Trapped (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Five) (15 page)

//Druid found trees / Unnatural movement / Query: Help root / Bring harmony?//

//Exclamation! / Unnatural movement! / Trees must root / Grow / Nourish / Harmony//

The yewmen did not have vocal cords. It was part of their mystique, playing the silent, implacable killer. But if they could have roared in frustration, they would have. Wherever their bodies touched the ground, roots sprouted and clutched handfuls of earth, grabbing Greek
real estate like foreclosure vultures. Swords forgotten, they tried to pull away and even leap away from one another and the earth, but Olympia was determined to make them feel at home. They were immobilized inside a minute, save for their arms and heads, a new miniature grove among the undergrowth. In the pursuit of harmony, Olympia would work steadily on the Morrigan’s enchantments until the yewmen were nothing but trees again. In the meantime, they were acutely aware of what had been done to them and who was responsible. I jogged past them, grinning, and their black eyes held bloody promises as they followed my progress.

“Heh! Fuck yew,” I said.

The arrow in my shoulder bounced awkwardly before me. Had I not shut down the pain, it would no doubt be giving me all kinds of trouble. I concentrated on the shaft of the arrow—a hollow aluminum one, I noted—and unbound its molecules near the exit point until it crumbled away like a wafer cookie.

It occurred to me that I should have been so calm and rational about the arrow Ullr shot into me in Asgard, but once that fight began, little was calm or rational.

Have you found the bowman yet?
I asked Oberon as I approached the pond.

He’s neutralized for the moment, since he can’t see us; let’s go back to the cave and help Granuaile. It’s a more defensible position anyway
.

As Oberon turned from wherever he was and picked up his pace, I heard his footfalls—tiny pads, soft pantings, the occasional rustle. I could get a vague fix on him based on that. As I tried to spy where he was moving, an arrow lanced down out of the canopy and thudded into the earth next to the stream, just below the pond.

Top speed back to the cave, Oberon!
Our assassin must have camouflage of his own. There was no way I could get to him up in the canopy with only a sword. I needed one of Granuaile’s throwing knives. Or five.

Oberon dove into the bushes and sinuously wove between them, his passage clearly marked by the wake of quaking branches and leaves. If the assassin remained where he was, the angle for a shot was increasingly poor; his arrow would turn awry as soon as it hit the undergrowth. To get a good shot at Oberon now, he’d have to fly out and shoot straight down.

I took a slightly different path and offered much the same target; movement could be tracked by the bushes moving out of my way, but I kept low and there would be no clear shot unless the shooter moved from his current position.

Oberon would get to the cave first.

Don’t barrel into the cave announcing your presence. You will sneak in there like a Celtic ninja. Don’t pant
.

I know, but try to keep a lid on it until I get there
.

No, silly! Celts always freeball it
.

No arrows whistled by me on the way to the cave. Oberon wasn’t attacked either. Part of me was relieved, but another part was worried about where the assassin was.

A steady stream of cursing and percussive knocks greeted my ears once I got to the cave. Granuaile was under attack.

She was cornered by a faery assassin—the kind of faery with wings. At the moment he wasn’t flying, because the cave didn’t have sufficient room. He was casting a glamour and protesting loudly in the visible spectrum that
she was doing him wrong and he meant no harm, while in truth he was trying to stab her with a wicked pair of silver knives. Granuaile wasn’t falling for it; she was fending him off by fighting against the outline of his true form. The iron caps on the end of her staff—probably only an eighth of an inch thick—weren’t hurting him. He was armored with hardened leather and she hadn’t touched his skin yet. I wondered how long the fight had been going on; she seemed to be holding her own fairly well, but the fact remained that she was playing defense and she didn’t have much room to back up.

I told Oberon,
Bark your head off to distract him, but don’t engage. What you see isn’t what he looks like. I’ll take him out
.

Now
.

Oberon can sound deadly when he wishes. His loud, abrupt arrival startled the assassin, causing the faery to step back and take his eyes off Granuaile for a second. That was a critical error. Her staff whipped low, and she swept his feet out from under him. He landed hard on his backside, crying out because it probably hurt his wings. Before he could flip up and away, I stomped on his left wrist, dissolved my camouflage except for the arrow in my shoulder, and pointed Moralltach at the space between his eyes.

“Drop your knives,” I said. “Now.”

“Why should I? I’m dead anyway.” Granuaile had moved to pin his right arm down as well.

“Because if you do, I pledge to report to Tír na nÓg that you died honorably. If you do not, I will take your body back and report that you died a coward, casting shame on your family.”

“Your word?” he asked.

“You have my word that I will report you honorable if you drop your weapons and answer my questions.”

He dropped his knives. “There is no shame in falling to the Iron Druid. My name is Dubhlainn Óg of Shannon Heath. Make it quick.”

“I will. Who sent you here?”

“I was paid by the Svartálfar of the Norse.”

“What? You can’t blame this on the dark elves. How did you find us here?”

“The dark elves are paying me, as they paid everyone here today. They are spending significant money on your head. But it is also true that someone in Tír na nÓg betrayed your location. I was informed anonymously.”

“Informed how, precisely?”

“In writing. A note delivered by a pixie. It said to search the woods near Litochoro. I found the dog first and used him to draw you out.”

There was much there to think about. “Am I the target, or is Granuaile?”

“The contract specifies either or both, with a bonus to be paid for both. The apprentice, however, is the softer target.”

“Ass malt,” Granuaile muttered, and in so doing managed to ruin one of the few charms of the 1950s for me.

“You say the dark elves are paying others. Who are they paying?”

The assassin shrugged with his eyebrows. “They are paying faeries. They are paying their own kind. Beyond that, I do not know.”

“Who among the dark elves wants us dead?”

