Hunted

Thanks, I said dryly. We’ve been working on that. Gotta go.

Why?

Like I said, gotta go.

Who?

The rainbow bridge from Asgard shimmered into existence on the pasture next to the Long Wood, and we saw distant forms in the sky growing larger. I broke my link with Hugin and turned to Granuaile.

“On your guard. Dark elves coming,” I said. “And apparently some standard elves and a bonus dude to help us somehow.”

Oberon perked up.

In this case they do.

Granuaile hefted Scáthmhaide. “Going invisible,” she said, before speaking the binding and winking out. I cast camouflage on Oberon but left myself visible.

The Ljósálfar, when they stepped off Bifrost onto Midgard, both disappointed and delighted me. They weren’t wearing leaf-shaped green and gold armor with curlicues or long robes with overlarge embroidered sleeves. They didn’t glow with backlighting or come with their own soundtrack by Enya. Their hair wasn’t long, straight, and silky, and their eyes weren’t limpid pools of oh-my-god straight out of manga. But they were tall and slender and very shiny, and they sounded like wind chimes when they moved.

The sound came from their light-blue enamel armor—that is, glass fused to a metal base. It draped their forms in layered scales so that they reminded me of pangolins, if pangolins could blind you like metal mud flaps on a semitruck. In the center of each enamel scale, a single rune had been etched with acid, and so far as I could tell, it was always the same rune. On a practical level, I couldn’t imagine the benefit to enamel; basic blunt force would shatter it, and the metal backing each scale looked to be either aluminum or a thin wafer of steel. But the runes must offer some protection. Their helmets had no metal backing: Each was a solid piece of shaped glass in light blue, etched with the same rune over and over, lending the impression that someone had found some defective fishbowls at an outlet store and shipped them to Álfheim. A grid of thin holes had been drilled through the glass around the nose, mouth, and ears, which had the effect of blurring out those features, but otherwise I could see that their heads were closely cropped and the tops of their ears did have the famous pointy cartilage. They had swords swinging on their left hips, but I wondered if they weren’t ceremonial. Their primary weapons rested in holsters strapped to their thighs—large flechette pistols.

Two dozen such elves were led by a thick, diminutive fellow in heavy steel plate. His armor was also etched with runes, but these were many and varied and flickered with their own light. Four small axes were strapped to his back, handles peeking over his shoulder. His voice was muffled somewhat by his helmet, but I still recognized the diction.

“I greet you, Druid, Wolf Slayer, Freyr’s Bane, Loki Shepherd. May you walk from battle unbruised and exult in the death songs of the slain.”

There was only one person I knew who would assign me such epithets and string them together. “Fjalar? Is that you? Runeskald of Nidavellir?”

Oberon said.

“Yes. I have come with the Glass Knights, the Ljósálfar elite, rune-warded and ready for battle, to meet the Svartálfar who pursue you. Axes have I brought, newly forged and blazoned, to cut the smoky black and tear flesh out of vapor.”

“What? I beg your pardon, but you lost me there.”

Fjalar drew one of the axes fixed to his back. It had a barb on the handle that triggered a release on the holder as he pulled it up so that the blade wouldn’t get caught. Clever design. He pointed at the runes seared into the blade of the axe and said, “These are experiments in craft and war, an attempt to cleave through magic mist and wound the flesh, to sunder smoke yet slice through bone and sinew.”

“You’re saying if you hack a dark elf in his smoke form with that, he’ll show the wound when he turns solid?”

“I will not know until I attempt it, but it is my hope. The runes are supposed to end their vaporous state and then the blade cuts them, which binds them to their solid form. Should any of the axes prove successful, more will I make and teach the craft and song to other Runeskalds.”

“That sounds fabulous,” I said, “but what if none of the axes perform the way you hope they do?”

The dwarf’s armor twitched, signaling a shrug underneath all the steel. “I will return to my forge and try anew.”

“No, I mean, the dark elves are not going to allow you to experiment on them.”

“They will have no choice in the matter.”

“I mean they’re going to fight back.”

“And the lamb will cry before it’s slaughtered. There is no difference.” Fjalar’s helmet twitched, indicating his eyes had been drawn elsewhere. “Ah. See where they come. Remain here and do nothing until you are ordered to drop to the ground.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You need do nothing but attract them. Let us take care of this.”

