you are, chief.”

  He waved at the space apes, who were beating their chests and hammering the ground outside the shield. The ones who weren’t entangled, that is. “Alright, then drop this shield so’s we can get outta here.”

  “Uh-uh, no dice. The state you’re in, you’ll leave me here to fight those things.”

  He arched an eyebrow at me. “It’s a stasis field, lad. Magic’s stable as a horse’s hard cock once it’s cast. Ye’ll be leavin’ these poor beasts ta’ suffer ’til they perish o’ old age. That is, if those other fellows don’t abandon ’em an’ let ’em starve.”

  I thought about it for a moment, rubbing my chin absently as I examined my spell work. It was time magic, after all, and there was no reason why I couldn’t add a few weaves here and there to place an expiration date on the spell. I worked through the necessary adjustments in my head then made a series of arcane gestures, mumbling under my breath as I modified the spell. If my calculations were correct, the shield would now dissipate in an hour or so.

  “There, that should do it,” I said, rubbing my hands together as I glanced at Click.

  The magician glared at my shield, tensing his shoulders and arms until he shook. His hands curled into fists, and he sputtered a few unintelligible syllables before releasing a string of Welsh curse words in a tone that could curdle milk. The next thing I knew, I was back in the Grove, and Click was nowhere to be found.

  “So, same time tomorrow?” I yelled, only to be answered by another string of curses that faded off into silence.

  No sooner had I dozed off to sleep in my Keebler cottage than the Oak sent me an urgent message that roused me awake. It was an image of three large wolves prowling the woods at night. Something dangerous was stalking around near the Oak, Earthside.

  The Oak and Grove each spoke telepathically to me through our bond, using images to convey meaning and intent. At first, it had been difficult to interpret their unique method of communication, but I’d learned how to decipher their messages. Time moved differently here, and by now, I’d spent enough time inside the Grove communicating with them to learn their moods—and, to some extent, their personalities.

  Although the two had been created from the same magic acorn at the same time, they were two separate entities. I’d begun to see them as brother and sister, the Oak the masculine sibling and the Grove the more feminine of the two. Regardless of the existential nature of the pair, it was clear they were two halves of the same coin. Therefore, any attack on the Oak was an attack on the Grove, and vice-versa.

  So, when the Grove sent me an image of an oak tree on fire, I knew that serious trouble was brewing. The two were quite protective of each other, likely because one could not survive without the other. Perhaps their bond went deeper than mere survival, but I wasn’t enough of a druid yet to sort out the emotional motivations of a tree. But it was obvious that something had the Grove in a tissy, and it wanted me to intervene without question.

  I bolted out of bed, searching for my Craneskin Bag, only to realize it had been strapped over my shoulder the entire time. The thing had a mind of its own, and while it wasn’t as intelligent as the Oak and Grove, it tended to respond to my needs and relocate itself accordingly. Instinctively, I reached for my pants and boots, then I thought better of it.

  Something tells me this is going to get ugly. Best I go out prepared—no need for a repeat of the fight with the valkyrie.

  As I exited the cottage, I pulled the strap over my head, leaving the Bag slung over one shoulder only so it wouldn’t break when I shifted. Based on the messages I was getting from the Oak, the danger seemed to be imminent and not immediate, which meant I had time for a full-fledged transformation. Once I was in my full Fomorian form, I reached into my Bag and rummaged around for a few seconds until I found what I wanted.

  With a heavy sigh, I pulled Tethra’s greatsword from the Bag.

  “Oh, there you are, master!” the sword said in a voice that sounded very, very similar to a certain overly-talkative gold android. “I’ve been eagerly looking forward to the moment when you’d pull me from that dark, dreary sack. Speaking of which, I never did finish telling you about the time Tethra defeated a whole squad of Tuath Dé…”

  After slaying the sword’s former master, I’d snagged the massive weapon as a bit of war booty. It had been made for a Fomorian’s hands, forged in proportions suitable for a twelve-foot-tall giant. While my massive mitts were a bit more misshapen than Tethra’s had been, from the moment I’d grabbed the sword, it felt as though it had been tailor-made for my Hyde-side to wield.

