chapter 21
The brief text exchange with Atticus leaves me feeling much better and hopeful that the day will yield something positive. After finishing breakfast, I let the hotel know I’ll be staying another day or two, then return to the banana grove simply because we won’t be bothered there. Once situated in the grove in the lotus position, I close my eyes and stretch out my thoughts to contact the elemental Kaveri. The conversation goes on for hours, long enough that Orlaith lies down for another nap, but gradually we isolate a place underground where a chamber existed in ancient days but is now filled in.
Kaveri explains that it is a //Place of magic / Long dormant / Dangerous / Slivers of air trapped inside//
It might not be the resting place of Vayu’s arrows, but a place of magic sounds interesting, and in lieu of any other leads on Logan, I ask Kaveri to lead us there. We trek north from the grove until Kaveri tells me to stop in the middle of a rice paddy that’s lying fallow for the season. We are all alone.
//Here// she says. In front of my feet, a black square of earth opens up, crumbling away like a sinkhole. A pungent scent of dirt wafts skyward, and steps leading down into the dark beckon me forward to discover wonders or uncover horrors. Something about it disturbs me, and I hesitate.
Orlaith?
"Yes?"
I don’t really want to go down there, but I feel that I must. You should probably wait here for me. The elemental said it would be dangerous.
"I go with you. I am dangerous."
In truth I wouldn’t mind her company, but I can’t bear to risk her. Oberon got hurt once when he was trying to protect Atticus from a vampire, and it nearly destroyed us both. I know you are, Orlaith, but it is smarter to have you wait here so that you can come help me if needed. Please stay. I will return as soon as I can.
She doesn’t like the idea one bit, but she obeys, ears drooping. I pad cautiously down into the black, step by step, and tell myself that the foreboding I feel means nothing, because this space was solid earth a few moments ago. There can’t be anything down here that can hurt me. But I also remember from my education in horror movies that girls who wander alone into dark places without a flashlight tend to make messy ends. Halfway down—and it’s a long stairwell that Kaveri has made, for the chamber is deep—I cast night vision and hope the ambient light from the surface will guide me below.
At the bottom, it’s clear that the ambient light won’t suffice, even with night vision. I ask Kaveri to open a trench and she complies, creating a narrow slit in the overhanging earth through which sunlight can filter and provide some weak illumination. It’s a large room for ancient days—forty by forty, I guess, with only pieces of the original walls and floor mixed in with the earth. It makes me wonder how Kaveri remembered this shape—but I don’t get a chance to take a closer look at anything, because the light begins to fade almost immediately. The trench isn’t closing, but something dark is passing between it and the rest of the room, as if someone put the entire room in a black bag.
//Query: What is happening?//
//Old creature wakes / Long hidden / Forgotten / Hates light / Air//
I almost cry out for Orlaith but quash it because I don’t want her to run into this. Something unseen slams me backward, something fingerless and formless but undeniably exerting force, pressing me into the hard earthen floor. And it continues to press, crushing air out of my lungs but also crushing everywhere else—my legs, arms, and head—a claustrophobe’s nightmare.
There is nothing to fight and no leverage to gain. It’s like being in a compactor, I suppose, but without the hard walls of steel and the astromech droid at the other end of a communicator who can shut it down. This is more of a soft but inexorable weight, like a pillow pressed down by a very credible hulk, and the smothering darkness and weight serve to fuel a rising panic inside. I’ll be smooshed soon, if I don’t finagle an escape. I cast magical sight and see no change at all—only pitch black and nothing at which to strike, nothing to bind. Yet something is undeniably attacking me.
I cannot raise my arm to deliver so much as a blind punch. I use the limited strength stored in Scáthmhaide’s silver metal-work, because none of my tattoos currently touch the earth—one of the few pieces of remaining ancient stone floor rests underneath my right arm where my tattoos wrap completely around the biceps, so I’m cut off. I quickly discover that even my boosted strength is insufficient to win freedom from this oppressive weight. But in struggling to lift my arms, I find that some lateral motion is possible.
My collarbone snaps—the first of many bones to go. It will be only seconds before my stronger bones give way and then I collapse like a submarine that dived too deep, fragments of calcium swimming in a skin bag full of bloody soup.
