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

by M. D. Massey

  No matter. As they neared the gravel lot that demarcated the main compound, the ground beneath their feet turned into a bog and they were sucked down beneath the ground’s surface. As the last ghoul’s head sunk into the muck, the earth solidified once more, transforming into terra firma and leaving no trace of the undead.

  “Nice,” I said to no one in particular.

  That’s when the assassins showed up. At first, I didn’t see them, so stealthily did they move through the tall grass and weeds. Crowley didn’t seem to care if his fields were overgrown, and unfortunately that made it easier for the fae to hide. No magical traps were triggered as they closed in on the farmhouse and tower, and I feared I’d be forced to deal with them myself.

  Just before I leapt out from cover, lightning struck the ground in multiple places from the clouds above. Each strike landed on or near one of Fuamnach’s troops, churning the earth and exploding the sneaky little bastards into chum. The three that were left abandoned all stealth, zig-zagging with supernatural speed toward the tower. Each of them was kitted out much like other fae assassins I’d faced, in tight-fitting leathers with various knives, swords, and darts strapped to their bodies.

  Before I could react, a trio of two-foot-wide rusted metal discs shot out from somewhere near the farmhouse, each finding a target despite how quickly the fae moved. One severed a leg, another, an arm, and the third cleaved the last assassin in two. Lightning strikes from above finished off the two that weren’t insta-killed by Ásgeir’s makeshift missiles, leaving me with nothing to do but wait my turn.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Soon the ground shook with the thunderous footsteps of six giants as they came loping across the field. They varied in size between nine and twelve feet tall and bore the twisted, deformed features of ettins—dim-witted, in-bred giants that once roamed the lands bordering northern England and Scotland. Each wore crude leather armor and held maces and clubs made from tree trunks shod with blackened metal cuffs and spikes.

  Again, lightning struck them as they lumbered forward, but the ettins either had magical protection or they were immune, shrugging off Bryn’s strikes like rain. However, no magician or sorceress could defend against every elemental attack at once. Leaning out from cover, I tossed a couple of fireballs at the two in the lead.

  Over the last several months—years inside the Grove—I’d learned to concentrate my magic to yield the greatest effect possible. Thus, the fireballs I threw were more like fire baseballs, but they made up in potential energy and density what they lacked in size. Each of my spells struck true, one hitting a giant in the chest, the other in the face, exploding with fiery whoomps on impact.

  The giant I struck in the torso was blown off his feet, his chest a huge, charred cavity. He landed on his back, unmoving, and my expert opinion was that it was unlikely he’d recover. The other giant continued to march forward, at least for a few awkward steps. When its body realized it no longer had a head, it fell in a boneless heap to the ground.

  I rose to confront the remaining four giants just as two more metal discs whizzed by my head. The projectiles were deflected by the ettins, pinging off their clubs and ricocheting into the distance. Ásgeir ran by me with long, even strides, yelling over his shoulder as he passed.

  “I’ll deal with the giants,” he roared. “Your skills are needed for what comes next.”

  The troll pointed across the field at a figure that strode almost lazily toward us, although the way he walked was as alien as his appearance. He was perhaps six feet tall, with a bare, muscular, red-skinned torso. He had a goat’s black-furred hips, legs, and cloven feet from the waist down. His face was a caricature of a human’s features, with an exaggerated brow, nose, and chin that each jutted out like craggy hills on a flat plain.

  In keeping with the general theme, he had two short, pointed horns poking out from his thick, curly black hair on either side of his head. Over his shoulder he wore a thick leather baldric, and a long, thin scabbard dangled from it on his right side. At his waist he wore a wide leather belt that bore a sheathed dagger and, rather unfortunately, nothing more beneath that.

  Yellow eyes with red pupils stared across the field at me from beneath that prominent brow, and a long, forked tongue snaked out from the creature’s lips, which were bordered by a thick, pointed beard and mustache. He smiled in a way that was most unkind, leering as he displayed a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. In short, the damned thing looked like the textbook description of a devil. All he lacked was a pitchfork.

