Fey Druid: A Druidverse Urban Fantasy Novel (The Sylvan Cycle Series Book 2) by M.D. Massey

Author:M.D. Massey [Massey, M.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Modern Digital Publishing
Published: 2024-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

When we were finished, Lugh warned me against portalling directly out of his home. He then escorted us out, through the path we’d taken to enter earlier. No sooner had our feet touched the soil of the swamp, than the mournful, frightening chorus of Nemain’s wailing women sounded once more in the distance.

“They have ‘yer scent, it seems,” my half-brother remarked. “Ya’ best be making ‘yer way ta’ Ollathair’s farm. One of the keening kin might not be a worry, but they’re trouble in numbers.”

“I’ll watch my back, and so will Ásgeir. We’ll be fine.”

I extended my hand, and Lugh clasped forearms with me, pulling me close to look me in the eye. For the first time, I saw a bit of the brotherly concern his alternate-timeline counterpart had shown.

“Remember where ya’ come from. We’re equals ta’ the Tuath Dé, but they’ll ne’er accept us. Don’t e’er forget it.”

“I won’t. Be well, brother.”

“Same ta’ ya’.”

Out of respect—and an abundance of caution—I walked into the swamp before instructing the oak sprout in my Bag to portal us away. Ásgeir remained silent until we arrived at our next destination, a low rise at the edge of the giant mushroom forest that bordered the Dagda’s demesne.

“What a charming place,” the troll stated. “Not at all what I’d expected of Underhill.”

“It wasn’t always this way,” I replied. “You know, sometimes I wish I hadn’t saved it.”

Not long ago, the fungal forests had reeked of death and decay. Since I stopped the leakage of magic from the realm by sealing the gateways between Underhill and Earth, Tír na nÓg had begun to heal. Now, the sylvan stretch of fulsome fungi merely smelled of moss and loam. I spared the fey woodland a backwards glance, then I turned my attention to the path ahead.

Before us lay a vast plain of rolling grassland, checkered with fields of wheat, barley, and rye as far as I could see. The skies were blue and cloudless, and the breeze mild—common weather here in the summer lands of Underhill. After spending so much time in the swamps, I took in a lungful of pleasant, clean air that smelled of apple blossoms and morning dew.

Birds chirped and sang, and from somewhere within the forest came the sound of a bubbling brook, likely the same one that exited the woods a mile or so to our left. As I took in the scenery, I waited for the keening wail of the banshees, but it never came. Once it became clear we weren’t being pursued, I scanned the horizon from one end to the other.

“Huh,” I said as I rubbed my chin stubble.

“Something amiss?” the troll asked.

“The last time I was here, the Dagda’s cottage was just over the next rise.” I adjusted my Bag’s shoulder strap, out of habit rather than a desire for comfort. “Whelp, that’s Underhill for you. Let’s walk to the next rise, then we’ll portal by sight until we get there.”

As we strolled into the grasslands and up the low hill, Ásgeir cleared his throat.

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