by Butcher, Jim
The grendelkin hadn’t been kidding about knowing counter-magic, though. All that naked force hit him and just sort of slid off him, like water pouring around a stone. It only drove him back about two steps—which was room enough to let me drop to one knee and swing my staff again. It wasn’t a bone-crushing blow, powered as it was by only one hand and from a fairly unbalanced position.
But I got him in the fire extinguisher.
The grendelkin let out a howl about two octaves higher than his original bellows had been, and I scooted around him, running for the altar stone where Elizabeth Braddock lay helpless—away from Gard. I wanted the grendelkin to focus all his attention on me.
He did.
“Behind you!” Elizabeth screamed, her eyes wide with terror.
I whirled and a sweep of the grendelkin’s arm ripped the staff out of my hand. Something like a steel vise clamped around my neck, and my feet came up off the ground.
The grendelkin lifted my face to his level. His breath smelled of blood and rotten meat. His eyes were bright with their fury. I kicked at him, but he held me out of reach of anything vital, and my kicks plunked uselessly into his belly and ribs.
“I was going to make it quick for you,” he snarled. “For amusing me. But I’m going to start with your arms.”
If I didn’t have him right where I wanted him, I’d have been less than sanguine about my chances of survival. I’d accomplished that much, at least. He had his back to the tunnel.
“Rip them off one at a time, little seidrmadr.” He paused. “Which, when viewed from a literary perspective, has a certain amount of irony.” He showed me more teeth. “I’ll let you watch me eat your hands. Let you see what I do to these bitches before I’m done with you.”
Boy, was he going to get it.
One of his hands grabbed my left arm, and the pain of my dislocated shoulder made my world go white. I fought through the agony, ripped Elizabeth Braddock’s pointy-handled hairbrush from my duster’s pocket, and drove it like an ice pick into the grendelkin’s forearm.
He roared and flung me into the nearest wall.
Which hurt. Lots.
I fell to the stone floor of the cavern in a heap. After that, my vision shrank to a tunnel and began to darken.
This was just as well—fewer distractions, that way. Now all I had to do was time it right.
A sound groaned down from the tunnel entrance above, an odd, ululating murmur, echoed into unintelligibility.
The furious grendelkin ripped the brush out of his arm and flung it away—but when he heard the sound, he turned his ugly kisser back toward the source.
I focused harder on the spell I had coming than upon anything I’d ever done. I had no circle to help me, lots of distractions, and absolutely no room to screw it up.
The strange sound resolved itself into a yowling chorus, like half a hundred band saws on helium, and Mouse burst out of the tunnel with a living thunderstorm of malks in hot pursuit.
My dog flung himself into the empty air, and malks bounded after him, determined not to let him escape. Mouse fell thirty feet, onto the huge pile of nesting material, landing with a yelp. The malks spilled after him, yowling in fury, dozens and dozens of malevolent eyes glittering in the light of the flare. Some jumped, some flowed seamlessly down the rough stairs, and others bounded forward, sank their claws into the stone of the far wall, and slid down it like a fireman down a pole.
I unleashed the spell.
“Useless vermin!” bellowed the grendelkin, his voice still pitched higher than before. He pointed at me, a battered-looking man in a long leather coat, and roared, “Kill the wizard or I’ll eat every last one of you!”
The malks, now driven as much by fear as anger, immediately swarmed all over me. I gave them a pretty good time of it, but there were probably better than three dozen of them, and the leather coat couldn’t cover everything.
Claws and fangs flashed.
Blood spattered.
The malks went insane with bloodlust.
I screamed, swinging wildly with both hands, killing a malk here or there, but unable to protect myself from all those claws and teeth. The grendelkin turned toward the helpless Elizabeth.
It was a real bitch, trying to undo the grendelkin’s knotted ropes while still holding the illusion in place in my mind. Beneath the glamour that made him look like me, he fought furiously, clawing and swinging at the malks attacking him. It didn’t help that Elizabeth was screaming again, thanks to the illusion of the grendelkin I was holding over myself, but hey. No plan is perfect.
“Mouse!” I cried.
A malk flew over my head, screaming, and splattered against a wall.
My dog bounded up just as I got the girl loose. I shoved her at him and said, “Get her out of here! Run! Go, go, go!”
Elizabeth didn’t know what the hell was going on, but she understood that last part well enough. She fled, back toward the crude staircase. Mouse ran beside her, and when a malk flung itself at Elizabeth’s naked back, my dog intercepted the little monster in the air, catching it as neatly as a Frisbee at the park. Mouse snarled and shook his jaws once. The malk’s neck broke with an audible snap. My dog dropped it and fled on.