“I cannot say. Assassination is a business of intermediaries.”

Not for the first time, I wished I had Fragarach instead of Moralltach in my hand. I might not get any better answers out of this faery, but at least I could be sure that they were truthful.

“How many in your band?”

“Aside from myself, there’s a pod of yewmen and their
shifter.” The yewmen were incapable of shifting planes by themselves, a wise precaution of the Morrigan’s. The shifter must have been the one with the bow.

“Dubhlainn Óg of Shannon Heath, may Manannan see you safely home,” I said to him. I flicked my eyes to Granuaile. “Would the soft target like to do the honors?”

Without answering, she crunched the iron cap of her staff into the faery’s forehead. He grunted once, stiffened, and crumbled to ash.

“We cannot stay here,” I said.

“I know.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. Feeling pretty good, actually.” She flashed a grin. “I kicked a little bit of ass.”

“Yes, congratulations. You did well to track his movements through the glamour. But whose blood is that on your arm?”

A crinkle appeared between Granuaile’s eyes. “Where?” She looked first at her right arm and then at her left, which she had curled around her staff. One end of the staff rested on the ground, and she was leaning on it a bit, hand above the elbow. That’s where she saw what I saw. A trail of blood from the outside of her wrist wove down to her elbow, where it dripped. “Huh. He must have nicked me. I didn’t even feel it.”

“Not a good sign. These guys probably favor poison.” Even as I said it, Granuaile’s knees buckled and she dropped to the cave floor, her confidence replaced by confusion. Her staff tumbled out of nerveless fingers.

Her expression filled with a dollop of panic, and I think it was safe to say that mine did as well. “Poison?” she said. “I hope it wasn’t iocane powder.”

“Hopefully not. But probably potent if he was gunning for us. Speak to Olympia about it and ask her to
heal you. She’ll probably be happy to do it. And look—there’s more on your leg. Quite a lot.”

Granuaile looked down at the outside of her left calf, where the assassin had more than nicked her. There was a deep gash, and for her to be unaware meant either he was using some sort of numbing agent or she had some really amazing adrenaline.

“Oh, shit, I don’t even feel it—right. Same solution.” She closed her eyes and spoke to Olympia, while I did my best to look unconcerned. Forcing myself away from her side as she concentrated, I began to gather our supplies.

Oberon asked.

As soon as we can. This place isn’t safe anymore. If one group of assassins was told to look here, then another was probably told the same. Speaking of which, would you mind keeping an eye on the wee valley? There’s still one out there, and I don’t want to be surprised again
.

Oberon turned to the cave entrance and wriggled between the bushes to give himself a commanding view up and downstream.

And don’t forget to look up. He’s a flier
.

If I did, you would just use it on squirrels. Is it all clear out there?

Granuaile raised her head and opened her eyes.

“You were right, sensei. A numbing agent and a neurotoxin. Olympia spotted it and broke it down, though. Now I can feel where he got me.”

“He was waiting for you to fall down like that so he could finish you. Can you move again?”

“Yeah,” she said, waggling her fingers, “I think so.”

“Good to hear. Pull this arrow out of my back, will you?”

“What? I didn’t even see that!”

“Had it camouflaged.” Despite having the pain under control, I winced when she yanked it out. There simply wasn’t anything comfortable about the feeling. “Thanks,” I said, and began to close up the wound. “Pack your things. We have to get out of the area before we have more assassins than we can deal with.”

Leaning her staff against the wall of the cave, she moved to comply, albeit with a slight limp. “Where will we go?”

“Back to Tír na nÓg for a brief while. Someone there is not only helping assassins find us, but they’re colluding for some reason with the dark elves. It’s a mystery worth investigating.”

“When will we continue my binding?”

“As soon as we can. Believe me, I want it over with as much as you do.”

I have seen children play a game of tag in which they can’t be tagged if they’re touching “base,” which may be a tree, or an old tire, or any other object. It is a safe zone—a place where one can catch his breath and maybe throw a taunt or two at whoever is “it.”

Irish base is the plane of Mag Mell. There is no discord allowed. Fae assassins would not dare defile it. One can relax there, heal there, and even practice the damnable art of diplomacy if so inclined. That is where I took Granuaile and Oberon once we shifted away from Olympus. I created a tether to Tír na nÓg first using the tree in front of the cave—it would be senseless to try to hike back, wounded as we were and under the eye of a flying sniper—and once we shifted to Tír na nÓg, I pulled us a bit farther along the tether to Mag Mell.

The blood on our bodies startled and angered some of the Fae nymphs at the hot springs of Cnoc an Óir at first, but when we made it clear it had been shed elsewhere and we had come only to heal, they were polite, even solicitous, and asked how they could help. I asked them to take messages to Goibhniu and Manannan Mac Lir in Tír na nÓg, imploring them to visit me at the springs on a matter of some urgency. Bless them, they sent two nymphs straightaway, and the rest of them offered
carved soaps and bandages and invited us to soak in the restorative hot springs.

The grounds around the springs were lined with spongy turf; verdant hedges grown for the sake of privacy separated individual soaking pools. There were larger pools available for parties of two or more, and it was into one of these that Oberon and I eased. Granuaile was led to a single pool nearby but well out of sight.

Oberon said, as I stripped and stepped gingerly into the pool.

It isn’t that I can’t stand the sight. The problem is that part of me would stand very tall. And it wouldn’t matter how much I thought about baseball either. Hmm. Maybe I should try thinking of a geriatric hockey game. Very cold and lots of broken hips. That might work
.

Oberon snorted.

I’m trying not to get in the habit with her, Oberon
.

No, I don’t. Well, I do, but you see, I can’t, and … it’s complicated
.

I sighed.
Maybe you’re right
.