by M. D. Massey
The two smaller giants each wielded large double-bitted battle axes, while their leader had a sword strapped to his waist. He was busy tossing fireballs at my Oak as the two smaller giants hacked and chopped at the many large, thorny vines that whipped at them from the forest floor. The Oak was doing a fair job of blocking the leader’s attacks by curling its vines into large, circular shields, which it moved to intercept each fiery attack. And each time it did, the vines burst into flames, disintegrating into ash seconds after making contact with the giant’s spells.
Clearly, the tree was fighting a losing battle, as the giant could toss magical fire just as quickly as my Oak could deflect it. However, the entire forest was on fire, and soon the flames would reach my tree. It could portal away, but I’d instructed the Oak to avoid doing so to prevent the Celtic gods from finding us.
I doubted that Badb and her compatriots would be welcomed on the Norse gods’ turf, but they might ask for special dispensation to hunt us down. And Odin or some other Norse deity might give it, just to see what happened. The gods were fickle like that. But I couldn’t let my tree get burned down, so I did what I had to do—I told it to get lost while I dealt with the fire giants.
One second the tree was there, and the next it was not. Meanwhile, my chameleon spell was still active, but it was damned hard for a ten-foot tall Fomorian to move silently through woods this thick. I decided to stay put and wait for an opportunity to cut them all down with Orna before they knew I was there. But before I could make my move, the larger giant began scanning the area with his piggy little orange eyes. One of his heads turned my way, and he fixed his gaze on me like he knew I was there.
“I can see you, druid. Your magicks do not fool Fritjof Hálogison,” the large giant’s left head said with a faint Scandinavian accent. He spat black phlegm on the ground, where it sizzled before sparking another small fire. “We were told that an attack on the tree would draw you out. The álfar were right.”
Fucking huldufólk—I should’ve known. I’m going to wring Máni’s neck when I see him.
The time for subterfuge was over, so I dropped the spell. “Listen here, Fritz—”
“Fritjof,” the right head interjected in a slightly deeper voice. “Bah, I should not expect an American to pronounce our names correctly.”
“Whatever. You attacked my Oak, and frankly, that pisses me off.”
“Who’s Frank Lee?” asked one of the smaller giants in a gruff, yet feminine, voice.
“He said, ‘frankly,’ Tove,” the other flunkie said. He was the most human-looking of the three, and if it weren’t for his size—as well as a double-row of teeth and six-fingered hands—he could’ve easily passed for normal. “It’s like saying ‘honestly’ or ‘candidly,’ you see.”
“Then why’d he not say that?” she asked, clearly confused. “Why use such obscure language in conversation with non-native speakers?”
“Seriously, that’s your beef?” I shook my head as I turned to address their leader again. “Like I was saying, you attacked my tree. Speaking of which, how the hell did you find it?”
“The álfar who hired us told us they suspected you lived in a tree here in their woods,” the leader’s right head replied. “I was around when your kind ruled Írland, and I know about your druid groves. So, I simply started throwing fireballs until your magic oak reacted.”
“Well, shit,” I replied, scratching my head. “That was smart, in a way, but stupid too.”
“How so?” his left head asked.
“Because now I really can’t let you leave. Or live, for that matter.”
He laughed, holding his stomach with both hands for effect. “Little jötunn, do you really think you can kill all three of us?”
I lifted Orna in my right hand, pointing it at his face. “Only one way to find out.”
Both of Fritjof’s heads gave me big, snaggle-toothed grins. “I had hoped you would stand and fight instead of run.” He drew his sword in one hand and summoned a trio of bowling-ball-sized fireballs above the other. “Say your prayers, druid, for you go to meet your ancestors this night.”
5
“Oh, shut up and fight already,” I growled as I charged the nearest giant.
Part of my druid hunter training was learning virtually every practical martial art I could, and one of the arts I took was krav maga. “Krav maga” is Hebrew for “contact combat,” and despite being commercialized in the U.S., it was one of the more brutal arts I practiced. Mostly because I trained with an ex-IDF soldier and not at a strip mall dojo, but that’s beside the point.