I grabbed my staff and ran to Gard. The malks hadn’t noticed her yet. They were still busy mobbing the grendelkin—
Crap. My concentration had wavered. It looked like itself again, as did I.
I whirled and focused my will upon the giant pile of clean-picked bones. I extended my staff and snarled, “Counterspell this. Forzare!”
Hundreds of pounds of sharp white bone flung themselves at the grendelkin and the malks alike. I threw the bones hard, harder than the grendelkin had thrown his rock, and the bone shards ripped into them like the blast of an enormous shotgun.
Without waiting to see the results, I snatched up the still-burning flare and flung it into the pile of nesting fabric, bloody clothes, and old newspapers. The whole mound flared instantly into angry light and smothering smoke.
“Get up!” I screamed at Gard. One side of her face was bruised and swollen, and she had a visibly broken arm, one of the bones in her forearm protruding from the skin. With my help, she staggered up, dazed and choking on the smoke, which also blotted out the light. I got her onto the stairs, and even in our battered state, we set some kind of speed record going up them.
The deafening chorus of bellowing grendelkin and howling malks faded a little as the smoke started choking them, too. Air was moving in the tunnel, as the fire drew on it just as it might a chimney. I lit up my amulet again to show us the way out.
“Wait!” Gard gasped, fifty feet up the tunnel. “Wait!”
She fumbled at her jacket pocket, where she kept the little ivory box, but she couldn’t reach it with her sound arm. I dug it out for her.
“Triangle, three lines over it,” she said, leaning against a wall for support. “Get it out.”
I poked through the little ivory Scrabble tiles until I found one that matched her description. “This one?” I demanded.
“Careful,” she growled. “It’s a Sunder rune.” She grabbed it from me, took a couple of steps back toward the grendelkin’s cavern, murmured under her breath, and snapped the little tile. There was a flicker of deep red light, and the tunnel itself quivered and groaned.
“Run!”
We did.
Behind us, the tunnel collapsed in on itself with a roar, sealing the malks and the grendelkin away beneath us, trapping them in the smothering smoke.
We both stopped for a moment after that, as dust billowed up the tunnel and the sound of furious supernatural beings cut off as if someone had flipped a switch. The silence was deafening.
We both stood there, panting and wounded. Gard sank to the floor to rest.
“You were right,” I said. “I guess we didn’t need to worry about the malks on the way out.”
Gard gave me a weary smile. “That was my favorite ax.”
“Go back for it,” I
suggested. “I’ll wait for you here.”
She snorted.
Mouse came shambling up out of the tunnel above us. Elizabeth Braddock clung to his collar, and looked acutely embarrassed about her lack of clothing. “Wh-what?” she whispered. “What happened here? I d-don’t understand.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Braddock,” I said. “You’re safe. We’re going to take you back to your husband.”
She closed her eyes, shuddered, and started to cry. She sank down to put her arms around Mouse’s furry ruff, and buried her face in his fur. She was shivering with the cold. I shucked out of my coat and draped it around her.
Gard eyed her, then her own broken arm, and let out a sigh. “I need a drink.”
I spat some grit out of my mouth. “Ditto. Come on.”
I offered her a hand up. She took it.
SEVERAL HOURS AND doctors later, Gard and I wound up back at the pub, where the beer festival was winding to a conclusion. We sat at a table with Mac. The Braddocks had stammered a gratuitous number of thanks and rushed off together. Mac’s keg had a blue ribbon taped to it. He’d drawn all of us a mug.
“Night of the Living Brews,” I said. I had painkillers for my shoulder, but I was waiting until I was home and in bed to take one. As a result, I ached pretty much everywhere. “More like night of the living bruise.”
Mac rose, drained his mug, and held it up in a salute to Gard and me. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I said.
Gard smiled slightly and bowed her head to him. Mac departed.
Gard finished her own mug and examined the cast on her arm. “Close one.”
“Little bit,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”
She nodded.
“The grendelkin called you a Geat,” I said.
“Yes, he did.”
“I’m familiar with only one person referred to in that way,” I said.
“There are a few more around,” Gard said. “But everyone’s heard of that one.”
“You called the grendelkin a scion of Grendel,” I said. “Am I to take it that you’re a scion of the Geat?”
Gard smiled slightly. “My family and the grendelkin’s have a long history.”
“He called you a Chooser,” I said.
She shrugged again, and kept her enigmatic smile.
