by Kevin Hearne
You earned it, buddy. Hold on, get down off the door so I can open it for you, and be careful, don’t hurt any of them.
I opened the door, expecting him to bolt through it and dive into his own personal canine harem, but instead he took one step and stopped, looking up at me with a mournful expression, his ears drooping and a tiny whine escaping his snout.
Acknowledgments
My pint glass runneth over.
Though it’s only my name that appears on the cover, novels truly don’t happen without the collaboration of others. My parents have always been supportive of my creative endeavors, from music to art to writing, and if they hadn’t convinced me that yes, I could do whatever I wanted creatively, I might have never started this project in the first place. My loving wife, Kimberly, has been watching me write one thing or another for close to twenty years now, and her iron conviction that I would get it right someday kept me going when I wanted to give up.
Several people provided valuable feedback in the early stages of the novel. Dr. Kim Hensley Owens, assistant professor of rhetoric at the University of Rhode Island, demanded consistency in the widow MacDonagh’s accent and occasionally suggested economies of phrasing, for which I am grateful. Alan O’Bryan provided insight into the simple truth of sword fights—they don’t last long—and introduced me to the Society for Creative Anachronism. Andrea Taylor had much to say on the subject of witches; I would tell you more except that I am under a spell.
I am convinced that my agent, Evan Goldfried, is a Magical Being. He said yes when others said no, and he sold the series so quickly that I’m still recovering from the whiplash. Cheers, Magic E.
Tricia Pasternak, my frabjous editor at Del Rey, is sans pareil in my esteem, and her enthusiasm for Atticus and Oberon is the reason you hold this book in your hand today. Her assistant editor, Mike Braff, tolerated my puerile shenanigans with great good humor and proved to be a font of wisdom regarding all things Nordic.
While the characters and events in Hounded are entirely fictional, one could, if one were so inclined, visit parts of the setting in Arizona. Third Eye Books and Herbs rests where the real-life comic shop of my cousin, Drew Sullivan, lies on Ash Avenue in Tempe; Tony Cabin is still out there in the Superstition Mountains, and the land around it is thankfully not dead; Rúla Búla on Mill Avenue is indeed one of the finest Irish pubs anywhere, and I have yet to find a plate of fish and chips that comes close to theirs.
Linguistics aficionados may notice that while the Sisters of the Three Auroras are Polish, they use a decidedly Russian name—the Zoryas—for the star goddesses from which they derive their powers. The Zoryas are known throughout the Slavic world by one name or another (such as Zvezda, Zwezda, Zorza, etc.), but since most of the coven was born in the nineteenth century, when the eastern portion of Poland was occupied by Russia, it made sense (to me) to have them use the Russian name. No one is required to agree that this makes sense; I explain this merely to give the impression that my backstory is remarkably thorough and well-researched.
Clan Rathskeller
By Kevin Hearne
This story takes place ten months before the events of Hounded, the first book in The Iron Druid Chronicles.
Decembers in Arizona are decidedly cool, but not what I would call cold. People shop at outdoor malls like Tempe Marketplace wearing nothing but a light sweater, and they utterly fail to slip on black ice or lose toes to frostbite, because those dangers don’t exist in the desert. For similar reasons, they fail to get inhaled by ravenous yeti or snacked on by esurient cephalopods. One would think they’d also be safe from the attentions of sociopathic kobolds, but I discovered, to my chagrin on a Monday night, that this was not the case.
Tempe Marketplace is a sprawling shopping mecca anchored by a large cinema and some glowing big-box stores. Near the cinema, smaller retailers and a host of restaurants huddle around like Dickensian orphans, hoping for a scrap of post-movie commerce to feed their hungry bottom lines. (“Please sir, spend some more.”) A cobbled walkway sprinkled with upscale patio furniture and water features permits shoppers to feel casual and la-di-dah at the same time. Best of all, there isn’t any canned music blaring through eight-bit speakers, a rare and special blessing while shopping in America. The music is live Thursday through Saturday nights because the mall sponsors free concerts on its outdoor stage, always featuring family-friendly bands who play as if they’re contractually bound to avoid minor chords. The stage gets used for other events the rest of the week, like visits from Santa Claus and his elves.
The dads were home watching Monday Night Football and the moms had brought out their kids to see Saint Nick and maybe shop a bit for their husbands. ASU students and young hipsters were crowding into San Felipe’s Cantina for happy hour, as well as a few older members of the twenty-something-and-single demographic. I could see them all because San Felipe’s was missing most of its walls, opting instead for a low metal fence behind which customers could legally pound a brewski and enjoy the show, if there was one, as the cantina sat directly opposite the stage. It was between the stage and San Felipe’s that I first became aware that something was profoundly wrong. That was because Oberon, my dog, smelled something that wasn’t human.
