Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six) (42 page)

When she woke, a wonder greeted her eyes. Out of Miach’s grave, watered by her tears and the blood of Miach’s body, grew 365 herbs of medicinal power. Possessed with a purpose, realizing the gift before her, Airmid spread out her cloak and began to test and catalog the herbs, examining their qualities and preserving in her mind their unique properties. But before Airmid was finished, Dian Cecht, possessed by grief and guilt, came to visit the grave of his son.

He saw Airmid’s cloak spread on the ground and the world’s medicinal herbs laid out in order upon it. He saw the herbs themselves growing from the grave in the shape of Miach’s body, and his jealous rage rose again.

“Even in death he mocks me and renders my life meager in comparison!” Dian Cecht roared. He tore at the herbs growing in the earth, then yanked Airmid’s cloak from the ground and snapped it in the wind, scattering the herbs into the sky. Because of this deed, it is said that no one alive knows the sum of the earth’s herblore.

It was at this point that Airmid lost her composure. Wielding a stick as her weapon, she attacked Dian Cecht, battering him about the face and body with all the strength a Druid could bring to bear, until he crumpled to the ground. Throwing down the stick, she picked up a boulder and raised it over her head, intending to bring it down upon her father’s head. But a voice from Tír na nÓg stopped her.

“Airmid, no!” it cried, and she froze. It was the voice of Miach, calling her from beyond the veil. “For the love you bear me, do not slay our father!”

The rock tumbled from her fingers, and she left Dian Cecht bleeding on the ground to heal himself. She picked up her cloak and walked away from the grave without speaking a word. She did not speak to anyone for nine days, in fact, and the first person she spoke to was me.

I was in the twilight of my normal lifetime and dwelling on my approaching death. I wasn’t decrepit or arthritic, for Gaia sustains us well, but my physical prime was four decades gone at the least, and the prospect of a steep decline into death’s embrace had somewhat soured my disposition. I was drinking alone at an inn when Airmid entered, searched the room, and picked me out. She saw the signs of morbidity in my aura, no doubt. But she also saw the tattoos on my arm and knew I was a Druid.

She sat down across from me with a satchel and said, “Old man, indulge a young woman. What would you do to have your youth again? To feel the bounce of vigor in your step, to feel the hard wood of your cock again, and to nevermore lose it to the ravages of age unless you will it?”

I did not know who she was. She was robed and gloved, so I did not even know she was a Druid, much less a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann. “Do you jest or do you ask in all seriousness?” I said.

“I am in earnest,” she replied. “I truly wish to know what you would be willing to do for a gift like that.”

“I would kill for that,” I said. Men have killed for far less.

“Then I have a proposal for you,” she said, and withdrew a sheaf of skins from her satchel, filled with all the herblore she could remember from before Dian Cecht threw her work to the wind. “I am a Druid, and I have discovered a blend of herbs that, when slightly altered with a simple binding and brewed as a tea, confers the blessings of youth on he who drinks it. That secret and
so many others are contained in these pages. They are yours if you kill a man for me.”

I perused a few of the pages and realized that the herblore set down therein was far beyond my ken. I examined her aura and saw no hint of deception there or in any gesture of her body. That is no guarantee of honesty, for we can all be deceived easier than we would like to think, but so far as I could tell she was making me a genuine offer, and I was desperate enough to accept. But I had to ask: “Why not simply kill him yourself? I can see that you are a powerful Druid.”

“I cannot kill him, because he is my father.”

“I must kill your father in exchange for this herblore?”

“Yes. What say you?”

“Who is your father?”

“Dian Cecht of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

She recounted for me the story of her brother’s death and told me how she managed to classify and catalog 327 of the 365 herbs before her father destroyed her work. “A Druid doesn’t forget,” she said. “I have spent the last nine days writing down this lore and experimenting further. This new tea of youth is the best of my discoveries, but there are more.”

“I am engaged,” I said. “Tell me where to find him.”

Legends say that Dian Cecht died of a terrible plague. To the bards who told it that way, it seemed like an ironic and just ending for a villainous physician. The truth of his end involves a terrified chicken.

