Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

diction.
    “I greet you, Druid, Wolf Slayer, Freyr’s Bane, Loki Shepherd. May you walk from battle unbruised and exult in the death songs of the slain.”
    There was only one person I knew who would assign me such epithets and string them together. “Fjalar? Is that you? Runeskald of Nidavellir?”
     Oberon said.
    “Yes. I have come with the Glass Knights, the Ljósálfar elite, rune-warded and ready for battle, to meet the Svartálfar who pursue you. Axes have I brought, newly forged and blazoned, to cut the smoky black and tear flesh out of vapor.”
    “What? I beg your pardon, but you lost me there.”
    Fjalar drew one of the axes fixed to his back. It had a barb on the handle that triggered a release on the holder as he pulled it up so that the blade wouldn’t get caught. Clever design. He pointed at the runes seared into the blade of the axe and said, “These are experiments in craft and war, an attempt to cleave through magic mist and wound the flesh, to sunder smoke yet slice through bone and sinew.”
    “You’re saying if you hack a dark elf in his smokeform with that, he’ll show the wound when he turns solid?”
    “I will not know until I attempt it, but it is my hope. The runes are supposed to end their vaporous state and then the blade cuts them, which binds them to their solid form. Should any of the axes prove successful, more will I make and teach the craft and song to other Runeskalds.”
    “That sounds fabulous,” I said, “but what if none of the axes perform the way you hope they do?”
    The dwarf’s armor twitched, signaling a shrug underneath all the steel. “I will return to my forge and try anew.”
    “No, I mean, the dark elves are not going to allow you to experiment on them.”
    “They will have no choice in the matter.”
    “I mean they’re going to fight back.”
    “And the lamb will cry before it’s slaughtered. There is no difference.” Fjalar’s helmet twitched, indicating his eyes had been drawn elsewhere. “Ah. See where they come. Remain here and do nothing until you are ordered to drop to the ground.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You need do nothing but attract them. Let us take care of this.”
    I cast my eyes across the pasture separating the Long Wood from the copse to the east and spied a sizable group of dark elves approaching—equal to the number of elves on our side. Dressed in what appeared to be shimmering white warm-up outfits that basketball teams favor—except with tunics instead of jerseys—they ran in an undisciplined mob until they saw Fjalar step forward, brandishing an axe. Responding to some unseen cue, they formed into a wedge and sped up, moving at double time.
    Behind me, the Glass Knights spread themselves intosix half squads of four elves each and drew their flechette pistols, one in each hand. Fjalar strode forward a few more paces, until he was perhaps twenty yards in front of us. If anyone had been dressed in modern combat gear, I would have felt a bit silly standing there naked amongst all that armor, but aside from the flechette pistols we were all rocking it old school, and I felt like a proper Celt.
    “You seriously don’t want me to do anything?” I called.
    “You will ruin our tactics if you do,” the Runeskald replied over his shoulder. On the one hand I felt a tad hurt that they didn’t want my help, but on the other I was happy to let them assume all the risk if they wanted it. I was also curious about how this would unfold. This was the most disciplined bunch of dark elves I had seen to this point, and if I was not mistaken, they were carrying standard steel weapons because they had learned they couldn’t pierce my aura with their magical knives.
    Oberon, I’d like you and Granuaile to hang back behind the elves if you’re not already doing so
.
    
    With thirty yards to go until they reached Fjalar, the dark elves stopped and drew steel scimitars, holding them above their heads. They paused for a few beats and then charged on a silent signal. Fjalar rushed to meet them, one dwarf against twenty-five dark elves, and he wasn’t silent. He sang something fierce, and a yellow energy began to coalesce around his armor. When he met the point of the phalanx, his axe whiffed through the clothes and smoke of the point man, as the rest of the wedge flowed to either side and flanked him, their swords arcing down onto his armor. Their blades