Drag Hunt (11 page)

“So this is Weyland’s forge?”

“One of them, I suspect.”

Richard groped around by the door, found some light switches and flicked them down
. Chunk chunk chunk chunk
. Lights went on overhead, forcing the shadows into retreat, revealing the unsuspected treasure. The walls shone with burnished shields and armour, and swords of intricate craftsmanship. There were ornate silverwork boxes and caskets, and jewellery so exquisite that it took your breath away, and under several tarpaulins, large intricate devices at whose functions Richard could only guess.

There, by the back, old fashioned and out of place, was a forge, a trough of water, an anvil and, on the anvil, a hammer.

All of a sudden, Richard didn’t care anymore. He was tired of all this. He was tired of not having a routine, not having a job, not having a purpose. He was tired of all this running. He wanted to sit and take stock. Since he met Coyote, his life had been trashed and he had been carried along on Coyote’s boundless energy.

“We’re being dragged from pillar to post in search of your dick, which you couldn’t keep in your trousers, by all accounts. Count me out. I’ve had enough.”

Coyote sat against the workbench, having stored his war bundle beneath it, arms folded, watching him.

“Really? Have you finished, Richard Green, because I have to go.”

“So that’s it, you’re abandoning me now?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want. You can go any time you like.” Coyote swept a hand towards the exit. “There’s the door.”

“You’re not going to try and trick me?”

“Frankly, I have no interest in that. It would be a poor challenge and no sport.”

“Oh, thanks. I was good enough when I had money.”

“Oh, if money’s all you want, no problem. We can go to an ATM right now. But can you honestly go back to what you were, having seen what you’ve seen, knowing what you know? It’s a choice. But is it the interesting one? Is it the warrior’s choice?”

Richard’s shoulder slumped. “I don’t care. I don’t care any more.”

Coyote gestured around the lock-up. “I brought you here to this place because it is a place of power. This negativity you’re feeling is not you. Your encounter with the gods of the Club has drained your personal power. Your awareness, your perception, wobbles like a loose tooth. I had to yell at you back there to give you enough power to move. Unless you learn how to accumulate it, to hunt power for yourself, you will die in this new world you find yourself in.” He pushed himself off the workbench and wandered into the middle of the space. Arms out. He turned round. “This place is a beneficial power spot. Here, you can restore your balance, rearrange your feelings. Here, if you have the will, you can accumulate personal power. It’s your decision. But right now I have to go.”

Richard sighed heavily.

“God stuff, huh?”

“God stuff. You have not the power for another encounter yet. Besides someone has to be here should Weyland return.”

Richard sank down on a pile of tyres. “Then go. I’ll think about it.”

Coyote paused in the doorway. “Very well. If you’re not here when I come back, I shall not come looking for you. Make the right choice, Richard Green, for your sake.”

Richard, too tired to argue, nodded and waved him away.

He watched as Coyote stepped out of the lock-up, his body framed in silhouette against the doorway for a moment. Then, suddenly, he was gone and the flapping of wings taking flight echoed round the lock-up.

F
ROM THE ENTRANCE
to the side street, the businesswoman watched the Coyote-raven fly away. As she walked down the dirt track in her heels, dressed for the city, she was oddly out of place in a street of dismal shuttered shops and graffiti, as was the smile that played upon her lips.

T
HE MOMENT HE
took to the air in raven form, Coyote gave little thought to Richard. He thought only of his younger brother. He flew over London, tracing threads on the Tapestry, threads that would lead him back to the Club.

Below, the human huddle raced around their great city like ants, but he paid them little heed, for today he was sure he would be reunited with his younger brother.

Seeing the Club below, Coyote-raven circled down, landed on the balustrade of the piano nobile, and hopped along, looking in each window until he found Osiris. The Egyptian was not alone. He was at a long table, talking with several others and laughing.

Coyote-raven was sure they were laughing about him, about how they had tricked him and fooled him. Well, Coyote-raven grew angry at that, but made sure not to lose his temper, not just yet. He had to find out where his younger brother was, and then he would show them. To that end, he hopped closer to the window until he could hear what was being said.

