Chapter Nineteen

Drysi turned to face them, a broad smile pasted across her face. She was alone – no guards in sight.

Arthur and Ash twisted the helmets off and let them fall from their hands. They flumped onto the soft rug and rolled away silently before landing on the surrounding wooden floor with a hollow noise. Arthur was glad to be out of the constricting headgear: he wiped the sweat from his brow while Ash pulled some loose strands of hair out of her eyes.

‘How did you know it was us?’ Arthur asked, trying to appear as unperturbed as Drysi seemed.

‘I was expecting you. And us wolves have a very good sense of smell, you know,’ said Drysi. ‘Even under all that dreadful stench, I still recognised your scents. Arthur, you smell of boy and cheese pizzas and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s fear. It could just be sadness and longing. And Ash, you smell like your mother’s baking, although I know it’s been a long time since you’ve had that. Yes, your mother’s baking. And there’s something else there too. Something I don’t recognise. An urge to fight, perhaps. Yes, you smell of fight.’

‘You think you know me,’ said Ash, still bristling at the mention of her mother.

‘I do know you. I lived with you. I was your pet puppy.’ Drysi’s nose turned up at the memory. ‘But that was in another time, another world. Which makes me wonder, how can you be here, Arthur?’

If Drysi remembers my reality, Arthur wondered, does that mean Loki and Hel do too?

‘I have a few tricks up my sleeve,’ Arthur told her, smiling. Literally, he thought, feeling the ribbon tucked under his right cuff. He moved forward and Drysi stepped back.

‘I’m here to see Loki.’

‘Hmm. Well, that’s not going to happen, Arthur.’ Drysi turned suddenly and walked away from them, moving out of sight down a perpendicular corridor.

‘Wait! Come back!’ Arthur called after her, but she gave no response. They could hear her steps drawing further away. They looked at each other, confused by the girl’s actions.

‘Should we follow her?’ whispered Ash.

‘I guess so. She might lead us to Loki. Let’s go.’

They walked forward, cautiously turning the corner that Drysi had disappeared around, and found themselves in another hallway. It was almost identical to the first corridor but, instead of paintings on the walls, moulded stucco plasterworks portrayed scenes from Greek mythology. Half-naked men and women watched silently from panels along the wall. Marble plinths stood all along the left side of the hallway, with brass busts of past Irish presidents fixed to each one. Arthur recognised the more famous heads of state. Drysi had stopped further down the corridor and was facing them again. She was holding the most recent bust in her arms, along with its marble plinth, cradled like a baby, as if it weighed almost nothing.

‘I don’t know how you survived, Arthur, but I’m going to do something Wolf-father Loki has never managed,’ she said. ‘I’m going to kill you, once and for all.’ In a sudden blur of movement she launched her weapon at Arthur. He barely had time to register the last president’s calmly smiling face soaring towards his head before the plinth smashed into him and blackness took hold.

Ash dropped to Arthur’s side. The bust had hit his head, knocking him out cold, and the plinth had fallen on top of him, trapping him underneath. A trickle of sticky blood oozed from a gash over his eye-patch. She strained to lift the plinth but was only able to raise it a few millimetres off his ribs before she heard footsteps running down the hallway.

Drysi was racing towards her, sword drawn, the blade glinting sharply in the chandelier light. Ash didn’t have time to free Arthur so she laid the plinth carefully back down on him. Then, in one swift and practised motion, she picked up her staff and propelled herself up and forward, right at Drysi.

Drysi swung her blade as she ran, aiming straight for Ash’s face, but blade met stick and was blocked just in time. Splinters flew from the staff, as the sword hacked a chunk out of it. Drysi took a step back and swung the sword lazily by her side, grinning menacingly at Ash.

‘You expect to defeat me with a wooden stick?’ She laughed.

‘No, I don’t. But a wooden stick with a reinforced steel core maybe.’ She held it up for Drysi to see the undamaged steel pole through the gouge in the staff. The girl snarled viciously before slashing her blade through the air once more.