  “Ásgeir, what in the actual fuck is that?” I asked, dropping my chameleon spell since it was nearly useless once I’d revealed myself.

  “I have no idea, druid,” he yelled. “But I’m certain that the creature falls within your area of expertise.”

  The troll whipped off his hat and scarf as he ran at the first giant, discarding them so they floated off on the breeze to land in the grass and weeds. He wasn’t facing me, so I couldn’t get a good look at his features. But I was fairly certain that he had a horn sticking out of the top of his head, and that a large hissing snake whipped around in the vicinity of his mouth.

  I had no time to process what I’d just seen, because the devil-creature had closed the distance toward me, loping to a stop at the edge of the gravel lot. Keeping his eyes on me, he bowed at the waist, in the manner a courtier might bow to some medieval duke or duchess. When he stood, he flashed me a toothy, evil grin.

  “Allow me ta’ introduce ma’self,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. “I am Owd Hob, hired in the service o’ the Black Sorceress. Ya’ currently stand between me and my prey, ogre. So, if ya’ don’t mind, I’d kindly ask ya’ ta’ step aside.”

  In the background, Ásgeir fought all four giants with a grace and precision that I’d not have expected from someone of his bulk. He’d pulled a tall, thick fence post up from the ground and swung the heavy, concrete-encased end around in dizzying patterns, striking his opponents at will while simultaneously dodging their clumsier, slower attacks.

  That was, until they managed to flank him. I was about to toss a couple of spells that way to help him out, but then Bryn landed on a giant’s head with a flash of lightning and ear-shattering thunderclap. When the smoke cleared, the valkyrie stood where the giant had a second before. She jumped into the fray without delay, in full armor with sword and shield in hand, harrying the giants from behind while Ásgeir tore into them with his makeshift mace.

  Assured that they had the situation in hand, I turned my attention back to the devil that called himself Owd Hob.

  “Yeah, that is a problem,” I rumbled in my deep, Fomorian voice. “He’s a pain in the ass, but I need him.”

  “Ah, love,” Owb Hob said. “The second-oldest motivation.”

  “What? Um, no.”

  Hob looked confused. “But ya’ spoke o’ how he hurt your ass, and your need for the changeling. Ya’ mean ta’ say ya’ two aren’t lovers?”

  “Uh-uh, no way. What I meant was, I need his help. And ‘pain in the ass’ is just a saying. Like, ‘thorn in my side’ or ‘stick in the mud.’”

  “If ya’ say so,” he replied, obviously unconvinced.

  “Anyway, you’re not getting past me. Like I said, I need him alive.”

  “Oh, I’m not goin’ ta’ kill him. My job’s merely ta’ bring him ta’ his mam, so she can do the honors.”

  “That’s splitting hairs, don’t you think?”

  Hob’s brow furrowed. “‘Splitting hairs’? Sounds like one o’ those impossible an’ futile tasks, o’ the kind ya’ give ta’ summoned spirits ta’ keep ’em occupied so they don’t kill ya’. Well, I won’t fall for it.”

  “No, it’s—oh, never mind. Fight me already, because I’m getting tired of this conversation.”

  The creature nodded, sizing me up. “A monster fightin’ a goblin ta’ protect a hound. There’s a certain twisted poetry ta’ the situation, don’t ya’ think?”

  I had no idea what he meant, call
ing Crowley a hound, but I was more intrigued by how he described himself. “I’ve mixed it up with plenty of goblins. You look more—er, devilish to me. Not very gobliny at all.”

  “Oh, but I am a goblin,” he said. “In fact, the king of all goblins. An’ I did not come by that position easily.”

  “Huh. You wouldn’t happen to worship an evil clown god, would you? Because if that’s the case, I have some really bad news for you.”

  “The Usurper, ya’ mean,” he said, stroking his beard in a very devilish manner. “He’s caused me a great deal o’ trouble. No, I do not worship him, and if I ever find him, I intend ta’ run my blade through his heart.”

  “Best of luck with that. Now, skin that smoke wagon and let’s see what happens.”

  Hob looked down at his gross goat junk, and then back up at me. “Pardon?”