The movements taught in krav maga are actually quite simple and based on the body’s natural reactions and mechanics. That’s because the art is principle-based rather than technique-based. The goal in krav maga is to ingrain the proper instincts and mentality for survival, and one of the ways they do that is through multiple-opponent training.
For the average person, fighting multiple opponents teaches you three things. First, the key to fighting multiple opponents is don’t do it, because you can’t fight two people at once, no matter what you’ve seen in the movies. Second, attitude and aggression matter a lot more than technique. The only way you’re going to get out of a multiple-opponent encounter is by taking the initiative and eliminating the opposition quickly and with prejudice.
And, finally, if you can’t take the opposition out quickly, then only fight one of them at a time. In krav maga, they teach the principle of stacking, lining up your opponents so only one of them can reach you at once. That’s why I went for the nearest giant, so I could use him as an obstacle while I took him out of the fight.
One thing about being in my Fomorian form is that I’m fast. Maybe not as fast as when I stealth-shift, but I’m still hellaciously fast for a giant. So, when I closed the gap between me and the smaller male eldjötnar in less than a second, it took him by surprise. He took Orna through the eye socket before he could lift his axe, which I imagine ruined his day.
The blade itself was supernaturally sharp and durable, meaning I could do things with it that I couldn’t with a mundane sword. Fritjof and Tove were scrambling to flank me, so I twisted the blade and lifted, freeing Orna by cutting through the top of the giant’s skull. I front-kicked the corpse at Tove with Fomorian strength, and it flew through the air at her while tumbling willy-nilly, arms and legs floundering. When the body impacted the giantess, she released a rather dainty-sounding “oomph” as she tumbled backward, entangled in a mess of limbs and weaponry.
That left me and Fritz.
He’d gotten relatively close, almost within sword range. And if he’d have kept me occupied with swordplay, Tove might’ve recovered and gotten around my flank, giving them a much better chance at victory. But after seeing me drop his minions like flies, he chose to stand back and toss fireballs at me instead. Against anyone else it’d have been a wise move, since I had the better reach with Orna. He had at least a millennia of battlefield experience on me, after all.
But against me in my Fomorian form, that was a foolish decision.
Fritz slung his first volley of flaming bolides at me with the smug confidence of someone who’s seen their magic obliterate dozens of enemies before. When I started batting them away with my free hand as I advanced, his cool composure began to crack. Sure, my left hand soon became a charred, smoking mess, but I didn’t care in this form. I liked the pain.
Thing was, pain fed my Fomorian lust for bloodshed. It made me stronger, more resolved, and more eager to rain down hell on whatever or whoever challenged me. Also, it triggered something within my brain that I likened to a computer doing battlefield calculus. Feed me pain in a fight while I was in this form, and I became one devious son of a bitch.
“Stop running so I can end you, jötunn!” I roared as Fritz backpedaled past Tove. She was just getting to her feet when her leader tripped her and pushed her into my path. I cut her down like so much summer wheat, cleaving her in two from shoulder to hip with an u
pward swing without even breaking stride.
Coward. If he’d have helped her up, he might’ve stood a chance.
Meanwhile, my bastard of a warrior brain was figuring out the best way to end this guy. I really didn’t want to face him in a fair sword fight if I could help it, because he was likely better than me. I’d still win, but I didn’t want to spend the time to heal. I had to get back to my Oak and Grove and make sure Badb and the other fuckwit deities hadn’t homed in on them.
Fritjof’s mistake was choosing the wrong battlefield. He thought the element of surprise would stand him in good stead, and he was wrong. He was fighting a druid with fire magic in a forest that was just a few hundred yards from the ocean. Big mistake. With an almost automatic efficiency, I started casting a spell, mumbling under my breath as I advanced on my opponent.
