Trapped

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.

<No, I haven’t spotted him. I think I heard him, though. He’s around somewhere in the canopy.>

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.

<Okay.>

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.

<Hey! That was close!>

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.

<You know that’s like me telling you not to sweat, right?>

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

<Do Celtic ninjas have to wear pajamas?>

No, silly! Celts always freeball it.

<Okay, good. Just making sure.>

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.

<Okay. Tell me when.>

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.”