by M. D. Massey
Balancing the spear in my mighty right hand, I drew back and cut loose for all I was worth. That was a lot in this form. When in full Fomorian mode, I could benchpress a Buick without breaking a sweat, outrun a pronghorn buck—a fact which I’d tested at a local wildlife preserve—and shrug off hits from small-caliber pistol rounds without so much as leaving a mark. By my estimate, the spear flew toward Aengus at roughly 300 feet per second, about as fast as a crossbow bolt. Having trained with the spear since I was young, my aim was dead on.
The spear split the air with barely a sound, so sharp was the leaf-shaped blade at its tip. As it crossed the magical barrier where the old man’s spell ended, I held quite a large amount of hope that it would hit its mark. Aengus appeared to be distracted and was looking the other way, and there was no way I could miss at that velocity and distance.
Yet, a millisecond before the spear landed between his shoulder blades, the god spun Móralltach behind his back, deflecting Gae Dearg so it buried itself deep in the asphalt of the street beyond. The maneuver itself looked like a trick of the eye, as he’d managed to flourish a longsword in such a way as to fend off an attack on his flank. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would not have believed it to be possible.
I stood with my mouth agape as Aengus’ head swiveled round. My actions must have broken the spell, because he immediately fixed me with the sort of mad look that comic book artists and actors reserve for the most insane character depictions.
“Ah, there ya’ are, my sweet,” he crooned. “Come an’ meet yer’ end, why don’cha then? I won’t swear it’ll be painless, but I do promise it’ll be quick.”
2
I stepped over rather than vaulted Mom’s white picket fence—basic suburban bitch was her cover, apparently—and faced Aengus from ten feet away. I kept my sword hidden in my left hand, which was a bit harder to do than in my right hand, but not impossible. It took an effort of will to convince it to remain dormant, as it was itching to do its thing. Aengus probably knew I was hiding the blade, but considering the detached grin that split his face, he didn’t seem to care.
So far, so good.
“You tracked me down. Congratulations,” I said in my deep, rumbling voice. “Took you long enough.”
Aengus gave the slightest tilt of his head. “Aye, an’ if it weren’t for that wee dog—or grand rat, as I’ve not decided yet which it is—I’d have still been looking.”
“Did you follow him on foot here?” I was genuinely curious, as I wondered how Larry got around.
“Nay. The daft fooker took the bus most o’ the way.” He frowned distastefully. “No way was I goin’ ta’ ride with all those commoners. I drove in me own vehicle, so as not ta’ lose him or catch a case o’ arsehole warts.”
“A—what? Eh, never mind.” I scratched my head. “Wait a minute. If you saw him get on the bus, then how’d he pay his fare?”
“Believe it or not, he had a pass in his mouth. Far be it from me ta’ question the ways o’ yer’ American folk creatures. Mad lot, every last one o’ them.”
“Can’t argue there,” I said, thinking of Larry’s squad and wondering when Mom was going to show up. In the past, I always had to earn any help she gave. More than likely, it wouldn’t be until I was getting my ass handed to me. “So, are we doing this, or what?”
“Oh, we’re definitely doin’ this,” Aengus said with a wry grin. “Are ya’ ready? Twouldn’t be sportin’ ta’ just jump when ya’ weren’t lookin’, eh?”
I pointed at my chest with my free hand. “Mortal.” Then, I pointed at him. “God. I’m allowed to cheat.”
“Yer’ a bit more n’ that, I’d say. But I’ve cut the likes o’ you down many thousands o’ times oer the eons. One more Fomori dead will cost me nary a wink o’ sleep.” He tilted his head at Gae Dearg, where it still lay quivering, embedded in the street near a storm drain. “Care ta’ retrieve yer’ weapon?”
“Nah, I’m good,” I said.
“Right then, let’s dance,” the god said with a mad gleam in his eye.
With smooth, unhurried steps, he circled to my right, away from the weapon I concealed behind my left arm and hand. Meanwhile, I could feel the hate and bloodlust coming in waves off Móralltach. I’d yet to see it up close, but now I had no doubt that the thing was pure evil, forged for the singular purpose of spilling blood and taking souls.