Oberon is an Irish wolfhound, and though he’s a sight hound, his nose is still much better than my human one. And since I’d bound my consciousness to his and he’d gradually picked up my language through the link, he’s not limited to barks and wagging his tail when he wants to tell me something. He says it in his mind, and I hear it in mine.
That would be you, Oberon. Or me, if you want to get fussy with the definition.
That gave me an acute case of shifty eyes. I looked first toward the patrons of the cantina and started to scan people’s auras to make sure they all had human shapes. I saw colors of amusement and arousal sitting next to angst and loneliness, but nothing out of the ordinary.
I turned my head to the stage, where a corpulent Santa with a curly white beard tried to appear avuncular as an elf placed a screaming child on his lap. Santa’s aura told the truth: He was irritated and wanted to be anywhere but here. Perhaps the kid was screaming because he sensed that. Or perhaps he was screaming because kids don’t have years of logic and science blinding them to the true nature of things. Some primal part of him realized that the “elf” handling him was truly a different species.
Those aren’t elves, I told Oberon, though I could see why he’d make the mistake. They were excessively darling little dudes, and they blended in well with the festive holiday atmosphere. But one look at their auras confirmed that they weren’t locals.
No, they’re not dwarfs either.
Oberon, those are gnomes. That’s what you’re smelling. There were five of them, not quite four feet tall in platform shoes, but only one seemed to be paying any attention to Santa and the line of kids waiting to see him. The rest kept their eyes skimming over the passing throng of shoppers, and I figured we should keep moving in case they noticed the Irish lad and his giant dog staring at them. I resumed my walk past San Felipe’s extensive frontage.
No, not garden gnomes. Those didn’t show up until after World War II. These are real gnomes from the Old World. They’re quite rare. If you try chewing on them, they’ll chew back.
Oberon stopped and cock
ed his head to one side.
I clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder, not wishing to tug on his leash. Come on. Oberon followed and I turned right past San Felipe’s until we were just out of sight of the stage. There I drew closer to the fence separating the sober from the soused and tried to find a space between the bobbing heads through which to view the gnomes unobtrusively. Oberon destroyed that plan.
“Holy shit!” a random customer breathed, putting down a half-raised pint glass.
His buddy followed the direction of his gaze and said, “Damn!”
“That’s a huge fucking dog!” the bright one of the group said.
The first guy got the attention of another guy at a neighboring table and pointed. “Hey, look at that huge fucking dog!”
“Holy shit!”
I sighed. And so it goes.
I’m not sure. People used to say obvious things ironically or as a form of understatement, but in the last few decades they seem to say it with a sense of discovery, and it worries me.
No argument there, buddy. Soon they’ll notice I’m holding your leash and they’ll start asking me questions. I just want to get a half-decent stare at the gnomes.
I discovered a window between a couple of gossiping sorority girls and examined one of the gnomes as best as I could. His aura told me nothing except his race. Unlike human auras, which broadcast emotions in a full spectrum, gnomish auras are a soft, solid brown, like milk chocolate, save for the white line of magic nearest their skin. But his mere presence, and that of his companions, bespoke something terribly amiss. Gnomes despise humans and have as little to do with us as possible. For five of them to be out in public like this—well, it was unheard-of. They were either extremely upset about something—a point of honor, perhaps—or actively insane. They weren’t even bothering to hide their large noses and magically groomed mustaches; the shoppers, of course, blithely dismissed these features as prosthetic parts of their costumes.
If they were here on some sort of vendetta, it would be best for me to stay out of it. But if they were on a suicide mission born of immortal ennui, or something equally dangerous to the people here, then it would behoove me to prevent it. Tempe had proven to be a good hiding place for me for more than ten years, and I didn’t want a few gnomes messing it up by causing a ruckus and drawing attention.
“Hey. Dude,” one of the bar patrons called. “Is that your dog?” I didn’t reply, just held up the leash. Unfortunately, this was construed as an invitation for further comment. “Well, he’s pretty fucking big,” he said.
I turned toward the voice. It belonged to a blue-shirted mechanic with the name Jeff embroidered in red on top of a white badge sewn to his pocket. I saw a couple of pens and an air pressure gauge tucked inside a plastic pocket protector.
“Hi, Jeff. May I borrow one of your pens?” I asked him. He blinked and tried to process how a stranger had known his name. He’d forgotten that it was on his shirt and that people could read it. “And maybe a bar napkin too?”
“What? Wait, dude. Do I know you?” His expression made it clear that he doubted it, though it wasn’t clear why he thought we must be acquainted before he could loan me a pen. His drinking buddies, picking up on his cues, scowled at me.
“No, I’m just functionally literate. May I borrow a pen, please? And a napkin. I’ll return the pen shortly, I promise.”
Jeff wanted to refuse, but I’d said the magic word and he didn’t want to be a dick in front of his friends.
“Sure, man, whatever.” He plucked a pen out of his pocket and passed it to me over San Felipe’s low fence. He tossed a napkin at me as well.