Airmid directed me to Dian Cecht’s house. When I arrived there, he was not at home. I approached it in camouflage and disabled his few simple wards, went inside, then put them back together. Since I was over sixty, I didn’t feel equal to besting him in a fair fight, and I dislike fair fights anyway. I needed an advantage, so I greased down the floorboards near the door. Once he closed it behind him, I would spring from hiding and the uncertain
footing would negate any advantage he had in speed.

The entrance to his house was a kitchen and dining area. A hallway from this led to other rooms, and after I was finished with my preparations, I hid around the corner and sat in the hall.

Hours passed, during which I had ample opportunity to reconsider, but I convinced myself that, in a very real sense, it was either him or me. If I didn’t kill him, I would die—eventually. If I did, I wouldn’t die, period. I had killed men in battles but never plotted a murder before. It didn’t sit well with me, but neither did the prospect of gasping my last breath.

When Dian Cecht finally came home, he brought a chicken with him to pluck for his dinner. He clutched it tightly against his chest with one hand—his sword hand. When I leapt out of my hiding place and shouted, “HA!” with my own sword drawn, I killed him. Or, rather, the chicken did.

He let go of the chicken to reach for his sword, and the creature exploded from his grip and slapped him several times in the face with her beating wings as she pecked at him. In his attempt to shy away from the chicken and also draw his weapon, he slipped on the greasy floor, cracking his head open on the edge of a worktable near the door as he fell. He was dead before he hit the ground. And that’s when I first met the Morrigan. Though I had never crossed swords with Dian Cecht, the intent had been there, and thus our confrontation had fallen to her sphere of influence. She had chosen Dian Cecht, not me, to be slain, and she let me know.

She couldn’t choose him for death against Miach, because Miach had never tried to fight back. And Miach thwarted her again when he made Airmid promise not to kill her father. I was an acceptable work-around, however, and she said at the time we would meet again.
I thought she meant she’d choose me to die in battle soon; I had no idea at the time that our association would last so long.

I took the chicken back to the inn where I’d met Airmid and had them cook it for me. She came in as I was finishing up and I told her that the deed was done.

“Where did you cut him?” she asked.

“I didn’t use my sword,” I said, then pointed at the bones on my plate. “I used this chicken.”

I told her what had happened and she seemed pleased. True to her word, she gave me the sum of her notes and showed me the binding I needed to use to create Immortali-Tea, as well as several other bindings for other special brews. And that is how I not only gained the secret to eternal youth but gained the herblore of the greatest herbalist ever to walk the earth. Plus a great chicken dinner.

Odin set down his fork and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He looked at Frigg and said, “I hope the fourth course won’t be a chicken dish.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Good.” He turned to me and said, “I can see why you prefer to keep that story to yourself. It is a terrible thing to be henpecked.”

The fourth course was a veal sirloin stuffed with morel mushrooms and another attractive arrangement of vegetables on the side. I tore into this since I’d never enjoyed a bite of the third course, occupied as I was with the story. The gods enjoyed their wine but didn’t touch the food. Apparently they don’t do veal. Perhaps they would have enjoyed chicken after all.

“I have had much time to ponder the ramifications of your actions in Asgard,” Odin said as I was eating. “And much time to ponder my response. In the old days, there would be no question—we would have killed you
and any known associates. But this is a different time, and the simple vengeance we crave would not serve us well in the long run. We would rather, instead, that you serve us well.”

I stopped chewing. “I beg your pardon? Are you suggesting some sort of indenture?”

“No. A blood price. Ragnarok is coming soon, and since you have killed or assisted in the killing of many gods who were to fight on our side, we wish you to take their place.”

I very nearly choked and needed to drink a bit to clear my throat before I could speak. “You want me to take the place of gods?”

“Not entirely by yourself. It would be helpful if you could recruit some others. You clearly have the powers of a classical hero, and your assistance would be invaluable. All that matters is defeating the forces of Hel and Muspellheim: Next to that, our vengeance is a trifling matter. Fight with us, and the blood you shed on our behalf will expiate your debt. That, and one other thing.”

“What?”

“I would appreciate the return of Gungnir.”

“Promise not to throw it at me again?”

A flicker of irritation crossed Odin’s face. “Yes.”