I move my left hand to the side of my thigh. An epic effort from my thumb flips off the thong holding Fuilteach in its scabbard. I draw the whirling blade, and the edge is immediately pressed into the dirt as it comes out, the pressure increasing every second. Once the blade is free, I try to angle the tip upward by using my wrist, but my wrist snaps instead. So does my right one, and my shins follow, low down near the ankles. Then my nose. I don’t have breath left to scream, and I can feel my throat is ready to cave in, anyway. My fingers are pressed so tightly around the hilt that I can feel the stress fractures spreading, and they’ll snap soon. Everything will. Having no other option and grinding my teeth against the pain, I shove the knife back down in the direction of the scabbard, except it’s lower now and won’t go in. But against a creature that somehow blankets its victims, any thrust is a thrust into its body. The tip of the whirling blade punctures something, the air pops audibly back into the room, and the pressure lifts.
The darkness shrinks away and light from the trench returns, but I can’t move beyond a twitch and to take in gasping lungfuls of air. Too much is broken, and my entire body is bruised. But I’m alive, for the moment. Letting go of both Fuilteach and Scáthmhaide, I flip my right forearm over so that I can get some contact with the earth and begin to heal, and I also check on my hound.
Orlaith?
"Okay, I come down?"
No. Please stay.
"Okay. I will stay."
I need to make sure it is safe first. I ask Kaveri: //Query: Any more old creatures here?//
//No//
So the threat is gone. Truly gone. I don’t see a body of any kind, but my range of vision is limited. When I try to raise my head, my neck doesn’t want to move. It’s not paralyzed, just strained beyond functioning at the moment. I’ll have to wait.
My ears are ringing as if I’d just enjoyed a metal concert, and they’d need some healing, no doubt, but nothing had torn loose.
Paying closer attention to my condition, I realize that more bones had broken than I first thought, and almost everything, including my skull, has stress fractures. My entire body would be a giant bruise for quite a while, and though I could heal my bones in miraculous time, I wouldn’t be moving or climbing those stairs out of the room soon. Thinking of the stairs, I worry that someone will stumble across them during the day and investigate—especially if there’s a large hound loitering nearby. I would have difficulty explaining what I was doing down here and how I had come to be injured so badly. Before I can invite Orlaith to join me, however, she speaks up with a note of surprise.
"Hey. Tall man comes."
What? Orlaith, is he nice? I hear the soft mumble of a male voice, obviously talking to her, but get no answer to repeated queries and begin to worry. Then a shadow occludes the square of sunlight representing the opening of the stairwell, and Orlaith descends, saying nothing to me. Someone follows behind her, whistling.
At first I think it’s a very tall person, but then, as the body keeps lengthening past the point of tall into impossible territory, I see that it’s not really a person at all. And when the head finally drops into view and the hair ignites above a narrow face, and he stops whistling and laughs instead, I flail desperately with my ruined arm to find Scáthmhaide, in hopes that I can turn invisible before he sees me. I’m not nearly quick enough.
One hand blooms into flame and the other extends my way, wagging a finger. “No, no, don’t get up. And none of that muttering. Try anything, move at all, and your hound will be set on fire. Refuse to answer my questions, and your hound will be set on fire. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Loki Flamehair.” Orlaith steps into a corner out of my sight, ignoring me, and it’s clear Loki has taken control of her somehow. “What have you done to my hound?”
“I’ve merely spoken to her. She will not be harmed unless you make it necessary.”
Loki’s gaze never wavers as he continues down the stairs, watching me carefully. It’s the most disturbing gaze I have ever seen, for his flesh is still scarred and puckered around his eyes from his centuries of captivity, when a great snake’s vemon dripped into them.
I don’t move. When he reaches us, he squats down next to me, his booted feet purposefully stepping on Scáthmhaide to prevent me from using it if I had any thoughts of doing so. He extinguishes the fire along his arm with an unspoken command and then rests his arms on top of his thighs, letting his hands dangle down between his knees. “Excellent. Let us begin! Hello, flame-haired girl. You are the daughter of Donal MacTiernan, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“And a Druid?”
“Yes.”
“The dabāva—how did you defeat it?”
“What? I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.”
“The dabāva. The pressure. I’m sure you felt it, because your bones are broken. It’s a thing of the earth, and it smothers fire. Doesn’t like air very much either and tries to press it out. To paraphrase an old saying, I figured I needed to fight earth with earth. So is that what you did?”
