Staked (Iron Druid Chronicles) (18 page)

“I’m the Druid that Fand of the Tuatha Dé Danann hired you to kill. None of your assassins came back, did they?”

His expression hardened and he shook his head by way of reply.

“Well, their deaths weren’t entirely my doing. Most of them were taken out by Æsir and a single dwarf Runeskald. This Runeskald has figured out how to protect against your black blades and also cut you while you’re in your smoke form, making you vulnerable to a killing blow after that.”

The dark elves scoffed in unison. “Impossible,” Krókr said.

“I witnessed it with my own eyes. He appeared with several axes inscribed with different runes and waded right into the middle of your men. They tried to pierce his armor but could not. Meanwhile, he tested each axe in turn. I believe his fourth one worked. Tore right through smoke, and then a Svartálf took shape with a shallow gash across his chest. He couldn’t go back after that, and the dwarf finished him.”

“And now there’s an army in similar armor,” Brighid said, “no doubt with similar weapons, designed to destroy you and marching here to do just that.”

“Why?” Turid asked. “We’ve done nothing to them.”

“It’s not what you have done. It’s what they fear you
will
do. They believe you will fight against them when Ragnarok arrives, and they would rather fight you today, when they have an advantage, than on the day they are beset on all sides.”

“We have no plans for Ragnarok other than survival,” the dark elf leader protested.

“You mean you are neutral? The Æsir do not see it that way. They are assuming that since you are not actively on their side, you must be on the other side, with Hel and Loki.”

“That’s narrow-minded thinking. This is done with Odin’s approval?”

“We do not know for certain since we have not spoken with him,” Brighid replied, “but it is difficult to imagine that he is unaware of this. The fact that such a force marches at all implies his approval.”

“Where is this force now?” Krókr asked.

I pointed behind me. “See that smudge on the horizon?”

Krókr squinted, then turned to a couple of the guards and asked them to scout the army, admonishing them to stay out of range and not engage.

“Assuming that truly is the army you speak of, why are you here to warn us?” Turid asked Brighid after the guards had departed. “The Tuatha Dé Danann have never shown us kindness before.”

“That is true. And I am not here to be kind now either,” Brighid said. “I am here because I am sworn to protect Gaia, and she would suffer greatly if the Svartálfs remain neutral or fight on the side of darkness during Ragnarok.”

The Svartálfs exchanged glances with one another and shrugged, leaving Turid with no advice on how to proceed. “You seem to know more of the future than we do. Why do we matter so much?”

“That I do not know. All I know is that one of our best seers, the Morrigan, said that you must join the side of the Æsir if Gaia is to have a chance of surviving.”

Turid’s brows drew together and her mouth drooped in a frown. “What do we care if Midgard falls?”

“I did not speak of Midgard. I spoke of Gaia, the anchor for Yggdrasil and the nine realms and the anchor for all other planes dreamed up by human minds. If Gaia falls, then so do the nine realms, you understand? It is in everyone’s interest to ensure Gaia’s survival.”

Krókr scoffed, “So we must join the Æsir, who are even now on their way to kill us all?”

“Exactly,” I said. “But this is not insurmountable. It’s a misunderstanding. If we can convince them you will fight with them at Ragnarok, there is no need for bloodshed.”

“We have no wish to fight with them or against them,” Turid pointed out, “or to participate in Ragnarok at all.”

“So lie,” I said, “and save your people today. Because I’ve seen their armor in action. The Æsir portion of that army call themselves the Glass Knights. They will systematically fire fléchettes once per second and make sure that they hit you when you’re corporeal, and their runed tiles are impervious to your weapons. And then the Black Axes will hack you apart like so much meat once you’re bound to your naked flesh. That’s what happened to your assassins, and it will happen to your entire population if you don’t give them a reason to stop.”

“I don’t see how we can change Odin’s mind now.”

“You can worry about changing his mind later. Right now you need to prevent them from wiping you out. They’re incredibly prepared to deny you
Sigr af Reykr
—Victory from Smoke. But give them anything else and they’ll fall,” I said. “Use conventional weapons. Bring some archers out here and loose a few flights. Arrows will mow them down.”

