Desperate Acts
Page 8
if one should be fated to fall in battle, the other would die with him. In turn they swore their respective families to oaths that they should be buried together in the same grave, so that they might never be parted.
As the years went by, the Twins prospered. They grew rich on cattle, treasure, and bondmaids seized in raids on their neighboring clans and tribes. More important, their mighty personal prestige made them leaders of Donall's clan, and brought them to the attention of the king of Donall's tribe. They became his most stalwart warriors and he sought their advice on questions no one else could answer. The people revered them as great heroes, with standing equal to the mighty men of legend. And it seemed to Donall and Somhairle that it would always be so until the end of their days.
In the summer of Donall's thirty-sixth year, an enemy tribe sent an army north to seize land for the benefit of their overlords. Donall's tribe, reinforced by its overlords, sent its forces south to meet the invaders. The Twins accompanied them, leading their clan's troops, but Donall became delayed at the Ruachtach River, and Somhairle went ahead of him. Early the next morning, as he made the crossing, a mist swirled in out of nothing, and on the far shore he saw a cyclopean figure standing in the water. As he came closer, it became a giantess with long, orange-red hair, wearing a simple white gown.
His blood chilled as he recognized her: Badbh the Washer, the second of the three aspects of the Morrigan, the goddess of war, who washed the clothes of the warriors fated to die. And indeed, in her enormous hands she held a bloodstained tunic, which she soaked and massaged as she tried to remove the gore. Donall grew sick as he recognized the garment, but it was not his own. It was the new shirt he had presented to Somhairle the same day they started out to meet their enemies. The Badbh raised her head and looked at him, and he knew his bosom companion would die that very day.
A thick curtain of mist obscured his vision, and when it dissipated the giantess had vanished. Once he reached the shore, he ran as fast as he could force himself, heedless to his own safety. When he reached the plain, it felt as if his heart would burst, but he did not pause to rest. The battle had begun, and he could see Somhairle in the thick of it, surrounded by half a dozen of the enemy. He fought ferociously, but without his other half to guard his back, he was as disadvantaged as a man who had lost his right arm.
Gulping air, Donall threw himself into the melee and pushed himself towards his comrade. Oblivious to his exhaustion, he fought like a madman, hewing bodies left and right, cutting down anyone who got in his way, both friend and foe alike. He carved a bloody path through the horde of men, and came to within a dozen feet of his goal. Then a spear pierced Somhairle in the stomach, and emerged out his back. As he faltered, swords hacked at his flesh, and he fell to his knees. One warrior poised himself in front of the stricken man, and sliced his throat with his dirk. In a spray of blood, Somhairle fell backwards and lay still.
Roaring like a rabid bear, Donall leapt at the murderers even as they stooped to carry off the body for a trophy. Taken by surprise, they fell in rapid succession to his swinging sword, without a single chance to defend themselves. When they lay dead at his feet, Donall stood over them, gasping for breath, and he felt his fury drain from him like wine from a broken jar. Suddenly too weak to stand, he collapsed beside the body of his friend and began to weep. He sat there throughout the rest of the battle, sobbing relentlessly, as couples and groups of warriors clashed around him.
The northern forces won the day, and drove the enemy tribe from the field. After looting the dead and taking the wounded as captives, they headed back. Donall carried Somhairle all the way, refusing any offer of help. Once back in his village, he ordered a lavish, three-day funerary festival, with feasts and games and races to honor his friend. Afterwards he and his personal retainers took Somhairle and his personal possessions in secret to an ancient dolman in the wild country west of the village. They buried him in an unmarked grave under the monument of stone, and Donall swore his men to secrecy regarding its location.
According to the terms of the geis laid on him, Donall should have instructed his men to slit his throat and lay him beside his paramour, but he could not. Having survived the battle, he had become obligated to care for Somhairle's wife and children. That he did, treating them as if they were his own. But his lust for life died with Somhairle, and he withdrew from all but the most rudimentary of daily activities. Grief-stricken, over time he cut himself off from everyone and everything, refusing to acknowledge the validity of anything other than his mourning, even his own wife and children. Even his honor no longer meant anything to him, since he had failed to honor his pledge to his best beloved, and he refused to engage in battle ever again. As the years of his existence increased, he 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 "The Golden Mushroom"
By that time they had reached the spot indicated on the map. It was a boggy hollow, in area a little larger than a baseball field. Pools of debris and silt-filled water lay interspersed by mounds and ridges of soggy earth. The trees were small and thinner there, and more widely scattered, but the only other vegetation were thick mats of a ground-hugging herb.
Shadow sat on a rock waiting for them as she gazed into the hollow. The long, lean, smoky-gray cat looked up at them with her mint-g
reen eyes as they came abreast of her. "This may be a little more difficult."
To Eile she sounded smugly satisfied. "What do you think?" she asked Sunny.
"It doesn't look too bad." But there was a hint of uncertainty in her tone. Eile couldn't blame her. While it wasn't going to be as easy as the other items, it looked simple enough: avoid the pools, stay on the land, and hope it was solid enough to support them. But it would make searching for the gilded toadstool all the more difficult.
"If only we knew where to look," Sunny added in frustration.
As if her words were a prayer, a shaft of sunlight dropped out of a break in the clouds and fell on the central mound. At its center an object winked and twinkled with a distinctive metallic sheen.
Though stunned, Eile felt suspicious too. "Alright, now that was just too convenient."
"Yeah, but what choice do we have?"
Sunny sounded nervous, but she was right. "None." She placed the pack on the ground. "You go first. Use yer bow ta test the ground ahead, make sure it's firm." She unsheathed her sword and held