Ash met the sword swipe for swipe, keeping her eyes fixed on Drysi. Surprising the wolf-girl with her ability to fight, she drove her back down the corridor, away from Arthur, almost to the far end. She watched for the telltale change in posture that would let her anticipate Drysi’s next move. A shift in her weight to her front foot told Ash that she was going to try an undercut; a slight straightening of her arm revealed that she was going to jab straight forward. Knowing where Drysi was going to attack next wasn’t the problem; the problem lay in the other girl’s unnatural strength and speed. Ash had hoped that she could divert one of Drysi’s attacks long enough to land a blow on her head and knock her out. However, those attacks were coming so thick and fast that she never had a chance and, she realised with horror, she was slowly, inexorably being forced backwards. The power of Drysi’s blows shuddered right up the staff into Ash’s arms, vibrating the joints in her shoulders. The staff itself was a ragged mess. Whole chunks of wood had been sliced away by the sword and even the steel core – which Ash had thought would be unbreakable – was showing signs of wear, with dents appearing all over. Several times she was actually pushed backwards by the weight of the impact. She prayed each time that the unconscious Arthur, or even a ripple in the carpet, wouldn’t catch her feet and trip her up. If she fell, she knew, she’d be done for. Truly and properly done for.

But still she fought. From the moment she’d found the staff in the attic in Kilmainham, she’d known she could put it to good use. She had practised for hours by herself in her cell, discovering a skill she hadn’t been aware she possessed. She had Donal and some of the others come at her with their own makeshift swords or broomsticks, several at once, and she was able to fend them all off easily. She didn’t know where this talent had come from, but she was glad she had it regardless. Nonetheless, facing off against a few untrained kids was a lot different to clashing with someone of Drysi’s strength.

As she battled Drysi, a weird sense of déjà vu came over her. All of a sudden she could remember herself training in what appeared to be a Viking village, and a real Viking was there, instructing her. He looked like he should be dead – his skin was leathery and stretched – but he was still teaching her. She snapped out of the memory just as Drysi’s sword rang off the staff again, pushing her backwards.

And that was when she tripped.

His head was throbbing when his eyes fluttered open. A chandelier hung directly above him, spinning rapidly, whirling up and down, side to side. The clang of metal against metal was coming from some place nearby, setting his teeth on edge. He tried to sit up but found he couldn’t move. He reached his hand to his head, hoping to massage away the ache. His fingertips sank into something sticky. Blood, he realised with growing apprehension. Where am I? What’s going on? I remember a head and–

Drysi! Drysi threw a bust at him. Arthur looked down at his chest, craning his neck to do so. The plinth was still lying on top of him, pushing down hard and, he now realised, making it hard to breathe. His hammer was lying by his right side. Beyond his feet, he could see Ash and Drysi battling near the other end of the corridor. One had an iron sword that looked like it could slice a man in two; the other had a wooden staff, falling to pieces as he watched.

He placed his palms flat against the plinth and pushed. The marble barely budged. He took a deep breath (or as deep as he could with the marble weighing so heavily on his chest), braced himself and heaved up a second time with all his might. The marble shifted fractionally, just a few millimetres, but enough to allow him to wiggle himself sideways until he managed to slide clear. As soon as he was out from underneath the plinth, he let it drop heavily to the floor. The rug was so thick there was hardly a sound – certainly nothing that could be heard over the ringing of the sword fight.

Still breathless and feeling woozy, he got to his knees and watched the fight. Drysi cut an intimidating figure, her sword swinging left and right, but Ash was doing surprisingly well. Then Ash seemed to be momentarily distracted and Drysi–

–is in a wheelchair, still swinging her sword. She is exactly as Arthur remembers her: a frustrated, angry girl with damaged legs. She lands another blow that–

–sent Ash tumbling backwards to the floor, the staff flying out of her grasp.

Arthur started breathing heavily. ‘I know,’ he said to himself. Hearing his own voice helped; it reminded him why he was here, what he had to do. ‘I know the truth about her.’ He had to help Ash, but first on his list of priorities was getting to his feet. One of his hands grasped the handle of the hammer and braced its head against the rug; he used it to slowly push himself upright. But as soon as he was standing, his head spun and his knees crumpled, incapable of taking his weight.

Ash, meanwhile, having rolled to the side to avoid a nasty downward cut by Drysi, was now on all fours, half crawling, half running from the girl. Drysi was striding after her, cackling as she approached. As Drysi lunged with her blade once more, Ash twisted, grabbing a chair that was sitting against a wall and throwing it between them. Drysi’s blade plunged through the upholstery on the back of the chair. The general of the Wolfsguard swung her blade sideways, the force causing the chair to clatter away, then turned her attention back to Ash.

