Kevin Hearne - Trapped

“Your orders gave our people life,” he said, “but we will let no one order us into submission. Rethink your orders and let us talk peaceably, or else you and you alone will suffer for overreaching.”

“Slay them all!” the king ordered, and his bodyguards rushed down to meet the threat.

The dark elf waited until their weapons were descending upon him, then he turned into a plume of curling smoke and rose up the steps toward the king. Seeing this, the king drew his sword. His bodyguards would not recover and reach him in time. He swiped at the tendrils of smoke, to no effect. Long wisps of it entered his mouth, and he coughed once before he died.

The dark elf solidified with his right arm down the king’s throat. He yanked hard and tore free the king’s jaw and unmoored his throat from his spine. The gush of blood showered the elf in gore, but he turned to mist again and the blood fell like rain as the king’s corpse tumbled down the stairs to meet his bodyguards, a silent testimonial to their utter failure. This, then, was Sigr af Reykr , Victory from Smoke.

The stunned court of the Álfar noticed two things as the Svartálfar retreated: One, the dark elves never kept their incorporeal form for more than five seconds—they always solidified for at least a full second before dissolving again to mist—and, two, they could be killed. The latter was discovered just before the Svartálfar exited the audience chamber. An archer, high on the balcony surrounding the court, had been closely observing the changes and movements of the dark elves. It was he who realized their smoke form could last no longer than five seconds. He nocked an arrow and carefully followed the movements of a single dark elf. Once the villain turned to smoke, the archer counted to five and released his arrow at the center of the mist when it was but ten paces from the door. The dark elf became flesh a split second before the arrow lanced into the space between his shoulder and neck, spearing his vitals and ending his life.

He collapsed before the door and the champions bore down on him, stabbing him again and again for surety, but in all likelihood he was already dead. Within seconds the body began to crumble in on itself, smoke rose from the corpse, and inside of a minute all that was left was carbon mixed with fluid, a wet puddle of tar with the archer’s arrow in the middle of it. The blade, too, dissolved into the mess.

From that day to this, the Svartálfar and Ljósálfar have hated each other. The dark elves have held peaceful if rather tense talks with the Æsir and Vanir, and they have traded well with the dwarfs of Nidavellir and with the denizens of Jötunheim. On Midgard, as you might imagine, they have found employment as assassins. But in Álfheim they are forever attacked on sight for their unforgivable treason and regicide.

When Manannan fell silent, I prompted him to continue. “Go on,” I said.

“That’s it.”

“What? That can’t be it!”

“That’s all I was told. I can tell ye it’s more than most people know about them.”

“There has to be more though. Centuries of war and rivers of elfin blood, battles that lasted for three months—come on!”

The sea god shook his head. “No. The Álfar despise the Svartálfar as traitors but refuse to go to war on their own kind. Between you and me, I think they fear entering Svartálfheim and being corrupted in the same way. The turning-to-mist trick seems like a fabulous plus, but they make awfully messy corpses. The Álfar think it unwholesome somehow and a high price to pay to exterminate traitors who are otherwise doin’ no harm to the realm.”

“Which realm?”

“I misspoke. No harm to Álfheim.”

“Yeah. Tell me more about that trick of theirs. What is the ‘Gift of Smoke,’ precisely?”

Manannan shrugged. “Some kind of mutagen.”

“Hey, look at you busting out the modern words!”

He scowled at me. “Not all o’ the Tuatha Dé Danann believe the mortals have nothin’ to offer us.”

“I’m of your mind, Manannan, and have been for a long time. I approve. No one knows what this mutagen might be?”

“Theories abound, but the Svartálfar refuse to discuss it and no one has delved deep enough into their realm to see it. They meet envoys and conduct trade in a couple o’ large chambers not far down from that dark stair they built. What’s going on deeper inside, no one knows.”

“Sounds like North Korea. Can’t believe one of the Álfar told you this though. It wasn’t exactly flattering to their king.”

Manannan nodded. “They are nothing if not an honest people.”

“So if this story is true, it means the dark elves aren’t inherently evil.”

“No. They are a proud people and will not hesitate to kill, but they seek no lands beyond their own and have no wish to dominate others.”

“You’d never know it from the way people talk about them, myself included. I mean, I’m not going to stop thinking they’re creepy as hell—because if your body turns to tar, you’re fucking creepy, right?—but I’m frankly shocked to hear they don’t want to destroy us all. They need to get a good PR guy.”

“What’s a PR guy?”

“They’re kind of like the old Greek sophists who played with words until you believed up was down. PR guys get paid to make people believe that a pile of shit is an investment in soil fertility. Professional liars.”

“Ah!” Manannan’s expression lit with comprehension. “They are politicians?”

“No, they’re smarter and less pretty. They advise politicians.”

“Oh. Well, I thought ye should know the dark elves are seeking ye.”

“I appreciate the thought. It is bizarre. Two years ago, you say? I wonder what set them sniffing after my trail.”

“I wondered that myself, lad. Hoped ye might have an answer.”

I had a possible answer; thanks to a certain rendezvous six years ago, three of the Norse gods knew I was alive. One of them could have let slip the truth, intentionally or not. But since I had no way of knowing, I just shook my head. “No. But it’s one more enemy to watch out for. I’d love to see that map of the nine realms.”

“I’ll get ye a copy.”

“You are kind. Might you have a place in the castle where I could perform a divination in private?”

“What sort?” Manannan asked. Some of the old Druidic divination rituals could be messy, what with sacrificing animals and all. I had never favored those methods: Truth stained with blood is not so savory as truth arrived at without the forfeit of life.

“Just wands,” I reassured him.

“Oh, sure.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Not a problem.”

“There’s one other matter we should speak of. That hairy Russian god doesn’t have a home anymore, and he’s being pursued by Loki. Do you think the Tuatha Dé Danann might grant him asylum here for a time?”

Manannan grunted and smirked. “I feel certain Flidais will grant him nearly anything right now. It’s fine with me, if ye vouch for his character.”

“I do.”

“Then I can’t see too many objections if he has our support. I’ll send a faery to Brighid right away.” He dispelled the binding of the air around us, gathered up his cloak of mists, and we shifted back to birds before flying up to the tower. In our human skin again, we got dressed, I retrieved my pack, and Manannan showed me to a room where I could perform a divination. It was a spare chamber—a guest bedroom—decorated in burgundy and gold. I withdrew my wands from my pack and selected five at random while focusing on my question: Where and when could I best bind Granuaile to the earth? I cast the wands on the floor in front of me and interpreted the pattern they made; diplomatically, in the company of others, I would call the result less than satisfactory. Since I was doing this in private, however, I winced and cursed as I might if someone were to pluck out my short ’n’ curlies with a pair of tweezers.