I grow cold at the implications of his words and his presence here. He’d known about the creature waiting in the dark and had used me to defeat it. “Yes.”
Loki flashes a mirthless grin at me. “Ah, you are not so good at lying as your paramour. Was it this, perhaps, that did the job?” He reaches across me easily with a long limb and plucks Fuilteach from my broken hand, lifting it and examining it close to his face, where I can also see it. The soul chamber is red now instead of blue, indicating that the yeti’s magic has been released and the soul of that … dabāva is keeping its edge sharp and preventing it from melting. I find that I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it.
“Hmm,” Loki says. “An ice weapon. Work worthy of the frost giants—or perhaps even better. I’ve never seen anything so refined from them. But it’s water magic, and I suppose that would work against a creature of the earth.”
Before he can ask me where I got it, I field a question of my own. “Why are you here?”
“I’m sure you know why.”
“To kill me?”
“Well … no. If you were O’Sullivan, I would say yes. Finding him in such a state as you are in would have been delightful. But I am here, like you, to find Vayu’s arrows.”
“How did—”
“—I know? You’re here because of clues you found in your father’s diary, isn’t that right? Clues provided by a former student of his named Logan? I’m afraid that was me, pretending to be someone pathetic. I needed help getting the arrows and didn’t want to promise any favors in return.”
The urge to punch him in his smirking mouth builds within me, but I can’t do anything about it. Loki was behind it all. Dad never would have come here if it hadn’t been for him. Loki unleashed chaos with the raksoyuj, knowing what it would do to countless innocents, and then waited for me to get here and defeat the guardian of the arrows. I decide I must take whatever small victory I can. “It didn’t do you any good. The arrows aren’t here.”
“Nonsense. They’re right over there. You just couldn’t see them because of the dabāva.”
I can’t turn to look where he points, because it’s the wall at the top of my head, opposite the stairwell, so Loki tells me to wait, and he steps out of my vision. When he returns, he squats down again and has a quiver of six arrows resting on his left side. They appear wholly unremarkable in the visible spectrum, though I guess the mere fact that the shafts haven’t decomposed after all these years is proof enough of their unusual quality.
“What’s so special about them?”
“These arrows were crafted by a god of the wind to pierce the heart of their target and fly true through any weather. Useful for unskilled archers like myself, and extremely useful when one may be fighting thunder gods who have impressive ranged weapons of their own.”
“Thor is dead.”
“Aye, but there remain some weaker versions of him, and he may yet manifest again if he can be bothered to do so. He is still worshipped by humans, after all. And there are other thunder gods too. That Perun fellow whom you have hidden from me, for example. You have him on one of the Irish planes, I assume.”
I don’t answer that but ask instead, “How did you know the arrows were here?”
“Some of the most interesting stories are those that are never written down. Like the time I messed with Thor’s food and he shat himself for seven days. The embarrassing episodes of the heroes often get left out of the written record, you see. India is no different. You can find plenty of stories about Durga defeating the asuras in the old days but very little about the details of the battles. In one of them she was facing an army of asuras and she shot all of these arrows right here,” he says, jiggling them back and forth, “killing her targets with each one, and then she threw this quiver so forcefully at another that it plowed through his chest and destroyed him. That was quite magnificent, no doubt, but when the battle was over, she could find neither the quiver nor the arrows. That’s because one of the asuras decided while the battle still raged to collect them all and hide them so that they could never be used again. He was a coward, you see, who saw his fellows being obliterated and rationalized fleeing the field with the excuse that his actions would weaken Durga in the future. He placed them here and set the dabāva to guard them. He died a few days ago with your father, thinking that, this time, Durga would surely be overcome. But cowards do have their uses.”
A memory intrudes—a discrepancy. “Hey. What happened to your stutter?”
This time when he grins, it’s with genuine amusement. He bobbles his head and his hair rekindles as he says, “M-m-m-my s-s-stutter?” The flames snuff out and his head stills before he continues, “I never had one. But I put on a good show, didn’t I? You know how I learned English?”
“Frigg said someone taught you while you were still captive. A spirit sent from Hel.”
“Yes. And that spirit she sent was a former teacher of English literature who read me Hamlet. Several times, in fact, at my request. Fabulous play, full of deception and assorted treachery. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, like the Lord Hamlet, once I was freed I thought it best to put an antic disposition on. However, the wind is southerly, and I do know a hawk from a handsaw.”
