by Kevin Hearne
[So it could have been done by humans? It’s not necessarily something done by deities?]
“Hard to say. It’s very skilled work, so if it was humans, it’s grade-A wizardry. If it was nonhuman, well, then, the possibilities are wider but probably not one of the really big gods, due to the aforementioned lack of smiting. When you find out who did it, that’s going to be a very interesting day, I think. Anyway. Just wanted to pay my respects and wish the Morrigan well. Good luck.”
The Morrigan bowed again, and Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite melted from view, the smile lingering in the air and vanishing last.
[Didn’t she say we’d probably not see her again until Scotland?]
“Aye, but tae be fair,” Buck said, “there’s been some shite tae see, ol’ man. Demons and goddesses coming back from the deid and whatnot.”
The Morrigan nodded and continued to speak in Thea’s voice. “And there will no doubt be more to see. We will speak more later, mortal—I mean, Al. I must remember to speak as a human would. I’m going to attempt to discover why Caoránach has returned, but I wished you to know what danger you face. Should we meet again soon, I trust you will keep my identity a secret. In the presence of others, you may call me…Roxanne.”
[Okay, but why Roxanne?]
“Before I died, Siodhachan introduced me to a song sung by a tantric-sex addict, which implored a woman named Roxanne to neglect displaying her red light. My eyes glow red when I wish to frighten mortals and liquefy their bowels. Choosing this name is therefore my obscure attempt at humor. I recognize that I am not conventionally funny but nevertheless consider myself quietly hilarious.” When I didn’t immediately respond, her eyes flashed red and her voice returned to the terrifying scratchy rasp. “Do you not agree?”
I nodded vigorously and forced a smile, typing as fast as I could. [Yes! That is very amusing, Roxanne. You don’t have to give me the red eye.]
The glow faded and she chucked her chin at a spot behind me, her voice once again modulated and pleasant. “Behind you is a clump of flowers that I believe you require for one of your magical inks. That will provide Siodhachan a reasonable explanation for your absence. He will no doubt be curious, and telling him to mind his own business will only ensure that he does not.”
[Am I allowed to tell him that Caoránach is behind this?]
“Can you explain how you know that without revealing my involvement?”
I started to type a response and deleted it, then shrugged.
“When he does that,” Buck said, “it means he wants tae say sumhin like Fuck naw but is daein’ his best tae be polite.”
I pointed at Buck and nodded to indicate that what he said was correct.
“Then I guess you’d best not tell him,” the Morrigan said. “He will need to figure it out on his own. And he might. He is not entirely without wits, nor without defenses. I thought it best that you know the truth because there is a rough road ahead. Farewell for now.”
Without waiting for us to respond, she lifted her arms and transformed into a large crow, flapping over our heads and heading in the direction of where Thea Prendergast had died, presumably to recover her clothes with the huge bloody hole in the back.
Buck and I blinked at each other for a count of ten, and then he said, “Ye want tae know an uncomfortable truth, ol’ man? I think I should have packed another pair of pants.”
I grunted in amusement and searched for the clump of flowers that the Morrigan had mentioned. It was purple burr-daisy, which indeed was an ingredient for an ink. I tore off a handful and gestured in the direction of the trail. We needed to get back and see what fresh new hells awaited us.
“So what are ye gonnay do about those tandem curses, then?” Buck asked as we began picking our way through the bush to rejoin the others.
[Same plan: Find out who did it. After we get through this.]
The Iron Druid looked irritated by our return. Or perhaps he’d been irritated by our absence, since he was obviously finished communing with the elemental and impatient to move on. His hounds, however, were having a grand old time playing with a wombat, which was chasing them in circles in its rotund, barrel-like fashion, and they barked joyfully to encourage it.
“Where did you go?” Connor said.
I brandished a handful of flowers and Buck spoke for me. “He had to get those ink ingredients. Purple burr-daisy.”
“Which ink?”
“Fuck if I know, mate. Wot’s that grey creature chasing yer dugs?”
“That’s a wombat. And the daisies are for Ink of Mnemosyne,” Ya-ping said, looking up from her phone. “It’s one of the first Irish-system inks I learned, since the ingredients are almost all native to Australia. The quokka milk is the toughest to get. Have you ever tried to milk a marsupial? It’s no picnic.”
The Iron Druid shook his head, frustrated at the waste of time. “Let’s keep moving. There’s no indication from the elemental of what might be causing this. No portals opened. No huge draws on its power, though it says there have been smaller draws but cannot say what’s causing them. We’re going to have to keep going along the Bicentennial Trail, since we have no other solid clues, and put eyes on whatever it is.”
The wombat gamboled with us for a wee distance and then disappeared into the bush with a farewell bark from the dogs. The trail from Mount St. Leonard curved east and south, almost looping back on itself for some distance, and we paused for lunch at Monda Dugout, an underground shelter from fire created by workers long ago. The trail itself was now following a ridgeline that would serve as a fire break, and we were heading toward Mount Monda. These mountains were not huge things—they were a smidgen over a thousand meters, barely earning the title of mountain—but still we occasionally saw views of the lands stretching away in all directions, green blankets of treetops hiding the ground underneath.
