Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six) (20 page)
Read Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six) Online
Authors: Kevin Hearne
“All right, let’s get the hell off this plane and thumb our noses at the Olympians,” I said. “There should be a small coppice of trees tethered to Tír na nÓg nearby.”
Skirting the city in camouflage, we crossed Military Road and then Folkestone Road, which led us to Elms Wood, a sliver of untouched forest that had served as a
border between farms for centuries. We placed our hands (and paws) against the trunk of an elm and searched for the connection to the Fae plane. It wasn’t there.
“No, not here too!” Granuaile said, slapping the tree trunk in frustration. “How’d they get here ahead of us?”
“They’ve known where we were headed for a while now,” I said, then added, “Damn it.”
“So they’ve managed to corrupt the forests here too?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll go to Kent. There’s an Old Way there that might not be guarded. And if it is, we’ll go just a bit beyond and get what sleep we can during the day before pressing on to Windsor. There’s not enough time to make it there before dawn, and I think we should hit it during the night if we can.”
Following the procedures we used in our run across Europe, I shifted to a stag and remained visible while Granuaile and Oberon followed in concealment. Running through England was a bit nostalgic for me, having spent quite a bit of time there at various points of my life, but the countryside was far more developed. There used to be more Old Ways, but many had been destroyed in the name of progress, eaten up by the modern world, and there was no real incentive to make any more in protected areas when the system of using trees to shift had been so dependable until recently.
Still, even at night, we ran through some stretches of English countryside that were utterly sublime. Oberon spotted a herd of sheep sleeping in a pasture and begged me to let him go mess with them.
on the back. I’ll wear it to the dog park and everything.>
Kent had more preserved woodland than some other bits of England, with small named stands of timber breaking up the farmland and sheep pastures. A stretch of trees west of Sevenoaks called Mill Bank Wood was home to the only Old Way that lay across our path to Windsor. A boulder hidden under moldering leaves concealed a chute that led to a memorial for Lugh Lhámhfhada in Tír na nÓg. We approached it cautiously, expecting it to be guarded by Fae or monsters or human mercs. None of that turned out to be true; instead, when we arrived, we discovered the boulder had been reduced to rubble and the earth churned around the place, effectively destroying the passage to Tír na nÓg. I couldn’t muster the outrage to curse our luck; it wasn’t luck, anyway, but further evidence of a carefully coordinated campaign against us.
We moved on, but I didn’t tell Granuaile or Oberon
where we were going or why, in hopes of foiling attempts to divine our destination from here. Directly west, perhaps two or three miles, behind the French Street Burial Ground, the Long Wood offered concealment and a place to sleep, and it said something about my exhaustion that I was too tired to make an adolescent joke about its name. It was damp and smelled a bit of rot after a recent rain, but it was safe for the moment.
I shifted to human and said, “Let’s sack out here for the day,” since it was only an hour before dawn.
Granuaile shifted and said, “Can we afford the time?”
I shrugged. “I figure we have a little bit, yeah. The huntresses probably need brand-new bodies and chariots, and they have to pick up our trail somewhere on the Dover coast. We’re coming to the end, though, and we can’t let them be all refreshed when we’re not. You and Oberon sleep. I’ll watch for a while and then wake you up to take a turn.”
Granuaile drew close to me and planted a soft kiss on my lips. “No arguments here. I’m exhausted.” Granuaile curled up on the ground and Oberon sprawled next to her. Both of them drifted off in a couple of minutes, and I was left to think about how we would survive going forward.
If, somehow, we could defuse tensions with the Olympians, our priority had to be the mystery in Tír na nÓg. Whoever was divining Granuaile’s location was also responsible for sending the dark elves and vampires after us.
Strangely, the safest place for us would be Tír na nÓg. Neither vampires nor dark elves would be tolerated there. Shuttling them through using the Old Ways was one thing and easily hidden—especially for someone like Lord Grundlebeard, who controlled the rangers—but keeping them in Tír na nÓg for an extended period as they came after me would raise all sort of alarms and
questions that this shady adversary would wish to avoid. And as for the remaining threat—the Fae—I had a distinct advantage where they were concerned.
If I could find a safe place to leave Granuaile and Oberon, I could go solo and perhaps surprise Midhir or Lord Grundlebeard. If they were behind this, they’d expect me to stay next to Granuaile and wouldn’t be able to use divination to see me coming.
I let Granuaile sleep until midmorning before waking her up to take a watch.
“I needed that,” she said, stretching languorously and perhaps a bit teasingly. “Thanks.”
She levered herself up, but Oberon barely stirred. Poor hound.
“You’re welcome. Wake me up midafternoon. We’ll go get some clothes.” I stretched out next to Oberon and stopped fighting my fatigue.
An odd shudder traveled up my right leg and rattled my ribs, shaking me all along the length of my tattoos. It woke me with a start and made Granuaile jump.
“Gah! What the hell was that?” she asked, staring at the tattoos on her arm as if they would provide an answer. Frowning, she turned to me and saw I was awake. “Did you feel that?”
Oberon roused and yawned.
“Yeah, I felt it.”
“So what was it?” Granuaile said.
“The last time I felt this was when Perun’s plane died.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. Some plane connected to earth has been destroyed.”
“Does that mean Loki is free?”
“Probably. Unless someone else is destroying planes.”
The shuddering continued, and I extended my thoughts to the English elemental, Albion.
//Disturbance detected / Query: Source?//
The reply confirmed my fears. //Old plane of the Finns / Burning//
“Albion says it’s a plane of the Finns.”
“How many do they have? Not as many as the Irish, I hope?”
“No, I can’t think of many. Unless it’s Tuonela, their land of the dead.”
“Why would Loki even care about that?”
