by M. D. Massey
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Colin McCool prequel novel.
Graveyard Druid
A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel
M.D. Massey
Modern Digital Publishing
Austin, Texas
www.MDMassey.com
Copyright © 2017 by M.D. Massey.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Modern Digital Publishing
P.O. Box 682
Dripping Springs, Texas 78620
Graveyard Druid/ M.D. Massey. — 1st ed.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Call 1-800-273-8255
Available 24 hours everyday
Chapter One
So here I was, stripped down to my skivvies and standing in a makeshift fighting ring in Rendon Park, ready to go mano a mano with a troll. And just how had I ended up here?
A few days ago, I’d gotten a call from Siobhan, granddaughter of the local fae queen Maeve many generations removed. Maeve had recently connived a way to get me under her thumb. She’d cornered the market on my mom’s art pieces, threatening to ruin her career by flooding the market and devaluing her work. That was, if I didn’t agree to become her errand boy and enforcer. Why she didn’t get one of her fae hunters to do this work was beyond me; I supposed it had something to do with the fact that I was druid-trained, and sort of a neutral figure in the supernatural world.
Plus, you could bet that Maeve had plans and machinations spanning the course of centuries; she was fae, after all. I had a sneaking suspicion that somehow I was a key figure in those plans, at least for the foreseeable future. Her favorite chess piece. Lucky me.
After enjoying a few blessed weeks of relative peace and quiet, Siobhan had called me out of the blue, saying that Maeve had a job for me. I’d had plenty of time to recover after the huge battle I’d won against Crowley, a rogue Circle wizard who’d decided it was his mission in life to put me six feet under.
I couldn’t have cared less about Crowley; I’d only been there to retrieve Maeve’s magic whatzit, which turned out to be Balor’s Eye. Yes, the Balor’s eye, an artifact powerful enough to vaporize entire armies at a glance. Crowley had stolen it from Maeve in an effort to put me down once and for all. During the battle I’d killed his hired help, a mean-ass giant known as a fachen, and the Eye had put a hurt on Crowley. I won, they lost, and I ended up with a sentient magical gemstone embedded inside my skull. Temporally displaced, of course, which was the best thing I could say about the entire situation.
As it turned out, I’d also killed the son of a troll clan chief while making my way to kicking Crowley’s ass. Okay, so I hadn’t kicked his ass, the Eye had—but let’s not get technical here. Anyway, the troll I’d killed belonged to a tribe that had served Maeve for centuries, and he’d betrayed her by turning coat for Crowley. Now, the trolls were looking to save face, or regain their honor—or whatever trolls did to make amends when they screwed up.
Apparently, that involved bare-knuckle brawling in your skivvies. Thus, my current situation. I stood in an earthen circle, roughly ten meters wide. Stones marked out the makeshift ring, spaced about a foot apart, all the way around. The dirt beneath my bare feet was hard and dry, and I fully expected to get a nasty road rash and dust in every crack and crevice before this thing was done.
Their chief, who I’d taken to calling Ookla since I couldn’t pronounce his full name, patted me down to make sure I didn’t have a longsword hidden in my Calvin Kleins. As he searched me I reflected on my life choices, recalling that just a few weeks ago I’d been in similar situation, but facing a werewolf. One could easily challenge my sanity and intelligence at the moment, but at least after I was dead, no one would ever be able to say I’d backed down from a fight.
It’s the little things that make life worth living.
“Okay, you know the rules. Two enter, one gets schooled. Trolls get honor either way, you get killed still happy day. Okay?”
The chief’s lumpy mug curled into a grin that might have been friendly, but instead came across as creepy and evil. Still, I was kind of getting to like the guy. He was in a tough spot, because his kid had screwed up royally by betraying Maeve. He was honor-bound to seek retribution for his son’s death, and also to restore goodwill with the kid’s former employer. It didn’t seem like any of the Toothshank clan held it against me that I’d killed the kid—to the trolls, that was just the cost of crossing their employer. Their real concern was restoring their honor and reputation.
And, for some strange reason, that meant they had to prove their clan’s strength by fighting Maeve’s representative. Namely, me. Siobhan had conveniently forgotten to tell me all this before she’d sent me to smooth things over. One of these days, I’d put her in her place, hopefully by proving to Maeve that her great-granddaughter was plotting against her.
At present, though, I had more pressing matters. I rolled my shoulders out and nodded. “Let’s get this over with, Ookla.”
He smiled that creepy smile of his again, then chopped the air with his hand and shouted something in trollish that I assumed meant, “Let the kumite begin!”
I looked across the ring as the chief stepped out of the way. My opponent was closing in fast; trolls were deceptively quick for all their height and mass. Lean and lanky, his body was covered in long, ropy muscles under gray-green skin mottled with warts, moles, and what could only be described as tumors. But the worst thing about trolls was their smell.
