Kevin Hearne - Hunted

A voice pressed into my consciousness; it didn’t merely bang on my eardrums, it probed into my brain with unwelcome fingers.

~Hrrr. How is it that you still live?

I craned my neck around but saw no one nearby. I managed to rasp, “Who’s there?”

When the voice answered, I realized that the sound my ears heard and the words my brain decoded were not the same thing at all. What my ears heard was like one of those YouTube videos where cats try to make human noises—in this case, a very big cat. But in my head I heard the words in English, except with a disturbing vibrato to them, a low, thrumming, malevolent purr.

~There is no one here but us, you fool. You may surmise that through process of elimination.

“Is this the manticore?”

~I knew you would figure it out. Now please explain why you have not died.

“How about you explain what you’re doing here?”

~You persist in asking the obvious. I am here to kill whatever enters the room.

“Volunteered, did you?”

~Hrrr. I detect sarcasm in reference to my chains. Vexing and counterproductive.

“Well, it’s vexing to be shot with poisonous barbs too, so suck it, uh … manticore.”

~ I am called Ahriman. Who are you?

Ever since Odysseus told Polyphemus his name was Nobody, it’s been a rule that you should never give a predator your real name. So I replied, “I am Werner Drasche.” Neither of us might ever escape this place, but if we both did and he went searching for the arcane lifeleech, the result would work out for me regardless of who died. I certainly was in no shape to finish off Ahriman the manticore myself.

~There are very few who can survive my sting. How did you accomplish this?

“I heal fast. Obviously.” Not as fast as I might wish. And the danger wasn’t behind me; I was simply behind a couch. I estimated there was at least ten feet of space between the edge of the couch and the nearest pillar. That was ten feet I wouldn’t be covering quickly, and Ahriman would easily perforate me when I tried—perhaps more than once. Fragarach lay in plain sight in the midst of that span, so I’d need to pause to pick it up. Or I’d have to crawl the whole way. If I moved slowly enough, the camouflage might keep me invisible. I doubted it.

And it wasn’t as if I had the strength to make any kind of move yet. If I tried to do anything but lie there and break down the toxins in my bloodstream, my liver would lead a mutiny. I was still desperately hungry and now in dire need of a drink as well, but the kitchen might as well be on another plane.

~Why are you here?

“Shall we trade questions and answers?”

~Hrrr. Very well. But one at a time, and I go first. “Why are you here?”

“I came to visit Midhir, the owner of this estate, and found him dead. Who imprisoned you here?”

An angry roar preceded his answer. ~One of the Irish gods, but I do not know which one. He or she wore a shapeless covering and had an odd voice.

My jaw dropped with the implications of that. As the goddess of poetry, Brighid could speak with three voices at once. Ahriman asked his next question before I could follow up.

~I am supposed to kill whoever comes to visit Midhir. I can reasonably conclude that this Irish god wishes you dead. What have you done, Werner Drasche, to inspire the wrath of the Tuatha Dé Danann?

“I wish I knew. I suppose I must threaten them somehow, but I cannot imagine why. I have no designs against them and wish only to be left alone. Tell me, if the person who imprisoned you was covered completely and the voice was strange, how did you know it was an Irish god?”

~Hrrr. The god told me as much. “You now serve me and the Tuatha Dé Danann,” the god said. But I did not accept the mere words. The truth of it was supported by the method of my capture. They used earth magic to render me immobile and to encase my tail in a wooden box, a hardwood not easily splintered. Then a squad of giants—I heard them called Fir Bolgs—shackled and muzzled me. I killed two of them despite my handicaps, yet here I am.

Interesting. Granuaile and I had thought the manticore was acting willingly as a mercenary, but obviously this mysterious god had chosen to make him an unwilling conscript.

~For a time, Ahriman continued, ~I was stranded on this plane and left to guard a certain tree; I was to kill whoever appeared. Someone did: A man, a woman, and a dog almost stepped through. That man had a sword and a scabbard—a scabbard that looked identical to the one I now see near the red sofa behind which you cower. I wonder—were you that man?

Telling him the truth would do me no harm; he still thought I was Werner Drasche. And confirming the truth would perhaps earn a measure of his trust, which might allow me to deceive him with something else. “Yes, that was me. So under what conditions might you be set free?”

~Killing you is the condition of my freedom. I do wish you would come out from behind that couch so we can get it over with, but you are probably determined to make me wait. Where are your companions?

“They are elsewhere. Listen, Ahriman, this god is being extremely careful to cover his or her tracks. You are wise enough to see that someone so careful would hardly let you live to speak of your role in this. If you kill me, you cannot hope to live much longer—you will be killed once you do this god’s dirty work. So why do we not agree to set each other free instead?”

Something between a laugh and a purr rumbled out of the manticore’s throat. ~I thought you would propose such a scheme. You may as well beg for mercy. You would have the same chance of securing my agreement. No, Werner Drasche. You are prey, and that is the end of it. There will be no escape for you. Remain behind your couch and die like a coward, or attempt to flee and I will shoot you with many more of my tail spikes. How many of them hit you the first time?

“Only one.”

~I thought as much. And you barely survived, judging by the squalling I heard. Two will suffice.

I couldn’t argue with that. “Who’s feeding you while you lie in wait?”

~The same Irish god who captured me returns every so often to minister to my needs.

That was a ticking clock. If the person who killed Midhir found me like this, I’d be toast for sure. At the moment, my future toast status was only highly likely.

Ahriman continued. ~But I do not require daily food and drink, so if a day or two passes, I will not suffer much beyond boredom. The suffering of others, however, is capable of invigorating me. Hence the properties of my venom. Your pain was delicious, by the way, and it lasted for far longer than that of most humans. I am pleased that you have survived to feel that pain again.

He finished by making a couple of juicy smacking noises. He was licking his chops, and somehow he sounded smug while doing it.

“Have you heard of Wheaton’s Law, Ahriman? It goes like this: Don’t be a dick. I know it’s a tough one, and I have broken that law myself more times than I would care to admit, but I think it’s a law that every being should try to observe, regardless of faith or position on the food chain.”

Ahriman made no comment except to chuckle deep in his chest. ~Hrr-hrr-hrrr! Silence fell after that. Apparently he had no more questions, and he was content to wait for me to make a move.

I was a physical wreck, so I wouldn’t escape through acrobatics of any kind. I had to come up with a magical solution.