Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(44)

“Exactly,” I said. “But this is not insurmountable. It’s a misunderstanding. If we can convince them you will fight with them at Ragnarok, there is no need for bloodshed.”

“We have no wish to fight with them or against them,” Turid pointed out, “or to participate in Ragnarok at all.”

“So lie,” I said, “and save your people today. Because I’ve seen their armor in action. The ?sir portion of that army call themselves the Glass Knights. They will systematically fire fléchettes once per second and make sure that they hit you when you’re corporeal, and their runed tiles are impervious to your weapons. And then the Black Axes will hack you apart like so much meat once you’re bound to your naked flesh. That’s what happened to your assassins, and it will happen to your entire population if you don’t give them a reason to stop.”

“I don’t see how we can change Odin’s mind now.”

“You can worry about changing his mind later. Right now you need to prevent them from wiping you out. They’re incredibly prepared to deny you Sigr af Reykr—Victory from Smoke. But give them anything else and they’ll fall,” I said. “Use conventional weapons. Bring some archers out here and loose a few flights. Arrows will mow them down.”

“And fire will burn them,” Brighid said, kindling a sphere of flame in the palm of her hand.

“Good,” Krókr said. “If you’re so anxious to help, we’ll let you stall them while we gather a force together behind the gates.”

The other dark elves turned their heads and frowned at Krókr’s words but did not gainsay him.

“We hoped to fight with you rather than for you,” Brighid said.

“I don’t care if you fight. Sing and dance for them if you want. Just give us as much time to prepare as you can.” His peremptory tone struck me as the sort that would get him barbecued. Delivering orders to Brighid like that marked him as incredibly confident or simply stupid.

Brighid did not reply to him, however, or set him on fire for his insolence. Instead, she addressed the other Svartálf leaders. “Does Hrafnson speak for all of you in this matter?”

They paused, exchanged glances, and then Turid said, “He does. We will prepare and be grateful for any time you can give us.”

“Unbelievable,” I said as they withdrew into the gate, taking the guards with them. Brighid’s mouth dropped open as the door closed in our faces, leaving us out in the literal cold to face an army by ourselves. The guards who had left earlier to scout the army streamed past us as smoke, not pausing to share their intelligence but filtering through the cracks of the doors to report their findings.

“I think I might know why the dark elves have few allies,” she said.

“Yep,” I said, turning around. The smudge on the horizon was a definite chunk of something solid now. “Shall we go down to meet them or wait here?”

“Let’s go down. Quick flight. Are you ready?”

“I’m still not in great fighting shape, but I’m as ready as I’ll be today, I suppose.”

We may have looked to the ?sir like the descending wrath of Loki as we approached in a ball of fire—that was my guess judging by their relieved expressions once we landed in front of them and the dissipating flames revealed our figures. But for my money they should not have looked relieved at the appearance of Brighid.

Leading the army, marching in front, was the red-bearded Runeskald, Fjalar. He didn’t recognize either of us except as people who were not Loki, since we wore armor. He peered at it rather than at our helmeted faces, trying to discern the nature of the etchings. Brighid’s bindings looked nothing like runes, however, so all he could learn from them was that we weren’t Norse. He called a halt to the march and shifted his axe down from his shoulder to a two-handed grip.

“Who are you?” he said, and I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t go epic with it and give the moment its proper weight. I’d hoped for a “Verily” or a “Tell me in sooth” or something like that.

Both of us had full helmets on, so we were merely armed warriors to his eyes. And, I realized, since Brighid had her hair tucked up and didn’t forge her armor with the stupid mounds for breasts one sees in video games, he probably didn’t realize she was female, much less a goddess.

Her head nodded once in my direction, indicating that I should speak for us.

“You know me, Fjalar. I’m Atticus O’Sullivan, Druid of Gaia.”

“And who else?”

“Someone more powerful than I am.”

He gazed at Brighid, who is in fact taller than me, and might have guessed her identity if he leapt immediately to the Irish pantheon. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to ask you to turn around. I hardly think you have a peaceful mission to the dark elves with that army behind you.”

“I can’t turn around. I have orders from Odin himself.”

“But surely you have battlefield command. Call it a strategic withdrawal. The situation’s changed and you need to reassess—as does Odin.”

“And how has the situation changed?”

“The dark elves are under my protection. And the Tuatha Dé Danann’s.”

Again Fjalar shifted his eyes to Brighid, trying to gauge the threat level she represented. It should be radioactive.