Hunted

by Kevin Hearne

  He took his wife’s hand and planted a kiss on it. Then he turned to the Morrigan and nodded to her once. “Morrigan.” She nodded back. Then his eye swiveled to face me, and I could feel the frost of his hatred; I had to suppress a shudder. “So you are the one,” he said. “Slayer of the Norns and Freyr and so many others.” His voice reminded me of whiskey—and I don’t say that just because I’m Irish. His words were rich and smoky and quite possibly had been aged in oak barrels for years before he spoke them. “Since I recovered, I have watched you from Hlidskjálf, unable to believe what I saw. Despite ample evidence to the contrary, I saw nothing in you that suggested you were capable of defeating us. But now, seeing you in person, I can perceive your essential nature. You are deceptive.”

  “Frequently,” I admitted. “Hello, by the way. I’m honored to meet you.”

  Odin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Honor!” he growled. “You cannot speak to me of honor when you have none!”

  Frigg placed a delicate hand on his arm. “Let’s sit down, shall we?” The tension drained from Odin’s shoulders, and his fists unclenched. We all sat, and as we did so I realized that Odin and I had something in common: We were both under the complete control of the woman sitting next to us. I admired Frigg’s good sense. Sitting down made it much more difficult for Odin to lunge across the table in an attempt to snap my neck. And seating the Morrigan directly across from him would serve as a reminder that, should matters come to blows, she would be the one choosing the slain.

  The waiter appeared, an earnest man intent on regaling us with specials and options he’d been at pains to memorize, but Odin stopped him and spoke in the modern Norwegian language. “We will all take the full six courses,” he said. “If there are options, please leave it as chef’s choice. And please inform the sommelier that we also trust his judgment regarding wines for the remainder of the evening. We have much to discuss and do not wish to be distracted with decisions to make.” A credit card appeared in his hand. “This will assure you that we will pay for whatever you serve.”

  The waiter bowed, took the card, and said, “Very good. I’ll return shortly with the first course, which is crayfish from the fjord and—”

  Odin waved him silent. “We’ll figure it out when we eat it, my good man. Forgive me if I am being rude. I assure you we will tip generously.”

  “Very good,” the waiter repeated, and went away to orchestrate what would no doubt be a very large bill. Odin returned his gaze to me and his language to Old Norse. Before he could enumerate the reasons I deserved to die, I jumped in. I had much to answer for, but I wouldn’t passively accept whatever he wished to say—especially regarding my supposed lack of honor. I like to think I have a smidgen of it, at least.

  “Odin, wise as you are, I am sure you have already noted that I twice held Gungnir in my hands and twice refused to target you personally when I could have done so. In both cases, I chose to do that which would secure my safety and nothing more. You sit here before me today because I stayed my hand. Twice.”

  “And you think because you spared my life twice that you are honorable?”

  “The entire reason I came to Asgard was to honor my promises. I killed only those who seemed bent on killing me. The Norns tried first but killed Ratatosk instead. Having no choice, I slew them and then went to the hall of Idunn and Bragi. I could have slain them, but I left them alone.”

  “But you stole one of Idunn’s golden apples! Your honor is the honor of a thief.”

  “A thief who keeps his word. You tried to kill me for it shortly thereafter. I could have taken your life. Instead—with great reluctance, I might add—I took Sleipnir’s.”

  “There was no honor in that decision. It was strategically the best course of action, because it occupied the attention of the Valkyries as well. Had you slain me outright, they would have pursued you to avenge me.”

  “Even so, my point remains: I responded with violence only when it was first offered to me.”

  “Ha! What violence from Thor prompted you to bring a party of men and giants to Asgard to slay him?”

  “That is a separate matter. But, again, I was keeping my word.”

  “You promised to kill Thor?”

  “No, I promised to provide transportation to Asgard.”

  “So in your mind you have done us no wrong?”

  “I did not say that, Odin.”

  We paused as the waiter brought out the first course. The crayfish was there, but so was a small trout roulade. I sampled it and discovered that the chef knew what he was doing. If this was to be my last meal, I couldn’t ask for a finer one. None of the gods touched their food. They watched me eat and waited for me to continue.

  “On the contrary,” I continued, “I believe I acted shamefully during that second trip, and I deeply regret what happened. I apologize to you both, though I know the words are inadequate.”

  Odin snorted. “They’re worse than useless. It’s insulting that you would even try to pay for what you did with a meaningless phrase.”

  “How would you suggest that I pay? Paying with my life is not an option.”

  I expected an argument here, but Odin surprised me by agreeing. “No, it’s not,” he said. “There’s not enough of you to pay the blood price.”

  “Blood price?”

  “It’s a common enough concept.”

  The waiter swooped in and cleared the first course away before depositing the second in front of us, a seafood soup garnished with avocado and other goodies. Once he left, Odin changed the subject.

  “We will speak of blood later. What I would like to know is why you’re alive.”