It was beautiful country, but we could not enjoy it as much as it deserved, since it was at present populated with deadly monsters who’d kill us if they could, in addition to the ordinary dangers of Australia’s natural wildlife, adorable wombats notwithstanding. And we still had no idea what happened to Officer Campbell. Was he still alive? Had he used his radio to call for backup? Had Rory and Cherise returned to Donnelly Weir safely, and had they radioed for help? Could we expect a swarm of additional officers soon, or would my ruse of conducting an AFP operation out here hold them off for a while? Were these monsters spreading out along other axes and wreaking havoc elsewhere or only along this specific trail? If they had traveled in other directions from whatever origin point, they could easily reach other population centers and create quite the containment nightmare for us. The cell-phone videos alone would generate weeks of work.
We did note some horse droppings on the trail, and while they seemed to be rather recent, we could not know for certain that they were from Officer Campbell’s horse.
Ya-ping gradually pulled me away from such worries, as I became aware that she was marching ahead and staring with utter fury at the cluster of purple burr-daisies clutched in both hands. They’re pretty flowers, lilac-petaled with yellow centers full of barbed seeds, but not offensive in any way that I could see. Like all plants, they had no ability to hurl insults, and they did not possess thorns on the stems. So I was having difficulty identifying what might be causing the anger. It had to be something else besides the flowers themselves.
Or maybe the flowers were the problem. For just as I was about to say something, Ya-ping gave a strangled scream and crushed them in her fists, then tore them before scattering them to the wind. And once she had finished and realized that she had captured everyone’s attention, she looked down at her feet and apologized.
“That felt good for an instant, but it was unnecessary and incredibly rude of me to ruin your ink ingredients.”
[There’s no need to apologize. Those flowers are much easier
to find than quokka milk. But if you feel like telling me at some point, I would like to know why you did that.]
“Okay. Maybe I will share. Let’s continue on, however. I don’t wish to halt our progress. Sifu Lin is waiting for our help.”
Oberon wagged his tail and woofed once in encouragement, and Starbuck did the same, then they trotted on next to Connor, who had taken point. Buck, I noticed, remained silent, exercising some restraint for once. Ya-ping didn’t speak for perhaps a hundred meters, but when she did, it was low enough that I could tell she was trying to pitch the words for my ears only.
To his credit, Connor caught the hint and said he was going to scout ahead, jogging forward with his hounds to put some more space between us.
“Did you ever have what they call a ‘rite of passage’ when you were younger?” she asked.
[Oh, yes. Though I’m aware that what I consider rites of passage are not the same as what others consider them to be.]
“Would it be rude to ask what your rites of passage were?”
[No, no. Not at all. Give me a moment and I’ll list some.]
“Okay.”
[Thinking about it, I suppose they were tragedies as often as they were triumphs. Getting out of school, falling in love, getting married, and starting a family were great. Becoming a sigil agent was grand. But losing my apprentices, my wife, and all connection to past friends and family was terrible. Bit of a seesaw for me.]
“So the rites were good for a long time, and then they weren’t.”
[Yes.]
“What does it mean if you’re my age and all your rites—except for one, I guess—were bad?”
[Nothing in particular. There is no order or balance to things except what we manage to achieve on our own, and even then, the world outside our control can impose disorder and chaos.]
“But you’ve had an extraordinary run of bad luck the last few years.”
[Yes.]
“Yet you’re still optimistic about the future?”
[I am. And it’s not just because I’m a white man wearing the robes of privilege. It’s because I’m sold on the smooth magic of daily averages.]
“The fuck?” Buck said, but I ignored him.
Ya-ping gave a tiny shake of her head. “I don’t understand.”
[If you look at long-term market graphs, you’ll see daily dips and spikes but a much smoother curve of daily averages running through those spikes and dips. And the thing about those curves is, they never stay high and never stay low. They move up and down just like the spikes and dips. I cultivate gratitude during the highs and patience during the dips.]
“You sound fairly well-adjusted.”
[You and I are agents of order in a world of chaos. We have knowledge that most people do not, and that knowledge provides us access to power. Still, we must recognize that we have zero power to sustain our highs, which means we should take delight in them when they occur but remember that we have much power to lift ourselves out of the abyss. Sometimes that power is simply having faith that the trend line of our lives will climb higher once again.]
“It…that…well.” I kept silent and my eyes on the trail ahead, waiting for her to process.
“My big rite of passage,” she said eventually, “was supposed to be graduating. Not that it was an especially big deal. Once it was over, I went up to the Gold Coast in Queensland for Schoolies Week with some mates and frolicked on the beaches and watched everyone else get drunk while I stayed sober, but I had cute virgin drinks with little paper umbrellas in them, and I kept those umbrellas to remember the time and they’re perfect, because they’re thin and flimsy and that summed up the experience for me. I think I was the only one of my classmates who didn’t vom on someone else’s shoes. Instead, my big rite of passage was losing my parents. And becoming apprenticed to a secret society where the final exam is crafting an ink to draw a Sigil of Unchained Destruction. But now my master is gone and might already be dead. And this boy I kissed once has texted a few times to ask what I’m doing now, and I have to lie, right? I can’t tell him I can’t come over and play videogames because I’m out killing turtle dragon spiders with a hobgoblin, a Scottish gentleman, and an ancient Druid. So if I lie, I’ll feel guilty, and it will be bad if he ever finds out. And if I tell the truth, he’ll recommend that I be committed to an institution.”
