became a recluse, living alone, shunned by everyone, and caring not.
As Donall Ruad stood shivering and fely his extremities going numb, he watched the sun disappear beneath the horizon. It would not be long before Somhairle Duhb would rise, and he had to be ready to strike quickly, to give the revenant no time to awaken its army. So he stood before the opening in the huge cairn and lifted his spear to thrust it forward as soon as he saw any movement.
Though at first he had been as ignorant as any man as to the identity of the revenant, he had come to realize it was his old bosom companion from descriptions of the creature's arms, armor, and chariot. He was the last person alive to remember where Somhairle had been buried. All the men who had helped him were dead, and he had told no one else, not even his friend's wife or children, because he wanted to keep what was left of his comrade to himself. Now his selfishness threatened the whole of the land, but he could not bring himself to tell his clan chieftain. He believed Somhairle's rising was due to his broken geis, so he felt he must destroy the monster humself. He told only his charioteer of the plan, because should he fail, he could inform the chieftain, who could then alert the king.
Yet he had no idea how to destroy Somhairle, nor could he ask the Druids for help, lest they inform on him before he could act. Then, on the morning of the day he would confront the revenant, as he walked alone through the fields in the pre-dawn mist, a figure approached him from out of the gloom. It proved to be a hoary, misshapen hag, with long, white hair and a face like cracked leather, enshrouded in a shadow-black cloak.
In a strong voice that nonetheless creaked like dry wood, she greeted him. "Hail, Donall the Red, son of Roibeard. You seek the means to lay Somhaile the Black, grandson of Nollag."
Startled, Donall prepared himself to chastise her when she overrode him. "Fear not, for the Morrigan has blessed your cause. The dead belong to her and her hounds, not to the Fomorians. Heed my words, then, if you wish to succeed. His vulnerable spot is his throat. To end his undead existence, you must strike him in the throat with a dagger of cold iron."
Then her eyes flashed, and Donall's blood ran cold as he realized he stood in the presence of Nemhain, the last and oldest of the three aspects of the Morrigan, and the most terrifying. Her visage turned grim and her voice sharp as she continued. "But beware! Your greatest danger is not your former friend, but your own heart. Your love for him is your weakness and his advantage. To destroy him, you must first destroy your devotion to him, or you will lose your own soul." She then began keening as the mist billowed and thickened around her. It sounded like the lament of the old women at funerals, but harsher, more strident and horrific. Howling in fear, Donall fled from the field, so he never noticed that when the mist cleared, Nemhain had vanished.
From "Desperate Acts"
The clearing inside the grove in the garden surrounding the Temple of the Great Ones in the city of Ulthar was a familiar sight to the massive woman. A baker's dozen of smooth and polished marble pillars sat in a semi-circle just off-center; on top of each laid a cat, while within the concavity lounged a mob representing every known breed, including various mixed breeds.
As soon as she entered the assembly, a male, apple-headed, sable-point Siamese stepped forward from the pillars and cried, "Medb hErenn! You have been summoned before the Council of Elders for Her Most Serene Feline Majesty, the High Queen of All Cats Great and Small. Approach so that you may be interrogated." He spoke in the Sacred Tongue, which his people used for religious and civil ceremonies, but Medb had been initiated in the Central Mysteries of Bast long ago, and knew the language very well.
The former queen made her way around the mob without protest. She had in fact been invited to render the Council a service, for which she would receive a handsome reward. She knew that the Herald's words were euphemisms meant to maintain an air of feline superiority over mere humans such as herself. Not that there was anything "mere" about her.
Twelve of the pillars were only three feet high, and on these rested the members of the Council. She stepped up to the leader, a huge, scarred, gray and blue tabby tom, with ragged ears and one missing eye. He rose to a sitting position as she came near.
She gave him a polite nod. "How may I serve this Council?"
His reply went straight to the point: "We need you to raise a spirit."
She narrowed her cold, emerald-green eyes. "To what purpose, Cucath?"
"It has information that we need."