  “Why didn’t I die before the Common Era, you mean? How did I manage to live long enough to vex you?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I occasionally drink an herbal tea that renews my cells and reverses the aging process.”

  “Interesting.” Odin looked down at his soup and, deciding it looked good enough to eat, picked up a spoon. Frigg, the Morrigan, and I did the same, and we slurped up a spoonful or two before Odin asked another question. “And this tea you drink—is it readily available in these modern supermarkets? Or is it something you invented?”

  “No. I got the recipe from Airmid, one of the Tuatha Dé Danann. She’s long dead now, however. Tragic circumstances.”

  “A tragedy! Forgive me for noticing, but they seem to follow in your wake.”

  “You’re forgiven. May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.” His spoon hovered over his bowl as he waited for my question.

  “How did you find out where I was?” My cold iron amulet normally shielded me from divination; not even the Norns had seen me coming.

  “Hugin and Munin found you a couple of months ago, working out in the desert with that apprentice of yours.”

  Mentioning Granuaile wasn’t an accident. It was a subtle threat, but I pretended not to notice. “Oh. About the ravens. Which one …?”

  “Did you kill? Hugin. I languished in dreams of the past for years, attended by Frigg and unable to function in the present. But eventually Munin remembered Hugin and laid an egg. The new raven, when he reached maturity, became Hugin again. I awoke, sent the ravens abroad in search of you, and, once you were found, I watched from Hlidskjálf.”

  “I see. And how many of the Norse know I’m still alive?”

  “Only Frigg and myself.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them all?”

  “That is related to the blood price of which we will speak further. If you would not mind, I would like to know precisely how you learned the recipe for this brew of eternal youth.”

  I shrugged. “I already told you. Airmid taught me.”

  “Yes, but why? Why you and no one else?”

  I put down my spoon and exchanged glances with the Morrigan. She knew the answer, but no one else did. “Oh. That is quite a story.”

  Odin gestured at the table. “We have four more courses.”


  “It is not that long, but it is a story I have never shared before and I am reluctant to share it. It has a certain value.”

  Odin’s eye bored into mine. “Understood. Consider it a part of what you owe us.”

  “Very well.” I saw the waiter and sommelier approaching. “I will begin once we’ve been served the third course.”

  The third course was pan-fried pike with a side of white asparagus and some other assorted vegetables artfully arranged on a white plate, drizzled with a beurre blanc. The sommelier, an older gentleman with thinning hair but crisp movements and a steady hand, served us all a glass of chardonnay. After that, I had to share a secret I thought I’d never speak aloud.

  In the days when the Tuatha Dé Danann were puissant in Ireland, the most famous physician of the time—if I may use the modern word—was Dian Cecht. During the First Battle of Mag Tuireadh, the king, Nuada, lost his right arm in battle, and he applied to Dian Cecht for remedy. Despite his victory over the Fir Bolgs, he was no longer fit to rule with such a disability.

  Together with the craftsman Creidhne, Dian Cecht fashioned a magical silver hand and arm for Nuada; once it was attached, it functioned just like a regular arm would, and Dian Cecht’s fame grew ever greater throughout Ireland. People began to call the former king Nuada Silver-hand, for it was truly a miraculous sight and all who saw it were amazed. In public, Nuada was mightily pleased and recognized the fame his silver hand brought him. But in private—well, there were issues. It repelled his wife, who did not want it to touch her. And whether he wore it or not, Nuada could not help but feel incomplete and out of balance. Despite the miracle of the silver arm, he was diminished.

  But Miach, son of Dian Cecht, felt Nuada’s pain and dared to help him. He was an extraordinarily talented and empathetic healer, who avoided conflict with his father whenever he could. But in the case of Nuada, he could not withhold help when it was in his power—and his power only—to give it.

  Over nine days and nights of chanting and ritual, he managed to regenerate a new arm and hand of flesh and blood for Nuada. The king was whole again and could return to the throne. Miach had surpassed his father, however, and Dian Cecht was not the sort of man who suffered such things in passive silence. Indeed, rather than feel pride for his son’s accomplishment and broadcast it far and wide, he was consumed with jealous rage and confronted his son with a sword.

  Miach protested that he did not want to fight and bore only love and goodwill for his father, but Dian Cecht was beyond reason. His first stroke grazed Miach’s skin, but his son healed it immediately. Such a display only drove Dian Cecht to further violence. Despite Miach’s attempts to dodge, his father’s second attempt stabbed him in the gut—but Miach healed even that. Dian Cecht became more animal than man when he saw. His third stroke cleaved all the way down into Miach’s brain, and that overcame his son’s ability to heal. He died, and then Dian Cecht threw down his sword in horror at what he had done.