“Gard isn’t your real name,” I said. “Is it?”
“Of course not,” she replied.
I sipped some more of Mac’s award-winning dark. “You’re a Valkyrie. A real one.”
Her expression was unreadable.
“I thought Valkyries mostly did pickups and deliveries,” I said. “Choosing the best warriors from among the slain. Taking them off to Valhalla. Oh, and serving drinks there. Odin’s virgin daughters, pouring mead for the warriors, partying until Ragnarok.”
Gard threw back her head and laughed. “Virgin daughters.” She rose, shaking her head, and glanced at her broken arm again. Then she leaned down and kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were a sweet, hungry little fire of sensation, and I felt the kiss all the way to my toes—some places more than others, ahem.
She drew away slowly, her pale blue eyes shining. Then she winked at me and said, “Don’t believe everything you read, Dresden.” She turned to go, then paused to glance over her shoulder. “Though, to be honest, sometimes he does like us to call him Daddy. I’m Sigrun.”
I watched Sigrun go. Then I finished the last of the beer. Mouse rose expectantly, his tail wagging, and we set off for home.
JIM BUTCHER
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
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Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Jim Butcher, 2008
All rights reserved
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATA LOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Butcher, Jim, 1971–
Small favor: a novel of the Dresden files /Jim Butcher.
p. cm.
ISBN: 1-101-12862-3
1. Dresden, Harry (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Wizards—Fiction. 3. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.U85S63 2008
813'.6—dc22 2007042136
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Winter came early that year; it should have been a tip-off.
A snowball soared through the evening air and smacked into my apprentice’s mouth. Since she was muttering a mantra-style chant when it hit her, she wound up with a mouthful of frozen cheer—which may or may not have been more startling for her than for most people, given how many metallic piercings were suddenly in direct contact with the snow.
Molly Carpenter sputtered, spitting snow, and a round of hooting laughter went up from the children gathered around her. Tall, blond, and athletic, dressed in jeans and a heavy winter coat, she looked natural in the snowy setting, her cheeks and nose turning red with the cold.
“Concentration, Molly!” I called. I carefully kept any laughter I might have wanted to indulge in from my voice. “You’ve got to concentrate! Again!”
The children, her younger brothers and sisters, immediately began packing fresh ammunition to hurl at her. The backyard of the Carpenter house was already thoroughly chewed up from an evening of winter warfare, and two low “fortress” walls faced each other across ten yards of open lawn. Molly stood between them, shivering, and gave me an impatient look.
“This can’t possibly be real training,” she said, her voice quavering with cold. “You’re just doing this for your own sick amusement, Harry.”
I beamed at her and accepted a freshly made snowball from little Hope, who had apparently appointed herself my squire. I thanked the small girl gravely, and bounced the
snowball on my palm a few times. “Nonsense,” I said. “This is wonderful practice. Did you think you were going to start off bouncing bullets?”
Molly gave me an exasperated look. Then she took a deep breath, bowed her head again, and lifted her left hand, her fingers spread wide. She began muttering again, and I felt the subtle shift of energies moving as she began drawing magic up around her in an almost solid barrier, a shield that rose between her and the incipient missile storm.
“Ready!” I called out. “Aim!”
Every single person there, including myself, threw before I got to the end of aim, and snowballs sped through the air, flung by children ranging from the eldest, Daniel, who was seventeen, down to the youngest, little Harry, who wasn’t yet big enough to have much of a throwing arm, but who didn’t let that stop him from making the largest snowball he could lift.
Snowballs pelted my apprentice’s shield, and it stopped the first two, the frozen missiles exploding into puffs of fresh powder. The rest of them, though, went right on through Molly’s defenses, and she was splattered with several pounds of snow. Little Harry ran up to her and threw last, with both hands, and shrieked merry triumph as his bread-loaf-sized snowball splattered all over Molly’s stomach.
“Fire!” I barked belatedly.
Molly fell onto her butt in the snow, sputtered some more, and burst out in a long belly laugh. Harry and Hope, the youngest of the children, promptly jumped on top of her, and from there the lesson in defensive magic devolved into the Carpenter children’s longstanding tradition of attempting to shovel as much snow as possible down the necks of one another’s coats. I grinned and stood there watching them, and a moment later found the children’s mother standing beside me.
Molly took after Charity Carpenter, who had passed her coloring and build on to her daughter. Charity and I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye—well, in point of fact, we’ve hardly ever seen eye-to-eye—but tonight she was smiling at the children’s antics.
“Good evening, Mister Dresden,” she murmured.