“And fire will burn them,” Brighid said, kindling a sphere of flame in the palm of her hand.

“Good,” Krókr said. “If you’re so anxious to help, we’ll let you stall them while we gather a force together behind the gates.”

The other dark elves turned their heads and frowned at Krókr’s words but did not gainsay him.

“We hoped to fight with you rather than for you,” Brighid said.

“I don’t care if you fight. Sing and dance for them if you want. Just give us as much time to prepare as you can.” His peremptory tone struck me as the sort that would get him barbecued. Delivering orders to Brighid like that marked him as incredibly confident or simply stupid.

Brighid did not reply to him, however, or set him on fire for his insolence. Instead, she addressed the other Svartálf leaders. “Does Hrafnson speak for all of you in this matter?”

They paused, exchanged glances, and then Turid said, “He does. We will prepare and be grateful for any time you can give us.”

“Unbelievable,” I said as they withdrew into the gate, taking the guards with them. Brighid’s mouth dropped open as the door closed in our faces, leaving us out in the literal cold to face an army by ourselves. The guards who had left earlier to scout the army streamed past us as smoke, not pausing to share their intelligence but filtering through the cracks of the doors to report their findings.

“I think I might know why the dark elves have few allies,” she said.

“Yep,” I said, turning around. The smudge on the horizon was a definite chunk of something solid now. “Shall we go down to meet them or wait here?”

“Let’s go down. Quick flight. Are you ready?”

“I’m still not in great fighting shape, but I’m as ready as I’ll be today, I suppose.”

We may have looked to the Æsir like the descending wrath of Loki as we approached in a ball of fire—that was my guess judging by their relieved expressions once we landed in front of them and the dissipating flames revealed our figures. But for my money they should not have looked relieved at the appearance of Brighid.

Leading the army, marching in front, was the red-bearded Runeskald, Fjalar. He didn’t recognize either of us except as people who were not Loki, since we wore armor. He peered at it rather than at our helmeted faces, trying to discern the nature of the etchings. Brighid’s bindings looked nothing like runes, however, so all he could learn from them was that we weren’t Norse. He called a halt to the march and shifted his axe down from his shoulder to a two-handed grip.

“Who are you?” he said, and I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t go epic with it and give the moment its proper weight. I’d hoped for a “Verily” or a “Tell me in sooth” or something like that.

Both of us had full helmets on, so we were merely armed warriors to his eyes. And, I realized, since Brighid had her hair tucked up and didn’t forge her armor with the stupid mounds for breasts one sees in video games, he probably didn’t realize she was female, much less a goddess.

Her head nodded once in my direction, indicating that I should speak for us.

“You know me, Fjalar. I’m Atticus O’Sullivan, Druid of Gaia.”

“And who else?”

“Someone more powerful than I am.”

He gazed at Brighid, who is in fact taller than me, and might have guessed her identity if he leapt immediately to the Irish pantheon. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to ask you to turn around. I hardly think you have a peaceful mission to the dark elves with that army behind you.”

“I can’t turn around. I have orders from Odin himself.”

“But surely you have battlefield command. Call it a strategic withdrawal. The situation’s changed and you need to reassess—as does Odin.”

“And how has the situation changed?”

“The dark elves are under my protection. And the Tuatha Dé Danann’s.”

Again Fjalar shifted his eyes to Brighid, trying to gauge the threat level she represented. It should be radioactive.

“Why? What makes you care about them?”

“They deserve to live until Ragnarok like everyone else.”

“But they’re on the side of Loki and Hel!”

“They claim to be on no one’s side but their own.”

“Of
course
they say that! But skulking, creeping, they fill all that is not light like the darkness they are—”

“Ah, there’s the skald talking now! And it’s all poetic bullshit covering up the fact that you want to walk in and murder people because they
might
do something at an ill-defined point in the future and because you don’t like the way they look. Go back and rethink this.”

“If Odin, in his wisdom, is satisfied that this is the right course, I will not question him.”

“Meaning you’re not thinking for yourself. And also assuming that Odin has all the facts, when he may not. Have you tried talking to the Svartálfar?”