“The time for the ritual approaches,” said Osiris, addressing the others.

“For which you and Cerridwen are key, Osiris,” said Lugh. “For our part, I believe the preparations are almost complete. Gobannon?”

A large, dark haired man with a ruddy complexion answered from down the table. “The parts have arrived at the old dock as the Slavic pantheon promised and they are being assembled on site. The sacred vessel is being constructed under my command and on schedule. The armature is being assembled as we speak. When complete it will be a wondrous thing to behold. Cerridwen will be proud.”

“You have done your job well, Gobannon,” said the slim clean-shaven man sat next to him, wearing a black open-necked shirt and shoulder length hair, his eyes completely black. “I’m sure the bards will sing of it when this is done.” He leant forward and spoke down the table to Lugh. “We have enough phials of ichor now for the ritual. The Farm doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Lugh nodded. “Your discretion and hunting skills are appreciated, Pwyll.”

“And what of the other aspect?” asked a woman with startling emerald eyes and long flaming hair, the colour of villages put to the torch.

“Safe, Morrigan, safe,” said Lugh, lifting something onto the table.

Coyote-raven blinked. There, in the middle of the table, bound and contained by a fiendish ornate casket with crystal panes in the sides, like a reliquary, was his pecker, limp and shrivelled.

Morrigan peered at the thing from the far end of the table and curled her lip in disgust.

“Are you sure this...
thing
is powerful enough. It looks like it wouldn’t satisfy a shrew.”

Lugh patted the reliquary. “Be assured, Morrigan, when the time comes, this thing will have power enough to help grant all our desires.”

Morrigan sat back, staring at it warily, not entirely convinced. “Forgive my scepticism. I have been disappointed by male members before.”

Osiris laughed. “Worry not, Morrigan. It is not pleasure we’re concerned with here, but procreation. It will serve its purpose.”

“And what of the trickster? Now the Roman has failed to bind him, is Coyote going to be a problem?” asked Gobannon.

Lugh turned to him. “As I told Osiris,” he said, “it is all in hand. Leave Coyote to us.”

CHAPTER TEN

Coyote Takes Flight

O
UTSIDE, ON THE
balustrade, Coyote-raven sighed. It grieved him to be so close, yet so far, from his penis. “What have they done to you? Do not worry, younger brother, you will soon be free.”

After all, Coyote had stolen daylight, filched fire and ventured into the land of the dead. He would surely be able to rescue his younger brother.

He thought about smashing through the glass and stealing his pecker away there and then, but with so many gods around, and so many wards and sigils protecting the building, even he didn’t think that was a wise move.

No, he needed a plan, a good one, and what a plan it would be once he thought of it. Perhaps he would fly down one of the chimneys into the kitchens. There, he would bake a bread that resembled the size and shape of his confined member. Once it had risen (heh) all he had to do was find out where they were keeping the reliquary, sneak in, open the casket, make the exchange, yadda, yadda, yadda. Couldn’t fail.

As he fidgeted in thought, from above Coyote-raven heard a challenging call. Two ravens perched on the lip of the roof above, watching him with all the glee of bored mall cops who had found some amusement.

“Good day, brothers,” he called.

They did not answer, but flew down in silence, and landed on the balustrade either side of him. They were bigger than he was, with sharper beaks and longer talons. Heavyweights.

He looked from one to the other.

“Did my raven brother Bran send you, has he become aware of the vipers within his lodge?” asked Coyote-raven.

One raven cocked his head with an insolent stare, but said nothing.

“Then perhaps are you Odin’s. Huggins and Muggins, no?”

The other mocked him with a raucous caw of laugher.

“No,” said Coyote-raven. “I can see by the vacant look in your eyes, that thought and memory would be too much to hope for.”

One of the ravens, its beak wide, cawed in his face and flapped its wings in threat. Its breath was rank with foul meat, its muscles grown strong on the carrion of the battlefield. Its feathers were black with blood.

Coyote-raven sighed. Just his luck, battle ravens. His plan was going to have to be a little more complicated than he first thought. Still, two battle ravens shouldn’t be a problem.

