by Renée Jaggér
Loki smoothed out his long black hair. “Without further ado, I, as the god of mischief, trickery, discord, deceit, and other such charming characteristics, hereby offer to further train you, Bailey Nordin, in the sublime arts of magic. Particularly the less obvious ones, which I doubt you’d have learned from Balder, though I suppose Coyote might have conveyed something useful.”
The girl shrugged. “Both of them had helpful things to teach me. What about you?”
“There are a vast number of things I could show you,” Loki extrapolated, “but we haven’t time for all of them. I thought I’d start by instructing you in the proper usage of that little trick you learned from my son, Fenris, the thing about siphoning magic from powerful entities. Remember that?”
“Yeah.” She grunted. “How could I possibly forget?”
He smiled and tilted his head back, looking at the witch-haunted sky as though admiring clouds on a sunny day. “I taught him that. I don’t particularly want him to destroy the world as we know it, so I’d say it’s valid for you to know all that he knows, if not more.”
The werewitch bowed her head. “I accept your offer.”
Before they began, she turned toward the rest of her allies, who, over half a mile distant, looked like bugs. She sent a psychic message to Roland, informing him that she’d be busy with training exercises for a short while and to proceed without her, though she’d remain here in case they needed her.
“I heard that,” Loki chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll survive without your help. Look, they even have shiny sticks that can perform the functions of basic spells!”
“They’re only human,” Bailey pointed out. “Cut them some slack.”
While Roland, Velasquez, and the others reconfigured their base camp and plotted their next moves against the specters, Bailey and Loki sat down across from one another in the shadow of the high cliff to meditate.
The girl felt her mind expand as normal consciousness faded away. The world narrowed to little more than the space between her and the god of mischief and the growing mental link between them.
Then a ball of light, a pale and mildly unpleasant yellowish-green color, appeared in front of Loki’s face.
This, he said with his mind, is my magical essence. Or part of it, anyway. See it, feel it, understand it. I’m going to push it over to you, and I want you to push it back.
Although it sounded easy, the werewitch had trouble at first. She hadn’t dealt with disembodied energy like this before. It was easier to connect to another’s essence when it was safely embedded within the being.
Still, after a short period of extra concentration, she was able to “locate” the ball in the astral as well as the physical realm, and she visualized the tendrils emerging to lock into it, as she’d done previously with Fenris, Freya, and Aradia.
Good, Loki acknowledged. You’ve anchored yourself to a source of power that isn’t tied up inside another sentient entity. Convenient, isn’t it?
Yes, she replied. In fact, isn’t this basically what Callie was doing? The witch who made all these ghost crones.
In a way, you are correct. The trickster god’s amusement was palpable through the mental link. From what I can tell of her, she is—or was—not the brightest of individuals, so it’s extraordinary that she stumbled onto such a powerful technique. Now, focus. Push the ball back to me, and then try to pull it away.
Once more, the task was harder than it sounded. It took what felt like an hour before she could move the essence-pulse at will, and as soon as she had the hang of it, Loki began to resist her, pulling it toward him or off to the side while she struggled to bring it in her direction.
The god of mischief explained his reasoning as they strained against each other’s will.
The idea, you see, is to employ deftness and subtlety in using and manipulating the energy of another, availing yourself of any power source you can find, regardless of whether it “belongs” to someone else, and if possible, using it without them being aware. If they object, find a way to trick them out of it, anyway. You find that morally questionable, don’t you? Well, it’s not something to do all the time, only when necessary.
Bailey had learned well that certain things became imperative under desperate circumstances, and she grudgingly admitted that Loki had a point.
They continued the exercise as he further detailed things that would help her perform this action on her own. She’d siphoned the magic of gods before, but solely in formalized, ritual contexts where she’d had the help of Fenris. To be able to do it on her own without aid would bring her up to the level of the gods.
It must become second nature to you, Bailey, he went on. Keep at it, and try to draw upon my essence from different angles and directions.
The perception of time was distorted in the Other, and the werewitch felt that a day or more had passed, though the activities of the far-off agents suggested that it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours.
Practice continued, the girl growing more adept.
Good, said Loki.
Then something changed. Bailey’s link expanded beyond the disembodied ball of chartreuse light and tapped into the core of Loki’s personal power. Some of his magic flowed into her. The bleeding-out process had begun.
She tried not to panic; she wanted to apologize.
I didn’t mean to do that, she asserted. I can give it back to you.
Loki laughed out loud and spoke with his physical voice. “No need, though I appreciate the offer. Keep it as a small gift from me to you. Magic isn’t lost forever. I will recharge soon enough, provided I don’t have to fight too hard. Besides, as a deity of subterfuge, I work better in the shadows than on the front lines.”
Bailey ended the link. The portion of Loki’s power she’d absorbed, small as it was, had reenergized her; she didn’t need more. She felt the excess bleeding into the fabric of the Other, but it dried up quickly, and the mischief-god did not seem too badly affected.
He stood, and she did likewise.