[You’re on a hike with friends. That’s the truth.]
Ya-ping sniffed and wiped at her eye with the heel of her palm. “Feed him a half-truth, you mean. Yeah, Sifu Lin says that’s the way to manage it too. It’s easy to rationalize and stay sane with that, because the statement itself is true. But it’s still trouble if he ever finds out the full truth.”
[That sums up the nature of our business, yes. Trouble if people find out.]
“I wonder what it would be like, sometimes, to not know. To be shouting at people about something on Twitter, as if that was the most important thing we could be doing, or to be looking forward to the next episode of some show that’s streaming.”
[You would still have problems, just not this particular set of them. Because the chaos is always out there, and the order is inside you.]
Ya-ping snorted. “I’m beginning to sense a theme here. What is that? Scottish wisdom?”
“Naw,” Buck said. “Scottish wisdom would be, The English are always down there, like knobs, so kick a poxy knob before ye fuck off tae the pub. Practical advice from a practical people.”
“Well. The trend line of my life has been sloping down for a while. I hope it curves upward soon, because the grade of this dive only seems to be getting steeper.”
A monstrous silhouette skittered onto the trail ahead, setting the dogs to barking and causing Connor to unsling his backpack to get his hatchet.
“Guys, you see this?” he called back. “It’s a scorpion with a rat’s head. It’s like an eighties hair-band demon.”
It wasn’t easy to kill. The tail was incredibly dangerous and we had to stay out of range, and the claws were likewise difficult to get around. The squeaking of the rat was decibels louder than that of a normal-sized rodent, and it set our teeth on edge. Connor eventually asked to borrow one of Ya-ping’s sai and darted in under camouflage to put it down.
He shook his head as it dissolved, then bent to retrieve Ya-ping’s weapon. “Do either of you think you can put that Sigil of Iron Gall on my hatchet? I mean, my aura will let me kill these things with a hug if I hold on, but they’re not very sweet and embraceable.”
A pen nib wouldn’t work very well on the steel of the blade, but a brush would do okay. I had my calligraphy brush and a small amount of the proper ink in a pen reservoir.
[I can do it if you will scour the blade clean of blood and dirt.]
“Absolutely.”
While he worked on cleaning the blade, the dogs kept alert and I asked Buck to do the same. [I’d just like a warning if something’s coming.]
“Aye, that’s what yer maw said.”
Pretending he hadn’t spoken, I selected the proper pen, a burgundy and ivory Pilot E95s, from my field-jacket pocket, along with a brush and the small wax-melting spoon that would serve as a makeshift inkwell for the moment. After unscrewing the nib and connected reservoir from the barrel of the pen (I often called it a reservoir instead of a converter, because I’d decided on my fiftieth birthday that I could call things whatever I wanted), I pulled the reservoir off the nib and upended it over the spoon, using the twist plunger to force the rust-colored ink to dribble out. Connor gave me his hatchet, which still had a faded Sigil of Cold Fire on one side, which he’d not touched. The other side was pristine and dry and ready for a new sigil.
Carefully, taking my time, I painted the Sigil of Iron Gall on there, using all the ink I had. When I was finished, it pulsed and glowed briefly to confirm it was active. I handed it back to him.
“All set?”
I nodded and fished out a small bottle of water to cleanse the ink from my spoon.
“Thanks. This should help out.”
We made it to Mount Monda and a little bit beyond as the sun was setting. Since we were exhausted and had no idea how much farther we’d need to go, we decided to make camp. The hope of finding Shu-hua quickly was pretty much gone, so we’d settled for simply finding her. We set up watches, and I was to take the third, meaning I’d get six hours of sleep if I was lucky.
I got it, but an unknown number of those hours were spent in a dream hellscape, the sort of nightmare where you’re vividly aware that you’re dreaming but unable to wake, so you have no choice but to ride it out.
In the dream I was a walking anachronism, dressed in my modern clothes—my beloved topcoat and derby hat—and wandering the smoky field of an ancient battle in progress, where the combatants were dressed in ring mail and leathers and slick with blood and sweat.
One side of the battle was a Roman legion, with the little pennants on pikes and everything. I was viewing the chaos from the side of the opposition, a seething mass of infantry largely armored in leathers, wearing spangenhelms and carrying round shields, armed with spears and short swords. They were a mixed bag of peoples, but one in particular stood out. It was a familiar red-haired man, except we were obviously in a time when he possessed both arms and wielded a magical sword. He was cutting down Romans with great efficiency, the blade behaving as if armor didn’t exist, while a crow circled above him. And just as I wondered if that particular crow was one I had met recently, a voice in my head confirmed:
Yes. It is I.
Where are we, and when?
This is the Battle of Adrianople in 378, in what is now modern-day Turkey. You are witnessing the Goths under the leadership of Fritigern destroying the eastern Roman legions.