  His horror was not a fraction of Airmid’s, however. Airmid, sister of Miach, was quite a healer in her own right and a powerful Druid. Her rage was such that she did not attend her brother’s funeral for fear that she would kill her father. Instead, she waited until the funeral had ended and everyone had gone home, and then she visited her brother’s grave to pay her respects. She wept for three days and nights on his grave and sang him songs in broken sobs. She wept for love and loss and memories she could no longer share but had to keep in trust for them both, and she wept for all the memories that would never be now that he was dead. Exhausted, she collapsed next to his grave and slept.

  When she woke, a wonder greeted her eyes. Out of Miach’s grave, watered by her tears and the blood of Miach’s body, grew 365 herbs of medicinal power. Possessed with a purpose, realizing the gift before her, Airmid spread out her cloak and began to test and catalog the herbs, examining their qualities and preserving in her mind their unique properties. But before Airmid was finished, Dian Cecht, possessed by grief and guilt, came to visit the grave of his son.

  He saw Airmid’s cloak spread on the ground and the world’s medicinal herbs laid out in order upon it. He saw the herbs themselves growing from the grave in the shape of Miach’s body, and his jealous rage rose again.

  “Even in death he mocks me and renders my life meager in comparison!” Dian Cecht roared. He tore at the herbs growing in the earth, then yanked Airmid’s cloak from the ground and snapped it in the wind, scattering the herbs into the sky. Because of this deed, it is said that no one alive knows the sum of the earth’s herblore.

  It was at this point that Airmid lost her composure. Wielding a stick as her weapon, she attacked Dian Cecht, battering him about the face and body with all the strength a Druid could bring to bear, until he crumpled to the ground. Throwing down the stick, she picked up a boulder and raised it over her head, intending to bring it down upon her father’s head. But a voice from Tír na nÓg stopped her.

  “Airmid, no!” it cried, and she froze. It was the voice of Miach, calling her from beyond the veil. “For the love you bear me, do not slay our father!”

  The rock tumbled from her fingers, and she left Dian Cecht bleeding on the ground to heal himself. She picked up her cloak and walked away from the grave without speaking a word. She did not speak to anyone for nine days, in fact, and the first person she spoke to was me.

  I was in the twilight of my normal lifetime and dwelling on my approaching death. I wasn’t decrepit or arthritic, for Gaia sustains us well, but my physical prime was four decades gone at the least, and the prospect of a steep decline into death’s embrace had somewhat soured my disposition. I was drinking alone at an inn when Airmid entered, searched the room, and picked me out. She saw the signs of morbidity in my aura, no doubt. But she also saw the tattoos on my arm and knew I was a Druid.

  She sat down across from me with a satchel and said, “Old man, indulge a young woman. What would you do to have your youth again? To feel the bounce of vigor in your step, to feel the hard wood of your cock again, and to nevermore lose it to the ravages of age unless you will it?”

  I did not know who she was. She was robed and gloved, so I did not even know she was a Druid, much less a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann. “Do you jest or do you ask in all seriousness?” I said.

  “I am in earnest,” she replied. “I truly wish to know what you would be willing to do for a gift like that.”

  “I would kill for that,” I said. Men have killed for far less.

  “Then I have a proposal for you,” she said, and withdrew a sheaf of skins from her satchel, filled with all the herblore she could remember from before Dian Cecht threw her work to the wind. “I am a Druid, and I have discovered a blend of herbs that, when slightly altered with a simple binding and brewed as a tea, confers the blessings of youth on he who drinks it. That secret and so many others are contained in these pages. They are yours if you kill a man for me.”

  I perused a few of the pages and realized that the herblore set down therein was far beyond my ken. I examined her aura and saw no hint of deception there or in any gesture of her body. That is no guarantee of honesty, for we can all be deceived easier than we would like to think, but so far as I could tell she was making me a genuine offer, and I was desperate enough to accept. But I had to ask: “Why not simply kill him yourself? I can see that you are a powerful Druid.”

  “I cannot kill him, because he is my father.”

  “I must kill your father in exchange for this herblore?”

  “Yes. What say you?”

  “Who is your father?”

  “Dian Cecht of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  She recounted for me the story of her brother’s death and told me how she managed to classify and catalog 327 of the 365 herbs before her father destroyed her work. “A Druid doesn’t forget,” she said. “I have spent the last nine days writing down this lore and experimenting further. This new tea of youth is the best of my discoveries, but there are more.”


  “I am engaged,” I said. “Tell me where to find him.”

  Legends say that Dian Cecht died of a terrible plague. To the bards who told it that way, it seemed like an ironic and just ending for a villainous physician. The truth of his end involves a terrified chicken.

  Airmid directed me to Dian Cecht’s house. When I arrived there, he was not at home. I approached it in camouflage and disabled his few simple wards, went inside, then put them back together. Since I was over sixty, I didn’t feel equal to besting him in a fair fight, and I dislike fair fights anyway. I needed an advantage, so I greased down the floorboards near the door. Once he closed it behind him, I would spring from hiding and the uncertain footing would negate any advantage he had in speed.