  “It’s a line from a movie.” The confusion on his face told me that he had no idea what a movie was. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

  He gave me an apologetic look. “I spent the last two centuries trapped inside a summoning circle, in a dungeon buried deep beneath a Scottish castle. In fact, that’s how I entered the sorceress’ service. She found an’ freed me. And for that, I agreed ta’ help capture her whelp.”

  “Sucks for you, then, because you’re not getting inside that tower.”

  “You say ya’ want ta’ what?” The devilish goblin king shook his head as he rested his hands on the hilts of his sword and dagger. “Every other word out o’ your mouth seems ta’ have dual meanin’. Ta’ be honest, I’m not sure whether ya’ wish ta’ fight me or bed me.”

  “Fuck’s sakes, draw steel already!” I roared.

  “Ah, now that I understand,” he said with an evil grin. He drew his sword and parrying dagger in a flash of steel, and before I knew it, we were crossing blades.

  16

  Hob was no slouch when it came to swordplay, that was for certain. He was quick, easily as quick as one of the high fae, and perhaps even a match for a vampire. And strong, too, as the first beat of his thin blade nearly knocked Orna out of my hands.

  This posed a problem for me, because despite the size advantage and longer reach, I couldn’t harm the goat man if I couldn’t touch him. And while I was fast in my full Fomorian form, I was fast like a freight train—speed that was generally only good in one direction. Quick turns and stopping on a dime were damn near impossible feats when you weighed almost half a ton.

  Had I chosen my stealth-shifted form, this guy wouldn’t have been a problem, because I could’ve easily matched him move for move with Dyrnwyn in hand. Yet as I swung and spun Orna around in an attempt to decapitate or otherwise incapacitate Owd Hob, he danced in and out of range with the grace of a bullfighter, slashing and stabbing me with his pig sticker almost at will. Thirty seconds into the fight, I was bleeding in half a dozen places while Hob looked fresh as the morning dew.

  “That’s the problem wit’ size an’ strength,” he taunted as he ducked under a swipe of my sword, dancing just out of reach. “Doesn’t matter how big your sword is if ya’ can’t hit your target.”

  “Now who’s speaking in double entendres?” I asked as I lunged forward, thrusting Orna at the creature’s chest.

  Seemingly to emphasize his previous point, the goblin king pivoted, leaning just slightly out of the way as he stung my hands with lightning quick jabs of his rapier. I turned the thrust into a horizontal slash, but too late—he’d already spun away, strutting like a two-dicked rooster in a yard full of hens. He had me outclassed and he knew it, and honestly, it was really starting to piss me off.

  Could I have cheated with magic? Maybe, but I was fairly certain that while I was busy casting a spell, he’d skewer me through the eye—a quick glance through the immediate time streams showed me that. As for my chances of beating him with swordplay, there were few options available. Eager to get this fight over, I mentally searched the most likely pathways branching off the present, and only one strategy proved to be reliable enough to give it a shot.

  The thing about fighting with a rapier was that it was purely a thrusting weapon. Some had rudimentary cutting edges, but they lacked the heft necessary to truly be used for slashing in combat. In order to kill someone quickly with such a thin blade, you had to run them through the heart or the eye. Not that it didn’t happen, as historical accounts of 16th and 17th century duels were full of such deaths.

  But to a Fomorian, getting run through with a rapier was about as scary as being stuck in the finger with a sewing needle. I suspected Hob was used to fighting conventional giants, like the ettins that were currently having their asses handed to them by Bryn and Ásgeir. So, maybe Hob didn’t know how quickly I healed. Meaning, he’d assume that running me through was a sure way to win this duel.

  On our next exchange, I left an opening in my guard on my left side, leaving myself vulnerable for a thrust to the abdomen. Hob wasted no time in taking advantage of my mistake, easily sidestepping my own thrust and skewering me through my side. Which, of course, brought him into clinch range. Immediately, I dropped Orna and grabbed Hob around the neck with my left hand, and around his upper left arm with my right.