“Splendid,” he commended her. “Far from perfect, but good progress for an afternoon’s work. Allow me to walk you back to join your friends. They’re reckless without you to spearhead their endeavor, aren’t they?”
She shrugged. “They did pretty well without me.”
“Perhaps they did.” Loki took her hand, and they strode across the canyon’s rocky floor.
Agent Velasquez came to greet her, with Park and Roland in tow. “Finished? If you’re able, we can use you.”
Loki raised a finger. “Why use her when you can use me? Or both of us. I offer you a smidgeon of help before I depart.”
Half the men looked uncertain. Most of them didn’t know who Loki was, but they all sensed that he was a supernatural being of great power.
The trickster looked around. “Where is that adorable toy you have for tracking down concentrations of magic power? Ah, there it is. Please let me see it; there’s something I’d like to point out.”
Bailey nodded at Velasquez to indicate that it was safe to do so. He frowned but grabbed the scanner tablet and handed it to the black-haired god.
Loki moved his finger around the screen, and it took the mortals a second to realize that he was expanding the device’s view and reach. “There,” he said, pointing to an especially large concentration of pulsating light. “That is where you should strike next. It is not the heart of the problem, but plowing through it will clear you a path to where the actual heart is located.”
Velasquez furrowed his brow. “Judging by all those weaker blobs,” he observed, “there are at least a hundred of the eldritch crone spirits at that position. Bailey at full power can deal with maybe half of them, and I’m not sure about the rest of us dealing with the remainder without suffering major casualties. How are we supposed to get through?”
Smirking, Loki answered the question without delay. “Well, I’m a god. I can’t fight your battles for you since unlike certain other deities, my existence d
oesn’t antedate the non-intervention pact.” He glanced at Bailey. “But like my son, I can conveniently use portals to chauffeur you to the right place at the right time. It’s a touch difficult, but doable. Follow the gateway I provide and go in guns blazing. Have Bailey...what’s the word you use? Have her nuke the specters and the spectral plasm nodes. Get rid of them posthaste.”
The strategy he’d proposed wasn’t radically different from what they’d been doing so far, anyway, so the agents agreed to it. As Loki summoned a portal, though, he turned to Bailey for an aside.
“However,” he added, to her, “keep one thing in mind. Dealing with problems by nuking them isn’t always the best solution.”
He winked, then vanished into thin air before she could ask what the hell that meant.
Presumably it amused the god of mischief to have surreptitiously opened the new portal behind them all before he disappeared.
“Oh,” Roland muttered, sighting it. “I was, uh, afraid there for a second.”
Velasquez shook his head. “Everybody, move out.”
Steeling themselves and taking deep breaths, the force fell into position and filed through the glowing gateway, knowing they might be plunged into combat the instant they emerged.
Bailey went through first, with two elite agents practically attached to her elbows, and after the brief disorientation of portaling, she stepped out into another area much like the one they’d been in. She jogged forward to create extra space for the people coming out behind her.
She saw that while they wouldn’t have to fight instantly, there was not going to be much of a delay, either.
Perhaps a thousand feet away from them, a small army of eldritch crones hovered in midair, most of them at about head height from the human perspective. There were a hundred at least, possibly more like two. They moved in tight, roving circles as if patrolling, and, catching sight of the mortal task force, they set to wailing in unison. The canyon echoed with their screams of wrath.
It was easy to see why. A group of four of the gelatinous node-towers was clustered beyond the bulk of the specters, and another small force of the entities guarded them from the rear.
Velasquez raised his rifle and gritted his teeth. “Positions, attack!”
Roland threw up five slow-moving shields halfway between them and the phantasms, willing the arcane barriers to advance toward the horde so they blocked most of the crones’ hasty and crude attacks. Streams of lightning, fire, ice, and plasma were absorbed, redirected into thin air, or deflected back at the horde, picking off nine or ten of them before the mortals had begun their own offense.
Bailey’s blood surged through her body, pounding in her temples as she flung herself forward into the thick of the shitstorm. With her power, she had to create a massive wedge in the specters’ formations, eliminating as many of them as possible in a short time so as to break their organization and allow her allies to mop up the leftovers.
She held her sword out, using it as a focal point for her magic. A bolt of lightning descended from on high to strike the blade and empower it, and the thunder crashed all through the canyon. The werewitch swung the sword straight forward and down, willing the vast forces at her command to act in conjunction with the strike.
A vertical sheet of electricity rocketed from the blade, cutting through the first half of the crones’ front lines. Other crones masses were drawn toward the attack, circling around its sides and then spiraling back out into the horde. Dozens of the crones howled in defeat, their semi-corporeal bodies fading out or burning away.
Velasquez waved one hand, directing his men. “Move out! Left and right!”
The agents had drilled for a maneuver like this, and while maintaining a close enough formation that they didn’t exactly divide their force, they nonetheless began focusing their attacks to one side or the other of Bailey’s shockwave. Green beams slashed through sky and rock before finding their home in the eldritch phantoms, dispersing their magical structures and leaving them helpless.