She turned her head towards the last pillar on her right. It was twice the height of the others, and sitting atop in a pose identical to that of an Egyptian statue was a sleek, cream-furred, female cat with tan points. Medb stood tall enough to look directly into her golden eyes, which stared back at her with a look of majestic calm. "What sort of information?"
The Queen spoke in a low, sultry voice. "That will be revealed when you have called it up before us."
She turned to face her. "You know as well as I, that it is extremely dangerous to call up a spirit ill-prepared and for no good purpose."
"You have the knowledge to accomplish it, and the power to protect yourself. And we shall aid you as necessary."
"Very well, where is the grave?"
"There is no grave; this is not a human spirit."
"Then what is it?"
"The banshee Cridedub."
Shocked, she flinched and cried out without thinking: "You must be mad!"
Neither the cat queen's expression nor her posture changed, but the assembled mob erupted into squalls and yowls of indignant protest, joined by a few council members. The tumult did not still until the Herald called out.
"Let there be silence!"
"You may well be correct," the Queen said, "but if so it is a madness born of desperation."
"It would have to be, to take such a gamble."
"We understand the risk."
"I doubt that."
"Then let us say that we are willing to take the risk, however much we have misjudged it."
"But I am not."
The Cat Queen cocked her head to one side. "So, you defy our command?"
She responded with a tight smile. "You forget, Selgach Mor, the bansidh is not a spirit of the dead. It is one of the Daoine Sidhe, masquerading as a ghost."
The cat narrowed her eyes. "On the contrary, the day I forget anything is the day I return to the Great Mother." There was an edge to her voice.
"My point is, I refuse as much for your good as for my own. To summon one of the Daoine Sidhe against its will is to court disaster."
"And my 'point', O Daughter of Cruacha, is that you have no choice."
She sneered. "Are you threatening me?"
The Queen's manner was one of perfect calm. "Yes, I am: you will raise Cridedub before this assembly, or you will not leave this clearing alive."
Alarmed, she took an involuntary step back. The Queen had never threatened her before, and while she had no doubt she could escape with her life, she also knew that the mob would do her considerable harm before she could get free, and that she would have to kill a considerable number to do it. That would make her a fugitive, forever on the run, fearful of feline justice, with no place to hide.
Still, her first thought was defiance, and she would have spoken out if Cucath had not spoken first. "It is the advice of this Council, that should the woman Medb be reluctant to render us this service, the nature of the emergency should be explained to her, so that we may gain her enthusiastic cooperation."
The Queen did not take her eyes off her. "Very well, I shall heed the advice of my Council. You are familiar with the machinations of the Fomorians."
It wasn't a question, so she held her tongue. She wanted to make some suitable sarcastic remark, but she decided it wouldn't be prudent under the circumstances.
"They once ruled the Waking World, but now they are scattered, their numbers greatly diminished, and in hiding, fearful of being discovered by humans."
Again she said nothing. Those facts were
already familiar to her, having played a significant role in breaking their power. Also, she recognized that the Queen was being pedantic.
"In this they share common cause with the Faerie Host, who also once ruled the Waking World long before the Fomorians, and are also in hiding, fearful of human intrusion."
That she also knew. She wished the cat would come to the point.
"In the past, their mutually exclusive goals kept them apart, sometimes at war with each other, mostly just ignoring one another. Recently, however, we have received intelligence that Elatha, the leader of the Fomorians in the Land of the Dreams of Men, is seeking an alliance with the Fairies. He has offered to allow them to claim the Waking World for themselves, if they help him and his brethren take over the Dreamlands. In this way, the two races may both achieve their ends without either discommoding the other."
"Damnaigh!" She felt her blood chill. "I understand, but why take the risk of raising Cridedub?"
"Among the Fomorians, only Elatha and his son, Bres, know the full details, but we have not the time to travel to Hazuth-kleg and seize one of them. Therefore, we must consult the Faerie Host."
"Perhaps, but the bansidh is unlikely to know anything important."
"True, but through her we may be able to extract what we need from those who do."
She shook her head, her long, straight, loose gold-tinged bronze hair waving like a flag behind
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