I was almost on top of Fritz when he finally decided to stand his ground. His sword burst into bluish-white flames, reminding me of my sword Dyrnwyn in a way. The giant brandished his flaming weapon with obvious skill, taking an aggressive stance that indicated he was ready to trade steel.
Too little, too late.
“Reodóg,” I said in Gaelic, triggering my spell. Instantly, the air temperature dropped well below zero as my druid magic pulled heat from the air and sent it deep underground, where it couldn’t harm any of the locals. At the same time, the spell gathered all the atmospheric moisture in a fifty-yard radius, forming it into long, sharp icicles that flew at Fritjof from multiple angles.
The first few icicles that struck the fire giant disappeared in an explosion of steam. However, that brought down the surface temperature of his skin and armor enough so that those following did not. One took him through the thigh, another through his upper arm, and a third through his neck. They melted almost instantly as they contacted his lava-like blood, but the damage had been done. Fritjof stumbled to his knees, clapping a hand over the hole in his neck.
“The álfar misled me,” he wheezed as his hot orange blood poured through his fingers. “Your magic was much stronger than expected. Had I known, I’d have brought a legion of my brethren.”
“Live and learn, motherfucker,” I said as I lopped his head off.
“Oh, master,” Orna said as Fritjof’s skull went rolling down the hill. “This reminds me of the time when my former master Tethra slew an ice dragon of enormous girth—”
“Not now, Orna!” I growled in my deep Fomorian voice.
“Perhaps another time, then. I shall busy myself by adding your great deeds to the annals.”
The blade had a piss-poor short-term memory, and it was sure to start blabbing again in a few minutes. I suspected that had to do with the way it had been enchanted. You could only imbue so much intelligence and memory into an inanimate object, after all.
And unless you trapped a living entity inside your magical thingamajig, you had to allocate that limited intellect and memory to specific tasks. In Orna’s case, that meant memorizing and cataloging every adventure and battle of those who were unfortunate enough to bear it.
I wondered if someday it might run out of memory and start glitching—that could be amusing. But regardless of how annoying the thing was, it was the best weapon I could hope to find, as far as Fomorian-sized weapons went. So, I resisted the urge to shove it in my Bag, keeping it handy as I contacted the Oak to see where it had gone and whether or not the Celtic gods had zeroed in on it.
Status report.
The Oak responded immediately, sending me an image of a birch forest situated next to a large body of water.
Hallormsstaður National Forest. Has to be.
That was our fallback and rally position, should something happen that forced us out of Reykjavik. Hallormsstaður was the largest forest in Iceland, and it was remote, which made it a great place for us to hide. Unfortunately, it was also all the way on the other side of the island—a full eight hours by car from the capitol. I’d have to take the long way there if I wanted to remain hidden.
The good news was, everything appeared to be copacetic. I sent another message to the Oak, telling it to stay put and await my instructions. I’d left it with specific directions regarding what to do if the Celtic gods discovered us. Our emergency plan was simple: portal me back to the Grove, and then portal us to the Void. Nobody would ever find us there, that was for sure.
Can’t run forever, though.
Eventually, they would find us. At the moment, however, that was not my main concern. The only thing I was really focused on was finding Dian Cécht and convincing him to heal Finnegas. Which meant I couldn’t head back to the Oak—I needed to stay here to meet whoever Gwen was sending our way. Plus, the forest was on fire, and as a druid I felt an obligation to correct that mess.
I cast a few simple spells, pulling moisture from the air to douse the flames Fritz had lit in his attempts to kill my tree. Then, I borrowed some power from the Grove, using it to help the land heal—and to bury the bodies. Once done, I shoved Orna back in the Bag and shifted into my human form. I’d just pulled on a fresh pair of Jockeys when someone cleared their throat behind me.
“Colin, I assume?” The voice was female but whiskey rough, and it carried a clear note of amusement.