Ash, meanwhile, looked around desperately. She spotted two pieces of furniture further down the corridor – a large wooden chest and a coffee table across from it. Pushing herself to her feet, she raced towards them and forced her body into the tight space behind the chest, reached over the top and started fiddling with the latch on the front. It was stiff with age but, if she could just get it open, the chest lid was sturdy enough that it might give her sufficient cover from Drysi’s weapon.

Drysi passed the last president and was now directly in front of the chest. She pulled her elbow back and jabbed the sword forward. A dull thunk sounded as the blade dug into the wooden lid. The tip ground to a halt an inch before Ash’s eyes as she pressed herself back against the wall. She quickly slammed the lid shut and the sword was wrenched from Drysi’s strong grip, wedged in the hard wood of the chest. Drysi growled furiously, reached down and threw the chest aside; it flew down the perpendicular corridor.

As Ash started to scramble away, Drysi kicked out, catching Ash hard in the ribs and knocking her to the side. Ash screamed and was sure she had heard something crack inside her. Drysi lashed out again but, despite the pain, Ash grabbed her foot and yanked as hard as she could, sending the girl off-balance and crashing onto her back. The crimson boot came off in Ash’s hand. She dropped it aside and tried pushing herself upright, but the pain in her side was too great and she dropped back to the floor like a rag doll. Drysi, meanwhile, was up again and moving in for another assault.

‘Drysi!’

Arthur was on his feet. His legs were splayed wide, a stance designed to keep him stable. He was wavering slightly, still dazed and possibly concussed. His hammer was clutched tightly in his right hand, hanging down by his side. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow, mingling with the blood from the gash, turning it pink.

‘Leave her alone, Drysi!’ he said in a voice that tried – and failed – to hide how nauseous he was feeling.

‘And why should I do that?’ sneered the girl, standing mere feet from Ash, who was still sitting on the floor holding her ribs.

‘Why wouldn’t you?’ Arthur spat back. He had to stop for a beat to catch his breath. ‘Why would you continue to fight when it’s so clear Loki doesn’t care for you?’

Drysi’s face flared a deep red. ‘Don’t you dare speak about the Wolf-father that way! He saved me after the tower; he looked after me when everyone – my father included – abandoned me. Don’t say he doesn’t care for me!’

‘No, Drysi. He doesn’t.’

Drysi screamed with rage and then, faster than the eye could see, she picked up a crystal vase from the coffee table and launched it at Arthur. He could feel his right arm moving by itself, pulled up by the hammer. The vase exploded upon impact and priceless crystal rained all about him. The hammer absorbed the force of the blow easily and he let it fall by his side once more.

‘He let me walk again!’ she ranted at him. ‘He gave me back my legs!’

‘No,’ Arthur said sadly, shaking his head. ‘That’s not true. It’s not true at all.’

Without warning, she was charging at him, her face contorted in fury, her hair streaming behind her. Arthur felt like a matador and she was the bull. He wanted to move aside. But he stood his ground. This was the only way she might listen to him. She grabbed him by the collar and, without so much as breaking a sweat, lifted him off the ground. His feet dangled inches above the carpet.

‘Could I do this if he hadn’t fixed me?’ she snorted triumphantly. ‘You dare speak of him like this?’

‘I dare,’ he said as calmly as he could manage under the circumstances.

‘Then you die!’

‘Listen to me, Drysi, listen!’ He put his free hand around one of hers. ‘He didn’t heal you. He probably could have but he didn’t. He just let you think you were healed. It’s a trick, just another trick. He uses people. That’s all he does. That’s all he ever does! Once he no longer needs you, the magic will fail. You’ll see the trick for what it is.’

‘Lies!’

‘It’s the truth! I bet he barely speaks to you now that he has what he wants. I bet you hardly ever see him. You thought it would be better with Loki in charge, but it’s not, is it? You’re useful to him. You keep his army under control. You do his bidding. But he’s practically forgotten about you, Drysi. If he wins – if he truly wins – he’ll discard you. But this time, without Fenrir, you really will be alone.’

Arthur just had time to glimpse the wetness in her eyes before she threw him backwards. He slammed into a wall, destroying some of the stucco, and slid to the ground. In two great strides, Drysi was on him again, her hands curled into fists, ready to pummel him.

He shielded himself with his arms and shouted up at her. ‘Drysi, look at your foot, look at your foot!!’