“Okay, sure, I’ll return it. I have no use for it. Send Hugin and Munin to visit me in Arizona three days from now. I’ll tell them where to pick it up.”

“Thank you. And Ragnarok?”

I thought about Hel and her attempt to kill me near Kayenta. I thought about the world overrun with
draugar
. Even people who were preparing for the zombie apocalypse would have trouble with those things. “If the shit goes down, Odin, I’m on your side.”

“Excellent. Will you fight with him, Morrigan?”

The Morrigan, like Frigg, had remained silent for much of the meal. Now she gave a thin smile. “I’m
afraid I’ll have to miss that particular battle. The Valkyries will have to suffice.”

Odin’s expression darkened. We had killed twelve of the Valkyries when we raided Asgard. I don’t know how many remained, if any. To change the subject, I said, “Can I ask what happened to Thor’s hammer?”

“Why?” Frigg asked. “Did you promise someone you’d steal it?”

The nastiness of the question surprised me. We’d been getting along so well. But I tend to react when provoked. “No,” I said. “If I had, it would already be in my possession.” Frigg seethed and Odin chuckled softly.

“You were supposed to keep
my
anger in check,” he said.

The fourth course was cleared away—the waiter making sure we were all okay, since the gods hadn’t touched the veal—and the fifth was laid before us. Five different well-aged cheeses were attractively presented on a white rectangular platter with crackers and fruit compote. Some were sliced in triangles, some in thin, translucent pieces. It was a superlative achievement in both geometry and dairy. The sommelier served us something from Italy; I didn’t quite catch it.

“Mjöllnir rests in Gladsheim,” Odin said once the servers had retreated.

“No one wields it now?”

The Norse gods frowned as if I’d asked something particularly inane. “Like who?” Odin said.

“I was thinking maybe some other, later aspect of Thor. The one from the comics is popular right now.”

Odin scoffed. “Popular, perhaps. But he is not worshipped, and you know what that means: He can’t muster magic enough to manifest himself! He has to be played by a human actor in his own movies. He’s nothing but cheap entertainment. Surely you know this.”

I did know it, but it never hurts to let possible antagonists think they are smarter than you.

“Well, if he can’t do it, then surely some other aspect of Thor can?”

“They are all comfortable in their current situations, and none is as strong as the original. I wouldn’t want a single one of them at my back. No, Thor’s responsibility is now yours.”

“Mine? You want
me
to face the world serpent?”

“Or find someone else to do it, yes.”

This twist in the conversation reminded me uncomfortably of Cleopatra on the ceiling. I looked up and examined it again past the glow of the chandelier, and, while I did, the gods directed their attention to the cheeses.

The artist had taken quite a bit of license; Cleopatra reclined, leaning on her right arm, while her left hand held a snake up to her breast, inviting it to bite her. I thought the snake would have simply bitten her hand when she reached to pick it up, but that was the least of the odd choices the artist had made. For some reason, he had decided to give Cleopatra European features and provide her with a Rubenesque figure; my archdruid would have described her as “festively plump.” She also appeared to be dressed in Greek style rather than anything Egyptian. Though still quite beautiful as a work of art, the inaccuracy bizarrely exposed what I think is the true tragedy of Cleopatra: No one really understood her or her decision. But maybe some could empathize with the feeling of being trapped by circumstances. I certainly could.

“I can’t agree specifically to a cage match with Jörmungandr,” I said, “but I will fight on your side against Hel, see if I can recruit additional aid, and return Gungnir to help make amends for my wrongs against you.”

Odin opened his mouth to reply but closed it again as
the sommelier arrived to bring us a dessert wine for the final course. It was to be a macaron filled with Bavarian vanilla and strawberries and served with champagne jelly, and he assured us it would arrive shortly. But I never got to try the macaron. Never got to hear Odin’s stifled reply.

As the sommelier drew close behind me to deposit a glass over my right shoulder, several things happened in quick succession in a fraction of a second. The Morrigan’s left hand blurred and pushed me so violently from my seat that my head hit the floor while my ass was still in the chair. Glass tinkled. The sommelier cried out and fell backward, to hell with the wine. The report of a rifle cracked in the air. Odin and Frigg lurched to their feet.