“It’s not my place. Nor is it my place to listen to you. There are two sides: Asgard’s and theirs. On which side will you stand?”

“First, that’s bullshit either-or thinking. And second, I’ve already told you that the Svartálfar are not on the side of Hel any more than they are on yours. They’re neutral, and if you’d take the time to talk to them instead of marching on them, we could spare a lot of lives here.”

“I asked where
you
stand, Druid.”

“Right here in front of you, demanding that you not attempt genocide.”

Fjalar paused and craned his neck to look at the gray ceiling of clouds. “So you would defy Odin?” He spied and then pointed to Hugin and Munin, circling above us. They had not been there earlier. “He’s watching.”

“Then he can watch me say this: I would defy anyone who wished to commit genocide, including Brighid.” In fact, I was starting to wonder about Odin. Loki wanted to burn the world, and Odin wanted to just wipe out part of it. There was a difference of scale, but the sentiment was the same—denying people their right to live because you didn’t like them. It gave me pause to think about what I was doing: Do vampires have a right to, uh,
unlive
? Was my situation any different? I supposed it was: Theophilus had actively sent Werner Drasche and others to kill my friends and me, and he would doubtless do so again. He intended me to be the last victim of a genocide he’d carried out centuries ago with the help of the Roman legions, marching to do his bidding much as Fjalar and company were marching to Odin’s. But my rationale of an active self-defense was perilously close to Odin’s, and could bear some further scrutiny later.

“I certainly hope you would defy me in such a case,” Brighid said, igniting her left fist. It did much to draw Fjalar’s attention, as did her three-level voice, in which she could speak only truth and could be quite persuasive. “I am Brighid, First among the Fae, and I also will protect the right of the Svartálfar to exist. Withdraw and let us talk calmly of these matters and come to an accord.”

“No,” Fjalar replied. “You underestimate the will of Asgard. The time for talk has past. We must prepare for Ragnarok.”

I cocked my head at him and said, “When was the time for talk, exactly? Because I must have missed it. Seems like you haven’t talked to the Svartálfar at all.”

“Enough! You insert yourselves into matters that don’t concern you. Move aside.”

“Be very concerned, Runeskald,” Brighid warned in her three-part voice. “If you move forward, you will be the first to die an unnecessary death. I can read those runes well enough to know your armor does not protect against fire.”

“You may send me to Valhalla if you wish,” Fjalar said. “Either way, I will fight in Ragnarok.”

I raised my left hand in a plea for him to stop. “Fjalar, no. Wait—”

The Runeskald lifted his axe high and shouted, “Æsir!” As soon as he brought it down, pointing it at Brighid and shouting, “Forward!” the goddess of fire lit him up like a stump, just as she had promised, and I wondered why people who believed in the next life were so anxious to start living it instead of enjoying the one they had.

Fjalar cried out in agony and the Black Axes roared in response, charging right through a wall of flame that Brighid laid down between us. They went from orderly to berserk in less than a second and didn’t care how hot she could make it for them; they were going to take a swing at us no matter what.

Brighid unhitched that monstrous sword of hers and swept aside the first few axes. I likewise was able to parry a couple of swings with Fragarach, but the tide coming against us was too huge, and the third dwarf who missed kicked me in the right knee—the leg that was already uncertain thanks to Werner Drasche—and I went down. Axes clanged on my cuirass and failed to penetrate, but I still felt them like powerful punches to the ribs. I took a kick to the head, which rung the belfry pretty good, but Fragarach’s enchantment allowed me to cut off at the knees the dwarf who did it, slicing clean through his armor. Brighid helped out by setting those immediately around me on fire—the pain distracted them long enough to delay a coup de grâce—and then she bowled through them, hooked her arm underneath one of mine to scoop me up, and turned on the fire jets. We only rose twenty feet or so and hovered, facing the army now unable to reach us, their front line on fire and rolling around in the snow to try to extinguish themselves. The back lines of Glass Knights fired a volley of fléchettes at us, some of which went wide or short. The darts that did hit us pinged harmlessly off our armor.

“Not my best diplomatic achievement,” I told Brighid.

“They won’t listen while they can choose the path of glorious battle,” she replied.