“Thanks,” I said. Holding the napkin down flat against the curved railing of the fence, I scrawled a quick message in Old High German. It was my best guess at the language the gnomes used among themselves. It said, “I’d like to talk with you. Follow the dog.” I gave this to Oberon along with some instructions. Take this to one of the gnomes and drop it in front of him. Bark once, wait for him to read it, then lead him back here.
“Hey, where’s he going?” Jeff asked.
“Here’s your pen. Thank you.” I awarded him a tight smile. He took his pen and thrust it absently back into his pocket.
“You know your dog just walked off without his leash?”
I decided right then that if I owned a car—which I didn’t—I would never take it to Jeff when it needed repair. He’d just tell me it had to be fixed, or that the sky was blue, or something else painfully obvious. But I kept these thoughts off my face and smiled amiably.
“Oh, he’ll be back, no worries. We’re playing fetch.”
“What’s he fetching?”
“One of Santa’s elves.”
“In his teeth?” Jeff’s drinking buddies haw-hawed. “Is that legal?”
“No, that’s not what’s happening.” I searched for a modern phrase to alleviate his mild case of civic concern. “It’s all good,” I explained, then looked away, signaling that I thought our brief conversation (and acquaintance) over. Jeff was willing to let it go, but he couldn’t resist lowering his voice a tad and muttering about me.
“All kinds of weirdos in this town,” I heard him say. He had no idea what an understatement that was.
In a moment he appeared around the corner, tail wagging. Behind him came a frowning gnome, tense and ready for an ambush. His costume was one of those red military Sergeant Pepper jackets over a linen shirt with a high starched collar. The jacket had white piping across the chest and entirely too many brass buttons. Red knickers gathered at the knee, a yellow stripe blazed up the sides, and yellow stockings fell into some enormous platform shoes that added nearly a foot to the gnome’s height. He’d be just over three feet, I guessed, without those shoes. When his eyes focused on me and flicked down to the tattoos on my right arm, he relaxed. He spoke in Old High German, as I suspected, a tongue I hadn’t spoken in centuries.
“Here you are,” he said. “Good. We were beginning to worry. Is all in readiness?”
I boggled. He behaved like he knew me, but I was positive we’d never met, and absolutely certain that my name wasn’t on my shirt.
“I certainly hope all is ready,” I said. “Remind me of your name, friend?”
Suspicion veiled the gnome’s features. His dark eyes narrowed and his mustache quivered. “Tell me who you are first.”
“You recognized me a moment ago.”
He twitched his head at my right side, using his nose to point. “You have the tattoos of the Tuatha Dé Danann and I can see this is your true form,” he said, “but I do not think now that you are the one we have been waiting for.”
My face paled. They were waiting for one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and those were precisely the Irish gods from whom I was hiding. Originally they were mere Druids, like me, and were bound to the earth—as I am—through their tattoos. At first glance, it would be easy to mistake me for one of them. But which one was coming?
“No, I am not he,” I admitted. “I am merely passing through and curious why the folk of the earth are walking amongst humans.”
“Hey, dude, what language is that?” Jeff called. “Russian? You guys Commies or something?” His companions laughed and then offered him congratulatory fist bumps for his rapier wit.
It was no use explaining to Jeff that the Soviet Union had collapsed decades ago and the Col
d War was over, or that Slavic and Germanic languages are completely different. I ignored him and motioned to the gnome that we should move away from San Felipe’s. If Jeff wished to pursue the matter he’d have to leave his beer, and I felt intuitively that he would never do that. The gnome was only too happy to put distance between himself and the loud humans; we shuffled closer to the California Pizza Kitchen, which lay across the walkway.
“We are here to recover that which was stolen,” the gnome said. “The thief will be here soon. Goibhniu is helping us.”
The barometer measuring the internal pressure of my paranoia fell abruptly. Goibhniu was an Irish god of smithing and brewing, and he was a decent sort, the last time I’d seen him. But that was in another country, a thousand years gone or more. I had no idea how he’d regard me now, but taking the side of the gnomes was a good sign.
“What was stolen, may I ask?”
“Truth for truth,” the gnome said. “Tell me who you are.”
I clasped my hands together and gave him a short bow. “You are speaking to the last of the Druids.”
The gnome snorted in disbelief. “The Druids all died centuries ago.”
“Aye, except for me. You know I speak truth. You recognize my tattoos. Few people can speak the old tongue anymore.” The gnome’s eyes shifted to consider Oberon. “And yes, I converse with my hound. So tell me what was stolen.”
His shoulders slumped and his mustache puffed out with a resigned exhalation. “We five are all that remains of Clan Rathskeller,” he explained, “the finest brewers of our people. You may have noticed that there are no women amongst us. We are in danger of extinction, and for fifty years we have worked on a kingly gift for the meister of Clan Fruchtbar: the Draught of Unending Strength. This was to be exchanged for five brides, but it was stolen.”
“By whom?”
“Kohleherz and some faery.”