I cast my eyes across the pasture separating the Long Wood from the copse to the east and spied a sizable group of dark elves approaching—equal to the number of elves on our side. Dressed in what appeared to be shimmering white warm-up outfits that basketball teams favor—except with tunics instead of jerseys—they ran in an undisciplined mob until they saw Fjalar step forward, brandishing an axe. Responding to some unseen cue, they formed into a wedge and sped up, moving at double time.

Behind me, the Glass Knights spread themselves into six half squads of four elves each and drew their flechette pistols, one in each hand. Fjalar strode forward a few more paces, until he was perhaps twenty yards in front of us. If anyone had been dressed in modern combat gear, I would have felt a bit silly standing there naked amongst all that armor, but aside from the flechette pistols we were all rocking it old school, and I felt like a proper Celt.

“You seriously don’t want me to do anything?” I called.

“You will ruin our tactics if you do,” the Runeskald replied over his shoulder. On the one hand I felt a tad hurt that they didn’t want my help, but on the other I was happy to let them assume all the risk if they wanted it. I was also curious about how this would unfold. This was the most disciplined bunch of dark elves I had seen to this point, and if I was not mistaken, they were carrying standard steel weapons because they had learned they couldn’t pierce my aura with their magical knives.

Oberon, I’d like you and Granuaile to hang back behind the elves if you’re not already doing so.

With thirty yards to go until they reached Fjalar, the dark elves stopped and drew steel scimitars, holding them above their heads. They paused for a few beats and then charged on a silent signal. Fjalar rushed to meet them, one dwarf against twenty-five dark elves, and he wasn’t silent. He sang something fierce, and a yellow energy began to coalesce around his armor. When he met the point of the phalanx, his axe whiffed through the clothes and smoke of the point man, as the rest of the wedge flowed to either side and flanked him, their swords arcing down onto his armor. Their blades rebounded away from his helmet and pauldrons as if they were rubber and made clunking noises instead of an expected clang; yellow light exploded at each contact. Fjalar swung again with his axe, slicing ineffectually through smoke. I suppose he’d managed to make a few of them drop their standard weapons, and his armor had clearly been enchanted to withstand their blows, but neither side was doing any damage.

Undaunted, Fjalar dropped his first axe and drew another one. While he reached back, the point man solidified, nude, and stabbed at him with the black knife that all Svartálfar carried. This weapon rebounded as well. And when Fjalar hacked at him with his new axe, the villain evaded it again by turning incorporeal.

Some of the dark elves moved beyond Fjalar, reformed a smaller wedge, and charged up the slope at me, their true target. They all still had gleaming steel in their hands. Seeing this, one of the Ljósálfar barked a command in Old Norse and the elves raised their weapons, but no one ordered me to get down. I readied Fragarach and cast a final worried glance at Fjalar. He was drawing his third axe, bellowing his skald and snarling at his opponents, who continued to rain down blows as useless as his own—until he swung at them with the third axe.

As before, the dark elves dissolved to coal-black smoke in advance of his blow, but this time, when the axe passed through, it seemed to pull and rip them into solid form as it moved through the air, the way a zipper will part and reveal something hidden in its journey downward. And the dark elves who had been so torn back into the world were split by the axe, and inky innards slithered out of their torsos onto the earth.

“Victory!” Fjalar shouted, and the Ljósálfar leader behind me commanded that I get down. The dark elves in front of me were awfully close, but I dropped to the earth in curiosity—and so did Fjalar.

The elves began to shoot their flechettes in a prescribed pattern at the dark elves, in set intervals—once every half second, though it took me a couple of seconds to realize it and understand the strategy. The first volley caught some of the dark elves unawares, but most saw it coming and dissolved, dropping their steel in the process. The subsequent shots passed above my head and through them without harm—but that wouldn’t continue. The dark elves could maintain their incorporeal forms for only five seconds, so the Ljósálfar just needed to spray the field with flechettes for six, and they would catch all of them solid at some point.

Four seconds in, one of the Svartálfar materialized at my side with his black knife held high. He was blown away before he could bring it down. Others saw that the Ljósálfar were a threat and took shape behind them, but when the dark elves lunged in for the kill, the runes on the glass armor activated and repulsed them with a blue shock wave that sent them staggering backward. And then, in the fifth second, the ones below in the field all had to beef up, and they were hit by a double volley of flechettes: The first rocked them and anchored them to flesh, and the second mowed them down.

The stragglers behind the line of Glass Knights—only three—melted away and fled.