She stopped abruptly when she saw what he was seeing. Her bare, bootless foot was covered in ragged little cuts. Shards of crystal stood out along the side of her foot where she’d walked over the pieces of the broken vase. She lifted it and saw that even more punctured the sole. Some of the gashes were so deep that blood poured liberally from them, seeping into the carpet beneath her. She stepped away from Arthur, her mouth gaping in shocked silence.

‘If you were truly healed,’ he said sadly, ‘if it wasn’t all a trick, you’d feel that. But you don’t, do you?’

They looked at each other quietly. Drysi was shaking her head. It was such a subtle motion that Arthur barely noticed it. Her cheeks were glistening with tears now and the redness drained from her face, replaced by a pallid, sickly yellow.

‘Why–?’ was all Drysi could utter before a green light burst from her chest.

‘How are you?’

‘I just need to rest a few minutes,’ said Arthur, collapsing onto an antique sofa. ‘What about you?’

‘I think she broke a rib or two,’ Ash said, using one hand to lower herself down carefully next to him, the other clasped to her side. ‘But I can move at least.’

They looked at Drysi. After the green light had dissipated, she had appeared back in her wheelchair, slumped over and unconscious. Arthur had wheeled her into an empty room adjacent to the corridor. There was butter-yellow wallpaper patterned with gold on the walls, more thick carpeting on the floor and more antique furniture than Arthur had ever seen in one place. A broad white marble fireplace punctuated one wall and there was even more stucco work on the ceiling, covered in gold leaf.

‘How did you know?’ asked Ash, keeping her eyes on the still-unconscious Drysi. ‘About her?’

‘In the same way I knew about the World Serpent. I suddenly saw the truth of the situation. I saw her as she really was,’ he tapped his eye-patch, ‘and I knew what I had to do.’

Just then, Drysi’s head bobbed up. Her eyes opened, looked around to take in the new surroundings and noticed the wheelchair. Realisation set in.

‘You did this,’ she cried, not daring to look at them and opting to study the carpet instead.

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Arthur. ‘And you know we didn’t.’

‘Why?’ She looked up at him. ‘Why did he do this to me?’

‘He needed you for the time being. He needed the order you brought to the army to maintain his chaos.’

‘But why wouldn’t he heal me properly? He has the power to do so.’

‘Loki is a god of mayhem, of chaos, of mischief. Why do you think he’s known as the Father of Lies? He prefers tricks to actually helping someone. He prefers illusions to actually caring about someone, even his own children. He would never have healed you. He just gave you a temporary trick. And now that you’ve seen through that trick, the spell is broken.’

‘I can’t believe he used me like that,’ Drysi said, mostly to herself. ‘I betrayed my own father to help him. I would have done anything for him.’

‘I’m sorry, Drysi,’ said Arthur, leaning forward and reaching for her hands. She yanked them away and clasped them tightly on her lap.

‘We both are,’ added Ash.

Drysi blinked her eyes and turned away from them, staring at the ceiling until the tears stopped. Minutes passed in silence as she studied the stucco. Eventually she said, ‘See that plasterwork up there?’ Arthur and Ash followed her gaze. Among all the floral patterns and curlicues were four depictions of different animals.

‘They show some of Aesop’s fables,’ Drysi went on. ‘Look at the one with the stork and the fox.’ Arthur followed her pointed finger. The stucco showed a fox sipping water from a bowl, while a stork stood by, dipping its long beak in the pan. Drysi told them the fable.

‘There was this fox, a wily trickster fox. And he had a pan of water. He invited the stork to drink from the pan but she couldn’t. She couldn’t sip the water because the pan was too shallow for her beak. The fox had all the water and laughed at the trick he had played. He’d won.’ Drysi pointed to another part of the plasterwork, which also showed the fox and the stork but in a different position.

‘So a few days later, the stork invited the fox to drink some of her water. She had it in a long bottle and was able to sip up the water easily with her slender beak. But the fox’s tongue couldn’t reach the water so he went thirsty. The stork had tricked the fox.’

Drysi looked right at Arthur. ‘That’s what you’ll have to do,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to trick the fox. It’s the only way to stop him.’

‘Where can we find him?’

‘Go back out to the corridor and go through the door at the end. Then head upstairs. You’ll find yourselves in another long corridor. He’ll be through the very last door. He always has Hel there by his side. She’s been unconscious since working the spell on you, Arthur. And … and he keeps the prisoners there as well.’

‘Drysi, thank you.’

She turned away from them.

‘Just … just trick the fox.’