Trapped

from behind by the clown I’d first swished my sword through; he’d re-formed and pursued me. Now that I was down, he leapt on top of me and plunged his knife into my back—or so he thought. It felt like a rather painful punch, but his black smoky knife was apparently magical, and my cold iron aura refused it entry. Still, I yelled as if I’d been stabbed, then flipped over, bringing Fragarach around as I did so, left to right. He stabbed me again, this time in the gut, and grinned wickedly as he remained solid, clearly willing to take one for the team to ensure that I died. I took his head off instead.
    The clown I’d been charging was now trying to slit my throat. In the thespian spirit, I gurgled dramatically and clutched my neck with my left hand, then took a blind swipe over my right shoulder with Fragarach. It connected, and I was rewarded with a tiny gasp. I kicked off the dark elf corpse astride me before it could turn to tar and rose to confront the clown I’d just stabbed. He clutched his arm and hadn’t yet turned to mist. He was wincing through face paint already designed to make him look woebegone.
    » Aw. Sad clown is sad, « I said. Behind him, the boiling clouds of elves were beginning to move off in pursuit of Granuaile. I heard glass shattering in the back of the store and hoped she was all right. I flourished my sword and lunged at the sad clown, expecting him to shift to mist, but he tried to dodge instead and became entangled in a rack of camo suits. I stabbed into his heart easily, somewhat bemused. They must not be able to take their smoke forms when wounded.
    This execution earned the especial ire of the Svartálfar who’d been after Granuaile. Three of them solidified out of the coal-black dust and hissed, brandishing their knives. That was fine with me. The more they chased me, the safer Granuaile would be. She didn’t have the same magical immunities I did.
    I backed up warily and stepped into the remains of the first elf I’d slain.
    » Euughh, « I said. » Your buddy just turned me into a tar heel. «
    One of them cursed at me in Old Norse—he called me the dwarf-dicked spawn of Hel’s half-dead twat, and I privately gave him props, so few people take the trouble to curse creatively anymore—then they came after me. I turned and ran for the front of the store, back the way I’d come. Once around the partition, I was near the knives and the aisles devoted to outdoor food prep—coolers, hibachi grills, meat smokers, and the occasional flannel-clad mannequin flipping a burger. So intent was I in searching for dark elves at eye level that I didn’t see the rope tied between two racks until after it tripped me. I sprawled facedown in front of the charcoal and lighter fluid but held on to Fragarach. The three who’d been pursuing me immediately fell on my back, discovering for themselves that their knives would do nothing more than irritate me.
    They were quick, efficient killers, and it wasn’t lost on me that if I hadn’t been immune to their smoky knives, I would already have died several times. Since we were so close to a rather large supply of standard steel knives, I was in favor of a quick exit.
    My escape, however, was not high on their agenda. I struggled to break free, but they redoubled their efforts to weigh me down, not trying to stab me now or do anything much except keep me in place. That meant they were planning something else. I managed to turn my head to see two more Svartálfar behaving oddly down the aisle with the hibachis. One—a female, I noticed—had torn the cap off a tin of lighter fluid and was now pouring it all over her naked partner. As she shook the last few drops onto his shoulders, she gave the drenched dark elf a lighter and told him in Old Norse he was ready.
    Ready for what?
    The answer was made horribly clear to me in the next few moments. Wearing one of those wicked grins that you never believe can exist outside comics until you see one, the gassed-up dark elf ran straight at me and set himself aflame. The fire didn’t get a chance to fully spread across his body, but that was never part of the plan anyway. The plan was to charge me and turn to mist at the last possible instant, showering me with liquid fire. That’s precisely what he did, and the bastards holding me down didn’t turn into mist until they were sure it had hit me. Oh, and the girl who’d hosed him down in the first place? She followed behind him with a couple more