Quivi perdei la vista e la parola
nel nome di Maria fini’, e quivi
caddi, e rimase la mia carne sola.
And as the poetry flowed through that part of my mind, calm waters next to burning shores of my agony, I could concentrate on my goal and craft the proper binding, croak it past the swelling tissues of my throat, and feel the thorn retreat from my arm, flying a few yards to sink into the back of the sofa. The pain dipped for a brief moment, as a burn will when ice is first applied, but it returned soon enough, as the already savaged muscles on my left side tore and contracted and my tissues continued to swell. I could conceivably fight off the toxin now and break it down if I had enough magic to fuel the healing, but I was running low and had to access the earth’s energy buried underneath the marble floor. Sticking with Dante but skipping to Canto IX, I recalled a passage that spoke of marble and sundered stone, an appropriate backdrop for what I wished to do.
The marble floor did not have the same security bindings I had seen on the walls of the back bedrooms; it was plain marble, malleable to sufficient force, and that was probably because Midhir couldn’t imagine anyone trying to escape his pleasure dome. I spread out my hand, fighting its desire to curl into a fist, and focused my mind on the swirled-milk pattern underneath it. The marble was dolomite rock with very low silica content—primarily calcium-magnesium carbonate that I unbound in a microscopic area and then strived to reapply as a macro to a larger area the size of my hand. My voice gave out, however, and I coughed in the middle of the unbinding and had to start over. I gasped for breath and the pain nearly intruded into my calm headspace, but the poetry kept flowing.
Trembling and wincing, I carefully tried again, and this time the macro took hold. The marble underneath my hand became brittle as it broke down into its component minerals, and I could pull it apart, chunks of calcium and carbon and magnesium. I had to reapply the macro binding one more time because the first hadn’t gone deep enough, and that drained my bear charm completely. Without magic to fuel my body’s war against the venom, the poison raged through my veins and I could feel it destroying me, burning and at once paralyzing. My muscles spasmed involuntarily and my giblets howled to me of their torture; I imagined I could hear my liver and spleen screaming a duet, taxed far beyond their ability to filter the blood. I clutched another handful of crumbling marble out of what was now a shallow hole, tossed it away, and managed to scoop one final handful before my fingers seized up completely and wouldn’t let go. At the same time my diaphragm locked in place, which meant I had already drawn my last breath.
The bare earth was there, underneath my hand; all I had to do was supinate my forearm, twist my wrist so that the back of my hand could make contact and draw energy through my tattoos. But my biceps wanted to flex and curl my hand away. Shaking and twitching from the effort, I attempted to roll my wrist clockwise. The pull of my biceps actually kept my hand down in the hole, the meat of the palm braced against the edge.
I strained but couldn’t do it—a simple rotation of the wrist I typically performed without thinking was now impossible for me with all my will put into it. But there was some give in a few of my longer muscles along the uninjured side of my back. I threw my left shoulder as best as I could to flip and roll over faceup, and at first I thought it wasn’t enough. I was on my side, my hand trapped in that hole, and my vision started to darken at the edges. But the inexorable tug of gravity pulled me down past the point of no return, and physics was able to turn my wrist in that hole where my will could not. Once the fine filigree of knots that formed the border of my tattoos touched the earth, the magic rushed in, all I needed and more, balm for my pain and energy to fight the pestilence and unlock my muscles. I began with my diaphragm and took a glorious, heaving gasp of air. After a couple more breaths I lay there quivering and slowly relaxing my body, laughing softly with relief. I’d be worthless for much else until I got the infection completely neutralized, but at least I knew that I’d continue to breathe, until something else killed me.
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?”