Good.
The longsword is a strange weapon, in that it has been romanticized far beyond its utility on the battlefield. Certainly, it is a lethal weapon. And there would be little to detract from said lethality in a god’s hands, except for the fact that it is an unwieldy, brutish blade. Much of the effectiveness of the weapon relies on timing, as it takes quite a bit of effort to swing one.
That’s why you need to understand distance and openings to take advantage of its length. Sure, you can thrust with a longsword, but it’s no rapier or small sword. The longsword is designed to cut someone down, to crack skulls and sever limbs, so most thrusting is done up close, off a bind or grapple, or at middle range following a deflection.
Aengus was a tall man, but at just over six feet, I towered over him in this form. That precluded many of the standard openings that involved mid-level cuts followed by overhead attacks to the face and skull. Besides that, I wasn’t holding my blade in a standard fashion, which would also affect his opening attack. He could skewer me, sure. But in this form, he was less likely to end me with a single thrust and more likely to end up in an entanglement should he overcommit.
No, he’d want to stay back and slice up my legs and gut, with the probable goal of severing a limb to bring me down to his size. If he could hack my lead leg up at the knee, it’d slow me down considerably until my healing factor caught up. And by then, he’d have slashed my throat or stabbed me in the eye. That Aengus would maintain the distance and engage with slashing attacks was what I was counting on.
I slowly pivoted to face him as he circled, shifting my weight over my lead leg as if readying to spring forward in a pre-emptive attack. When I did, the god danced in, closing the gap in the blink of an eye as he slashed at my now exposed knee. The sword, Móralltach, sang with a high keening noise that set my teeth on edge, as if it anticipated spilling blood.
At the same moment, I crouched low, planting the tip of my blade edge-out in the ground. I kept it close to my lead leg, hiding most of my bulk behind its length. “Most” being the key word, as I made certain that a portion of my torso remained exposed, just beyond the cover provided by my sword. It was a sacrificial gambit—I wanted Móralltach to cut me first, before it struck Dyrnwyn.
Indeed, the blade hit my flesh a millisecond before it connected with my sword. Due to the enchantment on Móralltach, there was nothing Aengus could’ve done to stop it. As Móralltach and Dyrnwyn collided, my blade shone brighter than two suns, flaring out from its edge in a blinding blaze that severed Móralltach neatly in two.
I’d thought long and hard about this confrontation over the previous weeks, recalling all I knew of legendary Irish weapons. No doubt, Móralltach was among the most fearsome of the bunch, as it never left a blow unfinished at first trial. And that was its chief weakness.
According to what I could gather from legend, the blade would maneuver around any obstacle to reach its intended target. The whole “at first trial” thing wasn’t actually a limitation of the weapon, as it would score a hit any and every time you swung it. That bit had only become part of the mythology surrounding the blade because it almost always cut the enemy down on the first attack.
Meaning, once swung, the wielder had little control over the weapon. Like a heat-seeking missile, the blade would twist and turn to avoid any parry or block, never stopping until it drew blood. Knowing this, my plan was to let it cut me, so I could take advantage of the sword’s second major flaw.
Despite all its magical properties, Móralltach had been made from shit metal.
Unfortunately for Aengus, Móralltach had been made in a
time when good bronze was the height of metallurgic technology. Oh, you could certainly do a lot with bronze weaponry, and if anyone needed proof of that fact, they had only to reference the Sword of Gou Jian. Yet, no matter how expertly smelted, bronze was no match for properly-tempered steel. While such a sword could cut you just as easily as iron, it was still soft and had a much lower melting point than iron.
Dyrnwyn, on the other hand, had been crafted and enchanted for more than just cutting onions. While its steel would be considered merely adequate by today’s swordsmithing standards, it had been imbued with magic to withstand the extremely high temperatures that emanated from the blade in the presence of evil. I’d gambled that Móralltach was a fucking evil weapon, and I’d been right.