The run-in I’d had with the chief’s son and his buddy had been no picnic, mainly because Crowley hadn’t used any magic to cover up their odor. And troll odor was bad—I mean, just awful. It smelled like necrotic flesh, feces, and foot stank, and had the same effects on the respiratory system and mucous membranes as military-grade tear gas. When Belladonna and I had jumped them, we’d nearly been incapacitated by their funk. My friend Sabine, who we were there to rescue, had been knocked unconscious by the stench. It was that bad. And I was going to have to get up close and personal with this thing.
To their credit, the trolls understood what a powerful weapon their reek was. The
chief had taken countermeasures to make sure the fight was fair. The clan’s witch doctor had cast a spell on me to protect me from the odor, saying it was “good juju, no boohoo you.” Obviously, that cat knew his stuff, because I couldn’t smell a damned thing, and I mean nothing. Besides that, my sinuses were more clear than they’d been in weeks, and with all the pollen we had to deal with year-round in Austin, that was saying something.
But still, I was going to need a magical tomato juice bath after this match. And, I’d probably have to burn anything that came into contact with the troll’s skin. Meaning, my underwear were going to be buried at sea while I bathed in the river after the match.
That is, if I survived. My opponent looked like he meant business. He came forward in a low stance, similar to some Southern kung-fu and karate styles I’d seen. He had one hand in a high guard by his head, the other low and bent across his waist. His lead hand was in a fist; the other was open, fingers extended into a spear. That likely meant the lead hand was his shield, and the rear hand was his intended weapon. Good to know.
He kept inching in, closer and closer. I assumed that meant he was trying to get in range to throw that spearhand at my eyes or solar plexus. Instead of staying in place, I danced around him like Bruce Lee—and I mean literally like Bruce Lee, cat cries and all. All that showboating wasn’t worth a lick for fighting, but I figured it might confuse him and cause him to make a mistake. We moved around for a minute or so like that, me dancing and making “waa-taah!” sounds as he kept edging in.
Finally, I got bored and decided to draw him out. I did a pendulum step in, rapidly replacing my front foot with my back, and snapped a roundhouse kick at his lead knee. Surprisingly, my kick connected, but it felt like kicking a steel pole wrapped in foam rubber. My instep bounced off his leg after the initial jolting impact. Before I could dance back out of the way, his spearhand darted at my face. I slipped and parried, and his fingertips creased the side of my forehead. I felt a trickle of blood run down my cheek as I moved back, out of range.
The trolls around the ring cheered.
My foot throbbed from the impact I’d made with the troll’s knee. That was the thing with trolls; they were tough. Skin like leather, flesh like rubber, and bones like steel. And, they healed fast. To kill one, you basically had to behead it and then incinerate it. I had no weapons at the moment, nor was I allowed to use magic, otherwise this joker’s head would have already been flying and frying. I’d just have to improvise.
I danced around a few more seconds, feigning an injury in my foot. It hurt, sure, but it was still functional. Even so, the pain made it easy to put on a good show. As I did, I allowed myself to drift just a little too close to the troll. As expected, he used that opportunity to attack again, spearing his fingers at my eyes.
As soon as he moved, I shifted my stance to face him and lowered my weight, ducking under his attack. In the same motion, I dove forward into a tackle, driving my shoulder into the troll’s stomach while grabbing his legs and pulling them in close. After that, it was just a matter of leverage and forward momentum. I had the troll pinned on his back in a flash, sitting on his chest with a knee on either side of his body.
A collective gasp came from the crowd of trolls around the ring, and they began to chatter excitedly amongst themselves. The noise barely registered, though; I was busy putting a beatdown on the troll, with open-handed strikes that landed all around his face and neck. My gamble had paid off. This troll didn’t know shit about grappling, and it was obvious he wasn’t a fan of the UFC, either. He tried to push me off as he took the first dozen blows or so, but he might as well have been trying to move the Rock of Gibraltar. I could have used the opportunity to slap on an armbar, but the troll would just pop his elbow straight again and heal within seconds.
No, I needed something that would take him out completely. I kept striking him, waiting for him to cover his head with both arms. I continued to hammer him, aiming blows at wherever I saw an opening. A few seconds later he did exactly what I expected, rolling and covering the back of his head with his hands, guarding the sides of his head with his folded arms.
Now I had him.
I wrapped my legs around his body and hooked my heels in his groin, both for better purchase and to kick him in the balls as a distraction. I pummeled him mercilessly from his back until he gave me an opening, then quickly snaked my hand and arm under his chin and back around the other side of his head. I grabbed my biceps on my other arm and secured the rear naked choke, what the Brazilians call “the lion killer.” And I squeezed, counting to twenty slowly in my head.