Bailey stomped ahead, knowing it was far from over. More crones began streaming over the cliff, auxiliaries or reserves who’d floated in once the fighting began. Clearly, the intelligence controlling them was getting smarter.
Or perhaps it had put its more powerful servants closer to the larger mass of the anchor nodes.
The werewitch tossed fireballs left, right, and center while advancing. If any crones came too close, she slashed or stabbed them with her still-electrified sword.
She noticed something that disturbed her. Of the remaining phantasms, maybe one out of every ten was shielding itself or dodging with surprising agility. As her forces counterattacked, the smarter, stronger crones used creative magic, tossing out blasts that zigzagged or approached the agents from unusual directions.
Bailey caught about a third of the attacks, crushing them into an explosive ball within a sphere of shield-matter, then tossing them back at the specters, destroying another two dozen.
Others of their strikes got past her, though. A quick glance assured her that between the other witches’ shields and the agents' well-honed evasive maneuvers, they were safe. Still, the fighting was going to be harder from here on out. Somehow she was certain of it.
Behind the werewitch, the mortals had reached the same conclusion.
“Damn!” Park exclaimed. “They’re using half-assed tactics now. When did they learn to do that?” He aimed his rifle and fired, piercing the chest of one of the nearby crones and vaporizing it. The one behind it shot upward to avoid the beam, then descended toward them in an irregular pattern.
Roland trapped the specter in a small, controlled cyclone and tightened it so the creature did little more than rotate in a circle. Park blasted it and it faded from sight, screaming.
“My guess,” Roland commented, “is that either the higher-grade crones are being kept closer to the main source of their power, or the power source is conferring higher intelligence and ability on them. Maybe both.”
Dante groaned. “Well, that’s fucking fantastic, isn’t it?” He used a rectangular shield to stop two crones from attacking, then pushed it toward them to trap them against a shelf of rock. The instant he unsummoned the shield, another agent swept his rifle beam over both specters, destroying them.
They still faced several hundred, thanks to the hidden backup beyond the cliffs. Bailey realized that drastic measures might be needed if they wanted a quick victory without casualties.
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure everyone on her side was properly shielded. Roland and the other witches were doing their job, so she was confident they’d be safe from what she was about to unleash.
The girl spread her arms and a matrix of bright magenta dots appeared around her in a dome-like configuration, growing brighter and more intense in unison. They all exploded into arcane plasma beams that streaked out from Bailey’s position in every possible direction. The sky was filled and slashed apart by them.
The beams ricocheted off the shields protecting her comrades, which increased their scattering and led to them searing through more of the shrieking crones. Dozens of them burst into pinkish-white flames as what physical forms they possessed burned and crumbled, leaving only the faint ethereal residue that the agents hastily dealt with.
Bailey noted that the new wrist-tanks with the built-in device to neutralize the crones’ lingering essence seemed to be functioning well. She had to admire the speed and efficiency with which the Agency’s research and development team worked.
With her plasma storm having obliterated all of the specters in their immediate vicinity, Roland and the other witches pushed their shields outwards in pieces and used them like battering rams to force smaller, more distant pockets of the creatures away. Bailey waved at them to herd the crone-spirits into a narrow crevasse in the rock above them, then she filled it with lightning and fire, fusing the melting stone and incinerating the entities.
They proceeded down the canyon, fighting and dus
ting more crones every step of the way. Though the battle was more furious than any they’d yet fought with the creatures, victory was in sight.
Bailey shouted over her shoulder, “Hold off the flankers while I take out the nodes. That’ll dust them all.”
“Roger,” Velasquez barked. “You heard her!”
Dispersal guns held the crones at bay. The werewitch came up to the four gelatinous mounds, dispatching the few specters left to guard it with strokes of her sword.
She took a deep breath and summoned an airstrike’s worth of fire, raising it from the ground rather than calling it from the sky. The light, heat, and flames channeled upward, ripping the pulsing anchor-things apart. Bailey kept the unleashed forces in a tight column directed up and away from her people.
As the nodes burned, flashes of light swept across the gorge, and the remaining eldritch crones moaned and caterwauled in anguish before dissipating into nothingness.
The sounds of battle, the screams of Callie’s hideous crones, and the heavy breathing of the men and women who’d confronted them died out. Once again, the canyon was monolithically silent.
The mortals checked themselves for injuries before using field-generator poles to secure their perimeter. The lead agent then suggested they backtrack to join the current area to the part of the canyon they’d already claimed.
“Good idea,” Bailey agreed.
She, Roland, Velasquez, eight other agents, and the three witches Bailey didn’t know took charge of the short expedition, while Dante and Charlene remained behind, and Park supervised the rest of the Agency’s men.
As they walked, Roland chatted with the trio of sorceresses.
One, whose name was Mavis, said, “I knew one of the girls in Portland who died. Never would have expected it was because of something like this. I’m glad we’re kicking their asses. That can’t happen to anyone else.”