  Obviously, the greatsword was a sentient object, capable of speech, but with an unfortunate and peculiar quirk. For some strange reason, its maker had placed a geas on it that compelled it to recite the deeds of its former owner after said person had died in battle. Little did I know that I’d trigger it the first time I swung it around, else I’d have left it in my Bag and never touched the damned thing again.

  As for how it had learned English, the sword claimed it had been enchanted with the ability to learn its owner’s language via osmosis. Why it spoke in an effete pan-British accent was beyond me, although I suspected it had picked it up from my subconscious mind. I’d repeatedly asked it to drop the accent, to which the sword had repeatedly replied, “What accent, master?” Finally, I’d given up and resolved to only bring it out in emergencies.

  With an annoyed hiss, I cut the sword off mid-sentence. “Another time, alright, Orna? Right now, I need you to be quiet. Something is stalking around outside the Oak, and I don’t want to give away my position before I know what it is.”

  Orna replied in a stage whisper. “Certainly, master—mum’s the word!”

  Once I was fairly certain the sword would be quiet for the next few minutes—it had a short memory, after all—I cast a chameleon spell on myself. Then, I instructed the Oak to send me Earthside so I could see what the hell had the Grove in such a fuss.

  When I arrived outside, the forest was on fire. It didn’t take long to determine the source, as three eldjötnar—fire giants—were waging war on my druid oak.

  Fucking giants. I hate giants.

  I had my reasons for avoiding giantkind—besides getting clobbered by a twelve-foot-tall redneck Viking with a penchant for human and fae flesh.

  Reason number one? They were heartless, conniving, murderous, cannibalistic monsters, every last one. To say they were nasty and cruel would be too generous, as their reputation for filling their pots with innocent humans and fae was well-deserved. Not that there were innocent fae, but it was still pretty messed up that giants ate other intelligent supernatural species. />
  Plus, fighting the bastards always brought back painful memories that I’d just as soon forget—and taking on Crowley’s fachen was one such experience. Fachen are brutish giants out of Celtic folklore that have just one arm and one leg. While a person might think such a creature would be for shit in a fight, that would be a mistake.

  A single fachen could fell an entire forest in a night, or so the legends said. Certainly, the one I fought would’ve killed me if my Hyde-side hadn’t emerged to take care of business. Unfortunately, that victory had cost me dearly, and everything that followed after that was a complete and total shit show.

  Yeah—if I had to do it over again, I’d skip that night entirely.

  Then, there was Elmo, the ogre with a heart of gold. Most people wouldn’t know that ogres weren’t truly related to giants, as they were almost as large and just as ugly. But size and looks notwithstanding, the guy had been nothing like the bloodthirsty creatures of lore.

  Elmo was the epitome of the term “gentle giant,” and in the brief time I’d known him, I’d been proud to call him a friend. Sadly, he’d been the lone witness to a brutal murder, and the killer then murdered the ogre in order to cover his tracks. Eventually, I’d avenged Elmo by taking down the person who murdered him, but I still blamed myself for not preventing his death in the first place.

  Despite the guilt I felt over Elmo’s passing, my most painful giant-related memory was the time my best friend Hemi died while fighting a giant during our trip to Underhill. The bastard pulled Hemi off a cliff, and the big Maori later died in my arms. Even though Hemi’s mom had resurrected him, it wasn’t an experience I cared to dredge up.

  As for these brutes, they looked just like the legends depicted. They were roughly twelve to fifteen feet tall, with clawed fingers and long, tusk-like lower canines sticking out of their mouths over their thick, unruly facial hair. One of them had two heads—he was the largest and ugliest—and each giant wore iron scale-mail that glowed a dull orange against their hot, red skin. Their lower halves were covered in leather cingulum, made from some unknown material that didn’t catch fire despite the heat they put off.