Trapped

“No, I can still see the outlines. I can see the surface features, too, without getting overwhelmed. It’s like everything has this soft glow around it, and if I don’t focus on the glow I’ll be fine.”

“Excellent. That’s exactly what you want. Now, I don’t know who’s out there. It might be a magic user. When I come back, I should look like this. If you see me plus something else—two different outlines, in other words—it’s not me. It’s something else, casting a glamour. Whack him. Or her. Or it.”

“So that’s why you want me to have magical vision on—”

“For positive ID. Right. Be back as soon as I can. Vigilance!”

Casting camouflage on myself, I eased out of the cave and past the thornbushes to descend to the stream.

Which way from the cave, Oberon?

<West. I’m just south of the stream, where the watering hole is.>

The watering hole was the outer limit of the range where I could still hear him in my mind. I began to mince his way, trying to keep quiet and scan the area for movement. And you haven’t seen anything in all this time?

<Nope.>

You’re not staring at the meat again, are you?

<No, I swear. I’m not letting that tractor beam get hold of me again.>

And you haven’t heard or smelled anything?

<No. The fact that I’m not hearing anything is a bad sign.>

Yes. Okay, I’m on my way, trying to move quickly but also quietly. I’m having the bushes move apart for me where necessary. I’m in camouflage.

I didn’t hear anything either, except for the soft sounds of my own footfalls on the ground. Oberon was right. This was unnaturally quiet. Five minutes’ determined march through the growth brought me to the watering hole. Nothing moved except for the water in the stream.

Walking south from there, it was less than a minute before I came upon Oberon and the steak.

<Atticus, is that you? I hear something coming.>

Yes. It’s me. I dissolved my camouflage so he could see me. Oberon’s tail wagged.

<Saint Lassie be praised!>

I examined the steak. Clearly it had been carefully placed. There was no dirt on the sides or top, as there would be if it had tumbled haphazardly from someone’s grasp. It was discolored in several places, more than would be expected by simple exposure to air; there were subtle shadings of red that Oberon’s canine eyes wouldn’t have picked up. Something had been sprinkled on it. What the poison was didn’t matter to me. What puzzled me was Oberon’s insistence that he’d seen no tracks nearby. I had doubted that because I figured he’d simply been blind to anything except the steak, but there truly were no tracks here except his and mine. That led me to several unsavory conclusions.

It probably wasn’t a deity; a deity wouldn’t have silenced all the creatures. Still, it was something with the ability to manipulate the earth like a Druid—or it wasn’t touching the earth at all. Something that could fly.

“We have to get back to Granuaile,” I said. “Right now!”

That’s when I got an arrow in the back.

Chapter 11

I should probably back up a wee bit. As I was telling Oberon we needed to return to the cave, his ears pricked up and he looked into the distance behind my right side. And then, saying nothing more than <Atticus! >, he leapt at me, knocking me down. As a result—due to the fall—the arrow intended for the middle of my back hit me high in the left shoulder, scraping along the top of the blade. When I hit the ground, the impact drove it all the way through and nearly stabbed Oberon, who landed on top of me.

I cast camouflage on us almost by instinct, then belatedly remembered as another shaft whizzed overhead that I should camouflage the bloody arrow sticking out of me too.

<I saw something move up in the trees back there and it wasn’t a bird.>

Go, Oberon! See if you can circle around and flank them.

<Got it.> He bounded away and I struggled to my feet. The shock was wearing off and I was beginning to feel the pain. I triggered my healing charm, drew Moralltach, and looked about me for enemies.

I didn’t have far to look. A squad of five yewmen, spread in a skirmish line, approached from the direction of the watering hole, bronze leaf swords raised high over their right shoulders, advancing as samurai would through the brush. Their tiny dark eyes searched for me—and found me. They could see through my camouflage.

Though only three feet tall, they were terrifying creatures, knotted and gnarled with anger, sprung from the boughs of the enchanted guardian trees in the Morrigan’s Fen. They were the Morrigan’s answer to many of the Tuatha Dé Danann, for while they were living, they weren’t animals and thus weren’t subject to Flidais’s control; Moralltach meant nothing to them, for they were not made of flesh, and Aenghus Óg’s old sword would not affect them except in the way any normal blade would—which wasn’t much. I’d be better off with an axe. Someone had done their homework to send them against me.

In Druidic circles, yew was the harbinger of death, an omen of ill news, and this, coupled with the fact that they were the Morrigan’s creatures, meant that even among the Fae the yewmen were feared; they were creatures that made goblins wake up sweating in the night. They served the Morrigan for a hundred years, guarding the Fen —which was really her stronghold as the Fae Court was Brighid’s—itching for a fight and never getting one, until she let them go to Tír na nÓg, where they became eager mercenaries.

I had little to no hope that the Morrigan would appear to defend me now. She’d made it clear some years ago that she depended on me to take care of myself, despite her vow to prevent my death by violent means.

Oberon, they have swords and they know how to use them. I don’t want you engaging them. What they don’t have are bows and arrows. See if you can find the archer and tell me where he is.

<Okay.>

These lads didn’t fly, and that arrow had come from a higher angle than they could conceivably achieve. Whoever had dropped that steak wasn’t a yewman, and he was out there ready to take a potshot at me; that’s why I bothered to keep my camouflage on.

Their stances gave me an idea—they were providing such lovely targets. I created a binding of like-to-like, so that their bronze blades abruptly bound together on either side of the one in the middle. The effect was amusing, because the yewmen didn’t want to let go. They were yanked by their swords toward the lad in the center, and once he was holding not only his sword but four other yewmen with their swords bound to his, he had a bit of trouble, and the whole mess of them fell in a heap to the ground.

I thought of binding the yewmen together in the same way, except that I was afraid of what would happen if I tried. These were the Morrigan’s creatures and would hardly be effective against the Tuatha Dé Danann if they could be bound like any other piece of wood. Rumor had it that the Morrigan had prepared for that—perhaps it was a rumor she’d spread herself. Still, it would be silly to allow her yewmen to be bound and unbound by their bark; they had to have protection. Olympia, however, might be able to help me. The yewmen were never intended to walk on this plane; they were the boogeymen of the Faerie lands, but to Olympia they were simply odd trees.

//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