The pointy end of Aengus’ sword remained lodged a few inches into my rib cage—bothersome, but hardly noteworthy in the grand scheme of injuries I’d suffered. As for the remaining foot-and-a-half of blade that was still connected to the hilt, it passed harmlessly as the weapon’s momentum pulled Aengus off balance. While he was still unbalanced, I sprang upward, landing the hardest uppercut I’d ever thrown on his chin with my massive, mace-like right hand.
There was a crunch when my fist connected and a loud crack when his head snapped back. The god’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he staggered back in an attempt to shake off the effects of the punch.
“That t’were a good blow, lad,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “But—”
Aengus never had a chance to finish his sentence. At that moment, his head was severed cleanly from his shoulders by some unseen force, tumbling unceremoniously to the curb. As his headless corpse fell in a boneless heap, Mom shimmered into view behind him, with Larry appearing two strides behind.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Larry said. “Kind of unsporting, though.”
“We are Fomori, rat—we never fight fair.” Mom gave me an appraising look as I plucked half of Móralltach from my side. “I was wondering how you would deal with Móralltach. Be sure to gather the pieces. We might need them later.”
Larry trotted over to the curb and nudged the severed head. “I know some odds makers who are going to be pissed at how this little scuffle turned out.”
“Careful, he’s not completely dead,” Mom warned as she knelt to wipe her axe clean on Aengus’ blazer.
The chupacabra skittered back a pace with an angry yip, then he turned his google-eyed gaze on me. “Just so’s you know, Colin, I bet on the home team. Made a tidy profit, too.”
“You’re a real pal, Larry,” I deadpanned.
My morbid half got the better of me, so I strolled over to take a look. As I drew closer, the god’s eyes tracked my approach, and his mouth contorted as he spewed silent obscenities at us. I honestly didn’t want to kill Aengus, because he was the Dagda’s son, and I needed his dad on my side. Yet, the crazy, evil son of a bitch was simply too dangerous to be allowed to live.
Ah, fuck it, I thought as I stabbed him through the eye.
“Dead now,” I said as I planted my foot on his face to pull Dyrnwyn from his eye socket. “What should we do with him?”
“Bury him in the garden—deep,” Mom replied. “The Seer’s spell should help conceal his remains for a time.”
“Speaking of spells, how’d you turn invisible?”
Mom cocked her head as if listening to something on the wind. “I studied with Biróg, one of the greatest fae sorceresses of a bygone age. Should we find the time, I have much to teach you.”
“Yeah, I remember your lessons. I’m going to take a hard pass on that one.”
She glowered at me, and her voice took on a dangerous edge. “Need I remind you that Badb wants revenge on you for killing her consort? You do not have the luxury of entertaining petty grievances. Soon, the Sorceress or The Crow will come looking for Aengus, and when they find him dead, they’ll stop at nothing to hunt you down.”
“So, what’s new?” Larry interjected as he hiked his leg to piss on the god’s severed head. “Sounds like a regular day at work for everyone’s favorite druid here.”
“Yes, he does have a way of finding trouble,” my mom replied. “But in this case, he’ll have two of the most dangerous goddesses in the Celtic pantheon unleashing the full weight of their considerable power and influence to find him. Believe me, nothing he’s faced in the past will compare to the dangers those two represent.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, pointing at the surrounding houses on either side of the street. “Neighbors?”
“Taken care of,” Mom said. “Under a sleep spell, at the moment. See to your task, so we can be away from here.”
“Need I remind you that I’m a grown-ass man? I’ve done just fine for the past ten years without your constant haranguing and harassment.”
Mom gave me a look that could curdle milk. “And yet, I’m still your mother.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. With a heavy sigh, I tossed the broken pieces of Móralltach in my Bag. Then, I grabbed Aengus’ head by the hair and his corpse by the ankle, dragging them to the backyard for a speedy druidic disposal.
Once I’d completed the task of cleaning up Aengus’ remains—using druid magic to burn away all traces of blood and sink his body into bedrock, fifty feet below ground—I found Mom inside the house. She was a whirlwind of activity, packing weapons and clothes into a sturdy, well-used canvas duffle bag that seemed to have more capacity than it should.
