To Trick the Trickster

By M. H. Bonham

 
            “What are we doing here?”  Haellsil glanced around the smoky tavern, uncertain why his half-brother, the Lochvaur king, had bothered bringing him here.  It hardly seemed the place for either of them.  Devoid of royal trappings, save the mail they wore beneath their hooded cloaks, they almost blended in with the tavern’s patrons, save perhaps that both had the red-gold hair and silver eyes of the Lochvaur kindred.

            Lachlan grinned and took a draught from the methglyn.  He leaned his chair back against the wall.  “We’re waiting for the Ni’yah.”  Ni’yah was the trickster god and uncle to Lachlan.

            Haellsil raised an eyebrow.  “Should you be drinking that?”

            Lachlan glanced at the mead and back to his brother.  “I’m Shara’kai – half-blood, remember?  It won’t affect me the way it used to.”

            Haellsil frowned.  He knew Lachlan’s reincarnation in his current form made him stronger than before, but he was also a bit craftier.  It was, without a doubt, the mixed blood.  But those with god’s blood in them had low tolerance for alcohol and even lower tolerance for mead.  He wondered if the little mead Lachlan had drunk had impaired his reasoning. 

            The door to the tavern flew open with a rush of wind and a flurry of snowflakes.  In strode Ni’yah, the wolf trickster god, with two women hanging on his arms.

             “He’s not doing much to hide himself, is he?”  Lachlan remarked.

            Haellsil wrinkled his nose in disgust.  Ni’yah had taken the form of one from the Laddel clan – shorter and stockier with agouti hair and brass wolf eyes that stared back at those who dared to look at him.  His other favorite form was that of a wolf and he carried the wolf skin around his neck and draped over his back like a cloak. 

            “Bartender!”  Ni’yah roared, pulling one of the wenches close against him.   He leered at her and she giggled, obviously inebriated by they clumsy way she moved.  Her partner was no better.  “Mead!  Mead for the house, courtesy of Lachlan!”  His brass eyes met Lachlan’s and he tipped the flagon in a toast to the king.

            A wry smile crossed Lachlan’s face and Haellsil could see that the king stifled a chuckle.  “Are you going to let him do that?”  Haellsil demanded. 

            Lachlan handed Haellsil the flagon and waved his brother off as he stood up and strode over to Ni’yah, who was drinking quite a bit of mead.  Haellsil watched as Lachlan crossed his arms and glared at the god.

            “I think you’ve had enough fun in my kingdom,” Lachlan said. 

            Ni’yah chuckled.  “I haven’t even begun to have fun.”

            “My people are complaining about your drunken and lewd behavior.  Not very fitting for an Athel’cen, one of the most powerful gods in the Nine Worlds?”

            Ni’yah turned to him and belched.  He then turned back to the mead and the ladies.

            “Ni’yah, what am I to do?”  Lachlan held his hands outstretched.

            “Go back to your throne before I start taking an interest in Kalena,” Ni’yah sneered.

            Haellsil was on his feet, his hand on his sword’s pommel.  Lachlan waved Haellsil back.  “Indeed, and how, pray tell, would you possibly seduce my queen?”

            Ni’yah grinned and suddenly his formed blurred.  Lachlan was staring at an exact duplicate of himself.  The tavern patrons erupted in laughter.  Haellsil looked from Lachlan to Ni’yah who was in the exact same form.

            “That’s very good,” Lachlan admitted.  “No doubt you could cause a lot of rumors about me.  But I can do one better.” 

            Ni’yah reverted to his original form.  “What are you talking about?  You can’t shapeshift.”

             “I can’t?  Are you so sure?”

            Consternation filled Ni’yah’s face.  “You are part Laddel, but I’ve never seen you shift.”

            Lachlan grinned.  “Maybe I just haven’t had the right motivation.”  With that, he grasped and yanked the wolf cloak from Ni’yah’s shoulders.  As the cloak touched his, Lachlan changed into a large wolf with a toothy grin.  “I always wondered what it felt like to shift,” he remarked as many of the patrons screamed and withdrew in terror.

            “You!  You!”  Ni’yah shouted.  “Give me that cloak.”  Lightning flashed from his fingers, but in his inebriated state, the lightning missed Lachlan completely and hit the door to the tavern, blasting it off its hinges. 

            Lachlan turned and fled, still in wolf form, out the door and into the snowy streets of Caer Lachlanel.  People shrieked and fled seeing a giant red-gold wolf bounding through the streets.  Haellsil watched with a mixture of amusement and horror as Ni’yah tossed the two women aside and started stumbling after the king – anger and rage apparent on his face.  “Damn mead and my brother that sired the whelp!”  Ni’yah roared.  He turned and spied Haellsil, who stood watching the entire spectacle.  “What are you gawking at?  Get him back here!”

            “You know I don’t have any control over him.”  Haellsil shrugged with a wry smile.  Ni’yah stomped past, stepped out the door, slipped on the ice and landed hard on his rear end.  He skidded down the icy walk, tried to stand up and then fell face first into the street.   

            Lachlan padded up to him, still in wolf form.  Haellsil walked carefully out of the tavern and watched the two from a safe distance.  A crowd was gathering.  “You’re really pathetic when you drink.”

The god glared at Lachlan.  “Give me the damn skin.”

Lachlan shifted form, holding the skin, but he also had Uruz drawn.  The Sword of Destiny glowed menacingly at the god’s throat.  Ni’yah stared at it.  While it couldn’t kill a god, the Sword could do quite a bit of damage.  “On one condition,” Lachlan said.

“I don’t have to listen to your conditions.  I can take what I want.”  Ni’yah tried to get up, slipped on the ice and fell back down.

“Oh?  Well, it might be a good idea if you sobered up first,” Lachlan said.  “You’ve been behaving badly, my uncle, and I heard more complaints than usual.”

“Really?”  Ni’yah brightened with this.

“Yes,” Lachlan said, his voice filled with disgust.  “You must promise me to stop the drinking and carousing...”

“No.”

“Then, I keep the skin.”  Lachlan pulled the skin closer to himself. 

“I’ll take it when I’m sober.”

“You think you can?”  Lachlan’s voice held an edge.  “Do you really want to challenge me?”

Ni’yah harrumphed.  “Ok, I swear by...”

“Swear by your sword, Dagalaz.”

The god glared. 

Lachlan waited patiently.

“All right!”  I swear by my sword, Dagalaz, that I will no longer wench...”

“Or become drunk...”  Haellsil added.

Ni’yah glared at him.  “Or become drunk.”

“Good,” Lachlan said.  He held out the skin.  Ni’yah snatched the skin and at the same time, disappeared. 

Haellsil walked up to his brother.  “How long do you think that will last?”

Lachlan grinned wryly.  “Maybe a week, if we’re lucky.”  He paused and scowled.  “I better warn Kalena, though.  If I know Ni’yah, he’s likely to make good on his threat.”

Haellsil chuckled.  “Damn Athel’cen and first-bloods.  Between the gods and their offspring, my life is far more complicated than it should be.”

The End



© 2006 by Margaret H. Bonham.  All rights reserved.  Request permission before reprinting.

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