“No,” I say, “you can’t lie about that. I was there, and I know that wasn’t an act. Atticus fooled you. On multiple occasions.”
“Only the first time. I admit he is very clever and took me by surprise with that lie about being a construct of the dwarfs. But after my sleep in Nidavellir, I learned the truth of things and merely pretended to be mad and stupid. When I took the form of an asura in Poland, I hoped he would investigate immediately, and I had plans in place to lead him here, but I think perhaps there are too many demands on his attention. Using your father to get to you so that you would get to these,” he says, thrusting the quiver in my face and then withdrawing it, “was a backup that, in hindsight, should have been my first plan. It worked so very well.”
He leans forward, getting in my face for a delicious taunt since I cannot smack him without healing first or putting Orlaith at risk. “If and when you get out of here, do let him know he’s been played for a fool, won’t you? There’s no use continuing the charade at this point, and I don’t want him to think too highly of himself.”
He stops and waits for me to reply. “I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you. I see that he’s forged an alliance with the Olympians, but it will not help. Ragnarok is coming, the world will be cleansed and made anew as it should be, and I will be bringing allies of my own. The unstoppable kind. Now, hold still, please. I imagine you are in pain enough as it is, and your hound is still very flammable.” He stretches out a hand toward my left thigh, the tip of his index finger on fire.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking this lovely ice knife, and I see that you have a fine scabbard for it there. If you remain still, I should be able to remove it without burning you.”
There are few feelings so sharp as the feeling of helplessness, of being forced to watch and endure as someone takes advantage of your weakness. It is a sting that fades very little with time, and even now, as I write this, I feel it anew, but at the time I had to bite back my frustration, unable to move as he burned through the rawhide straps fastening the scabbard to my leg. I sense the heat through my jeans, but he does not harm me, as promised. He pulls the scabbard free and shoves the knife home before rising to his feet and picking up the quiver of Vayu’s arrows. He kicks Scáthmhaide away because he doesn’t want me to have it nearby. He gazes at the arrows and at Fuilteach with admiration and gets lost in them for a full minute, in thrall to the power they represent.
“You’ve provided me with some lovely gifts today,” he finally murmurs. “You know, I feel a tad guilty at taking such advantage. I didn’t intend to give you anything, but perhaps I should let my kinder nature prevail just this once.” He rips his disturbing scarred eyes from his prizes and turns them on me, a broad, wicked smile stretching from ear to ear. “Would you like a gift, Miss MacTiernan?”
I shudder to think what it might be. “No thanks. I’ll pass.”
“Nonsense. You don’t even know what it is.” He gently places the quiver and blade on the ground at his feet, then fumbles at a pouch attached to his belt until he withdraws a stone cylinder, etched on the bottom like a chop but with runes instead of kanji. His fingers blossom with flames, and the stone heats up in his grip, turning red around the edges of the runes so that they glow. “I think you’ll like this very much.”
“No, I can tell that I won’t. Thanks for the thought, but please keep it.”
“You still don’t know what I’m offering.” He crouches down next to me, right fist on fire and left waggling around like a lonesome jazz hand. “Concealment,” he coos. “A cloak of sorts! The perfect gift for any young Druid.” And before I can reply, his hand shoots out and presses the etched bottom of the stone into the flesh of my left biceps, searing heat wrenching a scream from my throat. He lifts it away after a second, but the deed is done and Orlaith doesn’t react at all.
“There!” he says, his hand returning to normal and leaching away the remaining heat from the stone. “Now you have my mark on you. You will find that cannot be healed—not that you would want it to. It’s so very attractive. And it will conceal you from divination henceforth, so that Odin can’t spy on you anymore, nor can the Tuatha Dé Danann or anyone else. Except me. I’ll always know where you are. But never mind that! Think of how safe you will be from the meddling of gods and witches and Ouija boards!”
“Fff—”
“Now, now, no need to thank me,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.” He stands again, returns his damn branding chop to his pouch, and gathers up the arrows and knife.
“Farewell, Miss MacTiernan. I trust we will meet again and you will find a new way to serve me in spite of your own desire.”
I know I should respond with some sort of parting shot, but I feel so beaten that I cannot even aim a halfhearted “Your mom!” at his back as he climbs the steps to the surface. I hope he tests the tip of Fuilteach with his finger.