“It’s no Craneskin Bag, but it’ll do,” she remarked, noticing my interest in her single item of luggage. “Follow me.”
I did as she asked because arguing with her had always been an exercise in futility. After I trailed her to the master bedroom, she opened the closet and pushed a wardrobe rod full of clothing to the side, then she pressed a hidden latch under the shelf above. A section of the wall slid away to reveal another, larger closet, lined with grid wall panels hung with weapons of every kind.
There were firearms, some exotic and some mundane, swords and knives of both modern and ancient manufacture, grenades, shuriken, maces, clubs, axes, all manner of bows, blowguns, and even a rack of spears in the corner. One wall held nothing but armor, including chain mail shirts, scale mail, and a couple of sets of modern ballistic armor. Boxes and boxes of ammunition sat on shelves and in ammo cases on the floor.
“Take what you need,” she said. “Once we leave, there’s no telling when we’ll be able to resupply.”
“Ah, so we’re a team now. Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“You will need my help,” she said with an amused chuckle. “Besides, this was The Seer’s plan all along.”
“Fine,” I said, tossing select firearms and boxes of ammunition into my Bag.
Benelli M4, yep. Several boxes of 12 gauge saboted and some FRAG-12 rounds, oh yeah. KRISS Vector in .45 ACP with a couple of bricks of ball ammo, you bet. Military M4 carbine with five-hundred rounds of 5.56, check. Assorted frag and incendiary grenades, I can def do some druid-enhanced damage with those…
Oh, sweet mercy, what the hell is that?
A Milkor MGL sat in the corner, along with a crate of HEDP 40 mm grenades—a popular portable bunker-buster and troop anti-tank weapon for armed forces everywhere.
“I’m taking this,” I said, hefting the grenade launcher.
“It’s yours,” she said.
“Where’d you get all this stuff, anyway?”
“Merc work, hunting narco-terrorists.”
“‘It’s not much, but it’s honest work,’” I muttered as I stuffed the rocket launcher into my Craneskin Bag. I’d have to organize it later, so I didn’t lose any of my picks in the pocket dimension that resided inside. As I rummaged through the rest of Mom’s arsenal, I gave her an occasional side-eyed glance.
“What is it?” she said. “Ask.”
“So… you’re what? Lugh’s sister?”
“No, his mother.”
“Wait a minute—Lugh is my brother? That would make me half a god, right?”
She shook her head as she strapped a pair of wicked-looking daggers to either side of her belt. “Nay, you are half-Fomori, and there lies the difference. A bit more than a demigod, a bit less than a god. Consider that Lugh is both half-Fomori and half-Tuatha. There is a reason why he stood foremost amongst the rest of the Tuath Dé.”
“Huh.” I stared at the now greatly reduced contents of the closet, taking it all in. “Well, now I know how I survived all these years.”
“You survived because you are Fomorian. Certainly, I hardened you at a young age, and then Finnegas molded you into a warrior, but your instincts kept you alive. That said, I simply do not think he expected your Fomori side to dominate your personality. Although he’d never have said it openly, I believe it did give him pause.”
I didn’t like what she was getting at, not one bit. “I’m no cold-blooded killer.”
Mom turned to give me one of those hands-on-hips, arched-eyebrow looks that all moms are programmed to deliver on cue. “Really? And the fact that you stabbed Aengus dead without a second’s hesitation is no indication of your temperament, eh?”
“I have a heart,” I said. “And it’s fully human, believe me.”
“Your humanity will betray you during the trials to come—if you allow it. Take my advice and set that aside for a time. Let the stone-hearted Fomori warrior inside you guide your steps.”
I sucked air through my teeth as I considered her words. “Dad was human, and you loved him.”
“Indeed I did, but believe me when I say that his human side was his downfall. The Dark Druid preyed on that weakness and used it to capture him. Badb and Fuamnach will do the same to you, if you let them.”
Deciding that I wasn’t quite ready for the complete story of how Dad died, I shifted the topic. “How’d you two meet, anyway?”