Trapped

blade. When I hit the ground, the impact drove it all the way through and nearly stabbed Oberon, who landed on top of me.
    I cast camouflage on us almost by instinct, then belatedly remembered as another shaft whizzed overhead that I should camouflage the bloody arrow sticking out of me too.
    › I saw something move up in the trees back there and it wasn’t a bird. ‹
    Go, Oberon! See if you can circle around and flank them .
    › Got it. ‹ He bounded away and I struggled to my feet. The shock was wearing off and I was beginning to feel the pain. I triggered my healing charm, drew Moralltach, and looked about me for enemies.
    I didn’t have far to look. A squad of five yewmen, spread in a skirmish line, approached from the direction of the watering hole, bronze leaf swords raised high over their right shoulders, advancing as samurai would through the brush. Their tiny dark eyes searched for me—and found me. They could see through my camouflage.
    Though only three feet tall, they were terrifying creatures, knotted and gnarled with anger, sprung from the boughs of the enchanted guardian trees in the Morrigan’s Fen. They were the Morrigan’s answer to many of the Tuatha Dé Danann, for while they were living, they weren’t animals and thus weren’t subject to Flidais’s control; Moralltach meant nothing to them, for they were not made of flesh, and Aenghus Óg’s old sword would not affect them except in the way any normal blade would—which wasn’t much. I’d be better off with an axe. Someone had done their homework to send them against me.
    In Druidic circles, yew was the harbinger of death, an omen of ill news, and this, coupled with the fact that they were the Morrigan’s creatures, meant that even among the Fae the yewmen were feared; they were creatures that made goblins wake up sweating in the night. They served the Morrigan for a hundred years, guarding the Fen—which was really her stronghold as the Fae Court was Brighid’s—itching for a fight and never getting one, until she let them go to Tír na nÓg, where they became eager mercenaries.
    I had little to no hope that the Morrigan would appear to defend me now. She’d made it clear some years ago that she depended on me to take care of myself, despite her vow to prevent my death by violent means.
    Oberon, they have swords and they know how to use them. I don’t want you engaging them. What they don’t have are bows and arrows. See if you can find the archer and tell me where he is .
    › Okay. ‹
    These lads didn’t fly, and that arrow had come from a higher angle than they could conceivably achieve. Whoever had dropped that steak wasn’t a yewman, and he was out there ready to take a potshot at me; that’s why I bothered to keep my camouflage on.
    Their stances gave me an idea—they were providing such lovely targets. I created a binding of like-to-like, so that their bronze blades abruptly bound together on either side of the one in the middle. The effect was amusing, because the yewmen didn’t want to let go. They were yanked by their swords toward the lad in the center, and once he was holding not only his sword but four other yewmen with their swords bound to his, he had a bit of trouble, and the whole mess of them fell in a heap to the ground.
    I thought of binding the yewmen together in the same way, except that I was afraid of what would happen if I tried. These were the Morrigan’s creatures and would hardly be effective against the Tuatha Dé Danann if they could be bound like any other piece of wood. Rumor had it that the Morrigan had prepared for that—perhaps it was a rumor she’d spread herself. Still, it would be silly to allow her yewmen to be bound and unbound by their bark; they had to have protection. Olympia, however, might be able to help me. The yewmen were never intended to walk on this plane; they were the boogeymen of the Faerie lands, but to Olympia they were simply odd trees.
    //Druid found trees / Unnatural movement / Query: Help root / Bring harmony?//
    //Exclamation! / Unnatural movement! / Trees must root / Grow / Nourish / Harmony//
    The yewmen did not have vocal cords. It was part of their mystique, playing the silent, implacable killer. But if they could have roared in frustration, they would have. Wherever their bodies touched the ground, roots sprouted and clutched handfuls of earth, grabbing Greek real estate like foreclosure vultures. Swords forgotten, they tried to pull away and even