I glanced over my shoulder at the tall, dark-haired woman leaning against a birch tree ten yards upslope. The fact that she’d snuck up on me, and from the high ground, no less, told me a lot about who—or rather, what—she was. It pissed me off that I’d allowed her to surprise me, but I’d been distracted by shifting back into my human form. Vulnerability between forms was one of the drawbacks of being a shifter, after all.
“In the naked flesh.” I slipped on some jeans and a thermal shirt, then I sat on a fallen log to pull on my socks and boots. “I take it Gwen sent you.”
“She did, although I wasn’t certain where I should find you. At least, not until the eldjötnar started burning down the forest.” Her accent was fairly neutral, maybe American midwestern or Canadian, possibly from the Vancouver region—I couldn’t really place it. “In any case, Gwen sent me to help you, so here I am.”
I took my time getting dressed, mostly so I could get a good look at her, both with my mundane sight and in the magical spectrum. One glance with my magical sight told me she was who she claimed to be, because she practically bled magic. Plus, wings. They were hidden in this form, but still there.
Like Gwen, she was tall, athletically slender, and attractive, although this valkyrie was a lot more Claudia Black than Claudia Schiffer. Unlike the aforementioned actress, the valkyrie’s jet black hair had been cut in a short, shaggy bob—more likely a practical choice than one driven by fashion. Beneath that unruly mop she had brown eyes, thin lips, a prominent, slightly crooked nose, and the lean look of a hunter. Individually, her features might’ve been considered unattractive, but together the sum was greater than the parts.
For some reason, I liked her. Maybe it was her casual, devil-may-care attitude, her easy smile, or the mischievous look in her eyes. Or perhaps it was that she seemed to have a sharp edge to her, like chipped glass—pretty, but dangerous. Regardless, I found her to be both alluring and instantly likable on an instinctive level.
“You know my name, but I haven’t gotten yours,” I said as I laced up my boots.
“My friends call me Bryn,” she replied.
“With a ‘y’ or an ‘i’?”
“Does it matter?”
I chuckled. “No, just curious. Let’s see—you’re Norse, so I’m guessing with a ‘y’.” Interestingly, Bryn had not dressed for the outdoors. She wore faded, boot-cut Levis over black biker boots, a black t-shirt, and an old-school leather motorcycle jacket. “Well, Bryn-with-a-Y, based on your sense of style, I have a feeling you’re going to get along great with my magic tutor.”
“It’s more of a fashion statement than anything. Magical clothes, yeah?”
“Again, just making conversation.” I slapped my hands on my thighs and stood. “But enough of that shit—on to
business. Can you help me find the Physician?”
The wry smile she wore faded into an annoyed frown. “That’s going to be a problem, druid. I’m fairly certain he’s been abducted.”
As it turned out, the clothes weren’t just for show. Bryn had arrived on a typically-European BMW R1250GS—a good bike, just a little uppity for my tastes. As usual, I preferred to soften the blow of bad news with liberal amounts of alcohol, preferably the kind that came in pints. She declined my offer of a ride to a local watering hole, thumbing her nose at my rented ’Yota. Likewise, I refused her counteroffer to ride bitch on her Beemer, earning me a nod of approval. When it came to self-respect, it seemed some things were universal.
Boundaries set and manhood safely intact, thirty minutes later we were sitting at a cozy corner table at Ölstofa, a popular local beer joint. They had a good selection of brews on tap and a nice atmosphere, and it was just a short drive from Öskjuhlíð—all definite checkmarks in the “pros” column. But, most importantly, it was a human hangout.
I’d yet to see any denizens of the World Beneath in the pub, which placed it high on my list of places to hang when I needed a break. Thus, it was also a good place to take Bryn to discuss the situation. Less chance of the wrong people—or monsters, or what have you—eavesdropping on our conversation.
I ordered us a couple of pints of Borg imperial stout, a 12 percent ABV liver-killer put out by a small craft brewery that was popular with the locals. No mystery there; it was tasty and strong as hell. Besides, how in the fuck could any self-respecting nerd pass up beer with a name like Borg?