  The goblin king’s eyes widened in shock for a split second, narrowing as his mouth split into a self-satisfied grin. Before I even knew what had happened, the bastard blinked away, leaving me grasping at black wisps of smoke and ash. He didn’t make a “bamf” sound, but his ability to teleport definitely reminded me of a certain superhero to whom Hob bore a resemblance.

  Well, fuck.

  “So sorry to disappoint ya’, laddie,” he gloated as he reappeared about a dozen feet away. “The talent’s instinctual, an’ it teleports me away in random patterns when I’m in danger. So, don’t think ya’ll be aimin’ that great cleaver o’ yours where I’ll show up next, because it’s impossible ta’ predict where I’ll be after I ’port.”

  That was why I didn’t see Hob using his talent when I looked through the time streams. When a chronourgist followed an individual’s life thread, they could only see branches caused by voluntary decisions and acts. Every decision that person made caused a split in the time stream, forcing it to branch off into multiple different realities. I’d once asked Click if all those realities existed. His answer was that theoretically they did, but they only became extant if someone actually experienced them.

  “That’s why ya’ don’t want ta’ be traipsin’ through the Twisted Paths fer’ fun,” he’d said. “Each trip brings a new reality in ta’ existence. That makes ya’ responsible fer’ everything that happens in that new time stream—an’ every single sufferin’ that results. It’s a terrible burden, lad, believe me.”

  I’d taken his warning to heart, resolving that, if I ever learned to walk the Twisted Paths, I’d use the talent sparingly. The last thing I wanted was for my life to become like some horrible, made-for-television comic book adaptation. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like, resetting the time streams over and over again just to correct the consequences of fucking it up the first time.

  Which was all fine and dandy, but knowing the dangers of chronomancy and chronourgy didn’t do a damned thing to help me beat Owd Hob.

  As I bent to grab Orna from the ground, my blood fell in thick droplets, spattering the gravel as my fingers wrapped around the sword’s hilt. I was in a really shit situation, no doubt about it. Physically, Hob had the advantage over me while I was in this form, because he was quicker and the better swordsman to boot. And I couldn’t even the odds by cheating with time magic, either.

  Basically, I was fucked.

  “Well, laddie, here’s the score,” he said as he strutted around me on his weird goat legs, whipping his rapier through the air in lazy patterns. “I kin pick ya’ apart, bit by bit, takin’ a piece here and a piece there, until yer’ left bleedin’ out on this damnable plot o’ land—all because ya’ were loyal ta’ yer’ friend. Who, incidentally, is a heartless bastard that’d as soon sell your s
oul as serve ya’ a cup o’ tea.”

  “Or…” I said, stalling for time with one hand clamped around my wound, and the other holding Orna in a fencer’s third position.

  I wasn’t waiting for the wound to heal—Hob could spit me a dozen times before my Fomorian healing factor patched this wound up. Nor was I stalling for a moment of rescue by my companions. Bryn and Ásgeir were acquitting themselves well, having taken down two more ettins. Unfortunately, more fae had shown up to help the two remaining giants, so they weren’t going to bail me out of my predicament any time soon.

  No, I was angling for more time because the loud explosions and flashes in the distance were getting closer, which meant Fuamnach would be here shortly. And if that was the case, I’d need to get everyone out of here in a jiffy. But I’d have to keep Hob from running that needle of a sword through my eye before I could do anything of the kind. Unfortunately, he was fast enough and sneaky enough that a momentary lapse of concentration to communicate with the Oak could spell my doom.

  My only chance was to cast a spell that would catch Hob off guard and give Ásgeir and Bryn a chance to retreat to the tower. I thought about casting the stasis shield spell I’d discovered in that alien wasteland Click had stranded me in days ago. After a moment’s consideration I discarded the idea, as it would tip Fuamnach off that I knew time magic. Once word of that got out, no telling how many gods would be after me.

  A different spell was required for this situation, and I was fairly certain I had just the thing. Hopefully, Crowley was done cooking up whatever magical surprise he had for his step-monster by now. If so, then I could get the Oak to portal us all back to Iceland. And, if I was lucky, Loki’s magic would keep Fuamnach from following us there.