“No idea. But if he’s free again, what happened to Malina? Did she let him go, or is she a crispy critter now? Or maybe Hel found them and threatened her, or paid her off, or killed her—who knows.” Annoyed by the lack of answers, I looked up at the sky, assuming that Odin was looking in on us from Hlidskjálf. “And, hey, Odin! Are you listening? I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Loki, since he’s such a potential problem.”
Granuaile considered. “The Finns had a thunder god, didn’t they, sort of like Perun?”
“Yeah. I saw him once. His name is Ukko, which basically translates to
old man
. God of the sky and thunder. He was part of the crew that came to kill me in Arizona and instead hacked up Coyote into tiny pieces. He seemed a bit more laid back than the other thunder gods, though. Probably because the Finns are just cool like that. Want to guess where they say thunderstorms came from?”
“Oh, ew. I’m not sure, judging by the grin on your face.”
“All that noise and precipitation gets made when Ukko and his wife, Akka, have thunderous sex. Isn’t that awesome?”
Granuaile shook her head. “No, it’s gross. You are such a guy sometimes.”
She’s not saying I’m occasionally female. She’s implying that I’m shallow
.
Hey!
Granuaile couldn’t have heard what I said, but Oberon’s comment, plus the outrage that must have shown on my face, caused her to laugh.
“Good dog,” she said, petting him.
“Well, I hope Ukko’s all right,” I said, steering the conversation back to safer territory, “if indeed he was the target and if this was Loki’s doing.”
“Ukko wanted you dead and you’re worried about his welfare?”
“Well, yeah, I guess. He also cheered when the Morrigan cut Vidar in half. I think he was more bored than truly angry with me. He tagged along for the entertainment value.”
“If he calls ganging up on people and watching them die entertainment, I’m not predisposed to like him.”
“Few of the old gods are truly friendly. Goibhniu is a notable exception.”
Granuaile brightened, agreeing with my hound. “Yeah, I like Fand, and Manannan Mac Lir. They tend to save our asses, so what’s not to like?”
“Count them amongst the few, then,” I said, and squinted west toward the sun, now low on the horizon. “You let me sleep a bit long, didn’t you?”
“You needed it. I was just about to wake you.”
Two large ravens swooped down from the sky and landed on the branch of an ash tree. “Ah, Odin was watching us after all,” I said, pointing at Hugin and Munin. “Perhaps we can get some answers.”
In the mundane spectrum I still couldn’t tell them apart, but in the magical spectrum they were easily distinguished now, since Hugin glowed with more magic as the mind of Odin. Hugin jerked his beak at Munin, indicating that I should bind my consciousness with his.
Once I did so, Odin’s memories caught me up with recent events. I saw Loki still dazed by the charms of the Sisters of the Three Auroras, specifically by Klaudia’s lips, to which I myself had succumbed once upon a time. They were decadent. Sultry. So very, very kissable. And, damn, they almost snared me through the replay. The witches and the god of mischief were still in the same field where we had left them, which surprised me to some extent. I had expected Malina to move the operation elsewhere, but perhaps she had decided that moving was more trouble than it was worth, and it’s not as if onion fields are subject to constant scrutiny. The view expanded to show me Garm, Hel’s gigantic hound, similarly entranced by a couple of other witches. I smiled appreciatively. With Garm occupied, Hel wouldn’t know where to send her
draugar
. Malina had done well.
Garm’s gaze was fixed on a stick held in front of his eyes by one of Malina’s younger coven members. Clearly it had been enchanted with the same beguiling charm they had used on their body parts to ensnare humans. With both Loki and Garm preoccupied—Garm being Hel’s eyes and ears on earth, much like Hugin and Munin often served as Odin’s—Malina could conceivably stave off Ragnarok indefinitely, keeping Hel uncertain of victory.
Provided, of course, she wasn’t interrupted.
Ukko provided the interruption. Somehow, he’d discovered that Loki was unbound from his long imprisonment and located him—a mystery that begged to be solved, since no one else had beaten him to it. Why was Ukko the first to discover this? He flew down from the sky, landed a short distance away, and, without so much as a howdy-do, threw lightning at Loki.
His motivation wasn’t a mystery at all. Like Perun, who held an equivalent position amongst the old Rús tribes, the Finn would have very little love for the Norse
pantheon, being a sort of direct competitor for the hearts and minds of people in that region of the world.
Loki flew bodily through the air, his torso folded and his long flailing limbs reminding me of a squid. He landed fifty yards away, far outside the range of Klaudia’s lips or Malina’s hair or any other charm capable of calming him. His body bloomed in flames and the madness returned.
“Hah? Who?” he cried, then saw Ukko advancing. “Thhhhunder god! G-g-guh, good!”
Malina shouted something in Polish, but Loki and Ukko ignored it, focused as they were on each other. Loki took a deep breath in the way a trained opera singer would, chest rising faintly but lungs filling like a bellows. He threw back his head and roared as his hands flew up and an inferno exploded from him, a burnin’ ring o’ fire that lifted Ukko off his feet and set the field alight. Here, then, was the great conflagration that Malina’s coven had foreseen.
“S-s-set your world on f-f-fire!” Loki spat before launching himself into the air and streaking north, presumably toward Finland. Ukko, having no choice and forced to play defense, followed him without ever acknowledging—or perhaps even realizing—that he had flipped Loki’s switch from “Neutralized” to “Unchained Sociopath.”
Odin’s vision didn’t chase after them but rather panned back to the witches. They had their purple wards up, protected from the flames but clearly feeling the heat. Garm, however, had no such protection. His fur was aflame and he sprinted, howling, for the river that bordered Jasło’s western edge, some two hundred yards away. The witches ran after him, cursing in Polish and sounding far more angry than scared.