There was a thrashing of wings. Coyote-raven glanced up. Along the edge of the roof, eight—no, nine—
ten
ravens settled. Make that twelve.

Okay.

R
ICHARD ROOTED ROUND
in the little office for a kettle. An old transistor radio he’d found played in the background. He’d discovered a packet of digestive biscuits and eaten half of them already. He was starving. As he moved about, waves of static swept over the music, but the songs grounded him, reminded him of his life, of when he had one. All he needed was money. Enough so he could build his life again. Buy a better house. Get a better job. Meet a better girl. Coyote could have done that for him, pulled a couple of grand out of a cash machine, bought him a winning lottery ticket, dropped him off somewhere and let him get on with his life.

But how could he, knowing what he knew now, that humans were just ants to be stepped on or played with or burnt with magnifying glasses? How could he go back to that? He wished he could.

“Hello?” A woman in a business suit peered round the lock-up door into the gloom. “Excuse me?”

Richard looked up. Great. He didn’t need this.

“I’m sorry. We’re shut,” he called. Okay, it wasn’t his business, he shouldn’t have been there and, besides, it was shut. At least it had been until they arrived. He just wanted to deflect any attempt at conversation. He wasn’t feeling very sociable right now.

“I just heard that you did MOTs, and I was wondering—”

She was old enough to be his mother, well, aunt, but nevertheless her full figure won a blush of appreciation from him.

Wary of her footing, she stepped inside, trying not to touch the door and soil her hands or suit. Her heels clacked on the concrete, her footsteps unsteady on the uneven floor.

Her ankle gave on the uneven ground. She staggered. Richard was there before she could fall and caught her elbow. The scent of vanilla filled his nostrils, dousing the acrid male aroma that filled the dank enclosed workshop. The perfume seemed oddly out of place. A young girl’s scent, but it suited her.

“Are you all right, Missus—?” he asked.

“Cerridwen. Oh, I’m fine,” she said, looking up into his face and smiling. “You, on the other hand—”

It was as if his brain was filling up with warm water. Richard didn’t have time to panic. Like a deep scented bath, Richard soaked in the feeling. It was calming.

“The time is coming when we will put things to rights,” she said. “We will rise once more and take our appointed places. Change is coming.” She studied him, as if picking up micro tells he wasn’t aware of giving out. Something sifted through his mind, turning it this way and that, like a mother inspecting a wayward child’s face for dirt or injury. A half smile. “And I see
you’ve
already started. A pity, then, that you will never complete it.”

“You’re one of them aren’t you? A god,” he said in languid tones, fighting the comforting warmth that enveloped his mind, the warmth of a mother’s love. He felt himself yielding to it, unconditionally.

“Very astute,” she said sharply. She idly surveyed the workshop-come-forge. “Coyote isn’t interested in you, you know. You’re an idle curiosity at best. You’re like a bauble to a cat. He could have set you up with money any time he wanted. But the trickster isn’t like that. He can be cruel and deceitful.”

He tried to escape the warm feeling, but he was like a child trying to escape its mother’s grip. His mind struggled and squirmed, a little act of rebellion, but he couldn’t work loose.

His face was puce with effort as he forced the words out. “Why don’t you just leave us alone?”

An arched pencilled eyebrow. A flash of temper. The warm, cosseting feeling in his mind withdrew and he was lost somewhere alone, somewhere cold and dark and deep. He felt panic rise. He wanted to cry out for her, beg her for succour, and say he was sorry, but he bit down on his cheeks until he drew blood.

“For the most part we did, for millennia in fact, and we were content for the most part, but now we’re trapped down here in the gutter with you, suffocating in the stench of decay and mortality. It’s like living in a midden heap. But no more. We have had enough. The Great Usurper can keep us cowed no longer.”

He looked at her. Somewhere he felt pity. They had lost everything, like him. Only they hadn’t learnt the lesson. Perhaps that’s what mortals had over gods. Humans could adapt. They could evolve. For all their vaunted power and immortality, could they do that? Even now, they still clung to their sense of divine entitlement. Were they just theological dinosaurs? Is that what this was all about, survival of the fitter? Maybe this Great Usurper was a Darwinist. Wouldn’t that be a laugh?