At the end of my count, he was out like a light. Instead of killing him, I rolled him onto his back, picking up his arm and letting it flop to the ground to show the crowd I’d dispatched their champion. I placed a foot on his chest and raised my arms in the air for good measure.
The crowd and chieftain went silent, all of them staring at me with what looked like anger and disbelief. I was getting nervous. In seconds, the troll I’d fought would come around, and then I’d probably have to fight him again. I was exhausted after the match, and didn’t know if I had the juice to take him out a second time.
The chieftain shouted something in trollish, and the crowd erupted in cheers. They rushed the ring, vaulting me up on their shoulders and carrying me around the circle, chanting trollish rhymes and making one hell of a ruckus. I worried that we might draw a crowd. We were all glamoured, but the noise they made had me nervous just the same.
In the confusion, I managed to catch a glimpse of my opponent. He had sat up, attended to by the witch doctor. They exchanged a few words, but I couldn’t hear what they said. He finally nodded, locking eyes with me, mouth set in a grim expression. After a brief, uncomfortable moment, he cracked a grin and placed a closed fist over his chest in what I assumed was acquiescence of his defeat. Then he stood and pushed through the crowd, joining the fray by hoisting me up on his shoulders.
I was really going to have to burn my undies after this.
Chapter Two
After a quick dip in Town Lake, I spent the remainder of my time with the trolls drinking a horrendous grog of fermented giant spider milk, hashing out a new agreement between the troll clan and the fae. Conversing with trolls was always trying, because they only spoke in rhyme. Plus, they were horrible poets, and often their responses could be interpreted many different ways. I had to spend a considerable amount of time clarifying their intentions and demands, negotiating the best reconciliation I could—one that would serve Maeve’s interests and also keep the trolls happy.
The chief seemed mainly concerned with restoring the clan’s honor by being allowed to reenter Maeve’s service. I had to tactfully point out that after his son’s betrayal, Maeve would be reticent to allow them to work in their previous capacity, as security guards for her estate. This was met with considerable disappointment on the part of the trolls, but eventually I convinced them to take up the responsibility of guarding the borders of Maeve’s territory. Despite their bulk, trolls were exceptionally good at slinking around and hiding. For that reason, I thought it would be a great use of their natural talents—so long as they didn’t eat any humans while dispensing their duties. Sometime around one in the morning, I reached an agreement with their clan chief. After that, everything was a drunken blur.
I stayed with the trolls well into the night, getting considerably drunk on that spider milk beer they kept giving me. The first three or four mugs of it were just awful, but after that the stuff was so strong I didn’t care. The troll I’d fought, whose name meant “Eats-Guts-With-Bare-Hands-And-Salts-The-Earth-After-Battle,” turned out to be a decent guy—for a troll. I ended up calling him Guts since I couldn’t pronounce his name in trollish. He seemed to like it so it stuck. He was the chief’s nephew, who I continued to call Ookla for the same reasons. After I explained that Ookla the Mok was a fearsome creature and mighty warrior from human Saturday morning cartoon lore, the chief beat his chest an
d proclaimed he would add it to his many titles. Fine by me, because by that point I was three sheets to the wind and couldn’t even pronounce my own name if I tried.
After a few hours of negotiation and another thirty minutes of losing trollish drinking games (the guy who puked after being punched in the gut had to drink), I had to take a whiz something awful. I stumbled outside the circle of light made by their bonfire, then tripped and fell flat on my face on top of a lounging troll maiden, which Guts thought was hilarious. After apologizing profusely, disentangling myself from the most awkward interaction I’d ever had with a female—of any species—I finally made it into the bushes to drain the dragon.
As I finished up, I heard movement in the bushes nearby, accompanied by a lot of moaning and groaning. Triggering a night-vision cantrip that I could barely recall in my stupefied state, I searched the landscape for whatever was making all that racket. Then, the wind shifted and the smell hit me.
I reached for my Craneskin Bag, which was sort of the Irish version of a bag of holding. I always kept it around, because if I didn’t keep an eye on it, the bag had a way of releasing troublesome objects from its depths at inopportune times. As I fumbled a short sword out of my bag, I yelled at the top of my lungs to warn the trolls behind me.
“Ghouls! Ghouls attacking the camp!”
A dozen trolls rushed out to join the fray, taking the threat seriously. With their surprising strength and aggressiveness, ghouls could be tough to take out. Thankfully, there were only a few of the undead in the area, so we dispatched them easily despite our inebriation. A characteristic of ghouls that worked in our favor was that they didn’t reproduce like zombies did, because they tended to crack open the skulls of their prey and eat the brains. No brains, no reanimated dead. Zombies lacked the strength to crack a human skull open, which meant they spread their disease and reproduced like crazy. Even so, Guts sent some scouts out to make sure we’d killed the last of them. They soon reported that we’d killed all the ghouls in the area.