Kevin Hearne - Hunted

Is she still sounding the same horn all these centuries later?

And is there anything more horrifying to the hunted than the sound of horns? Even the baying of the hounds is not so terrible; they are animals and following their instinct and training. But the murderous intellect behind the horn, the creature coldly orchestrating my doom—that’s what makes me feel like prey and sets icy wings of fear fluttering inside my throat.

I probably would have given up already if it weren’t for Oberon. And he is probably thinking the same thing regarding me. In truth, we are running only because Atticus would have wanted us to. I think we are only marginally more scared than we are depressed, and we aren’t running as fast as we had been before. The urgency is gone. I don’t see how I can survive this if Atticus and the Morrigan couldn’t. The powers of a Druid are awesome, but the powers arrayed against me are too numerous and in a different league. I’m not going to quit, but I feel like I’m on a soccer team losing 3–0 with ten minutes left on the clock. While winning in that scenario is still theoretically possible, I don’t see a way to make it happen all by myself and I half-wish that the end would hurry up and get here, banishing the dread of its approach.

We crossed the border into the Netherlands, and the elemental directed me to turn sharply to the southwest to avoid the bulk of cities by the sea. We’d have had to turn south at some point anyway to reach the French coast.

It’s odd, sometimes, how a border can seemingly change the character of the land. The German landscape had been sharp, clean, and precise, whereas the Dutch, even at night, had a bit of a gauzy filter over it, as if the ghost of Rembrandt had pulled his brush across it to soften the edges just a little bit. The colors I saw in my night vision, too, appeared subtly textured and mixed by the master, not so stark as they had been in Germany. Or perhaps it was no different at all, and only my melancholia made it so.

Noting the change of direction, Oberon said in a subdued tone,

He let some time pass, and all we heard was the pounding of my hooves and the pads of his paws on the earth. They beat out a rhythm of cycling thought, the percussive notes repeating Atticus over and over if you were inclined to hear it that way, and we were. Then he said,

The horns sounded again. Perhaps my imagination magnified the sound a bit.

Predator ? Yeah, I’ve seen it.>

I felt as if my eyes should be flooding with tears, but horses don’t cry the same way humans do. Oberon continued, not waiting for me to finish.

I told him.

Oberon abruptly quit running, and I had to stop too. We were in the middle of a large barley field.

He turned to face the northeast and growled.

My instinct for self-preservation spoke up. It told me I could survive this. I could drop Scáthmhaide, abandon Oberon, and turn into a peregrine falcon. I could fly straight across the channel to England, find a tethered tree, and shift away to safety. They couldn’t have pandemonium going on over there too, I thought. Somewhere in the New World, maybe even back in Arizona, I’d bind my amulet to my aura the way Atticus did, and then the playing field would be a bit more even.

Except I’d never be able to live with the guilt. And I’d never have the stomach to fight again if I didn’t fight now.

I had thought Oberon’s tail might wag at that, but it didn’t. He simply pricked up his ears.

The ears drooped.

I raised my right front hoof.

We ran, and I consulted the elemental about a suitable place to defend ourselves. Images of the path ahead flashed through my mind until I saw a likely spot.

//There / That place / Query: Where is that?// It was a small precipice—only fifteen or so feet high—but if we could get our backs to it, we would have a relatively unobscured line of sight and no one would be able to sneak up on us. There were trees on top of it, but at the base a small clear space before the trees broke up the view—and the approach was on a gentle slope as well, so we’d have the high ground.

//Remain on current path// the elemental said. //Will guide//

//Query: Distance to destination?//

Elementals are not excellent at using human units of measurement, but I figured it was about eighty miles to the southwest, skirting cities and keeping to rural areas as much as possible. If we sped up, we could make it in a couple of hours.

I told Oberon.

Our minds are all that defend us from the horror of the void. The majority of the time we simply think about something—anything—else, and that itself is an act of defiance against the vast nothing of the universe. But minds break down and stop thinking sometimes. They feel instead: A looping, gnawing monster eats away confidence and goals and even a sense of duty until we are in a dry bleak place of ennui, unable to focus on the minutiae that used to keep us moving. Tongues taste chalk and ashes, and eyes see only gray washes occasionally penetrated by bright stabs of panic.

Depression is a prison to which you have the key except you never think to look for it.

I do not know how long I stayed in the gray, afraid of the nothing and cycling through the long list of my trespasses. I cannot conceive of a judge who could grant me forgiveness. There are some shames I can never outlive. What good would it do to continue? Had I not brought enough ruin to the world—especially in the recent past? But it was the panic that saved me. Panic that Granuaile and Oberon would die. I could not bear to have their deaths added to the vast number that already weighed down the scale of my spirit.

My eyes opened onto darkness, which was not precisely heartening but an improvement over the gray. Adrenaline coursed through me as I attempted to get my bearings. Cold earth shifted under my right side, and I winced at the pain this small movement caused in my head. Stretching out with my left arm and feeling the boundaries of the space with my fingers, I quickly discovered that I was in a small chamber underground, obviously with some rudimentary air circulation. Fragarach rested in front of my face in its scabbard. Beyond that I had no idea where I was, except that Granuaile and Oberon weren’t with me. We had been running for our lives. Why was I not running? Why had I been reviewing my life with such self-loathing?

//Query: Carpathia?//

//No. Saxony//

Saxony was a German elemental. Why was I in Germany? We’d been in Poland, and Hugin and Munin had visited us. Then we’d run, and … yes, we had crossed into Germany. There had been that attempt to find an Old Way to Tír na nÓg, and then we found that envelope on the tree—Oh.

//Query: How did I get here?//

//Fierce Druid placed you here / Thought you deceased//

I blinked as I processed the fact that elementals had decided to refer to Granuaile as Fierce Druid. //Query: Then why do I have space and air to breathe?//

//I provided / Druid had not moved on//

No, I hadn’t. And apparently I didn’t rate an adjective in front of my title. I was just plain old Druid.

//Query: What happened to me?//

//Projectile impact to head//

Someone had shot me? So that’s why my head ached. My fingers trailed up to my head and gently traced their way around it. There was a dimple near my left temple that hadn’t been there before, and it was tender. I was sure the exit wound on the other side had been heinous, but I didn’t want to lift my head and probe it. I was still healing.