by M. D. Massey
My brow furrowed as I eyed them both with indignation. “Now that we’ve established that I’m a chip off the old block, are you going to help me save the old man’s life or not?”
Father and daughter looked at each other. “Perhaps,” Oisín said. “However—”
Just then, a female warrior burst into the room babbling breathlessly in Gaelic. She spoke pretty damned fast, but I still managed to catch the words “an dubh” and “cailleach feasa.”
The Black Sorceress.
17
Based on how the warrior had described our visitor, I expected Fuamnach to be waiting for me outside the keep’s gates. Instead, when we reached the ramparts and looked over the walls a stranger stood there. She was tall, seven feet at least, and to describe her as beautiful would be an understatement.
With her pale skin, chocolate eyes, full lips, high cheekbones, and prominent aquiline nose, her appearance was both striking and intimidating. To cap it all off, she was built like a damned decathlete, all lean muscle and athletic curves. In short, she’d have put any human supermodel to shame.
The woman was dressed much like Plúr, in form-fitting black leathers, blackened plate and chainmail, calf-high black boots, and a long grey cape tossed back over one shoulder. Instead of a short sword, she had a pair of short-handled bronze scythes hanging at her hips, and on her shoulder sat the biggest damned crow I’d ever seen. She stood alone, and I had no doubt this person was a force to be reckoned with, all on her lonesome.
“Badb,” Oisín hissed beside me.
“Hello, bard,” she replied in a voice that was barbed wire wrapped in silk. She spoke with a Transatlantic accent, somewhat reminiscent of Hepburn or Davis. “It’s been a while. Miss me?”
“Hardly,” he replied. “What brings ye so far from yer normal haunts, witch?”
“Why, that tall drink of water standing next to you. Hand him over, and I shall be quite pleased with you. Yes, very pleased indeed.”
“Lady,” I said with venom in my voice, “if you had anything to do with hurting Finnegas—”
She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Please. I don’t wish anything to befall that old man. He’s on his last legs anyway—why would I bother? And as for his current state, that was his own doing. Or rather yours, if you insist on casting blame. If you were half the druid everyone says you are, he’d wouldn’t have been forced to come to your aid, now would he?”
“Bitch—”
“Oh, I’m that and more,” she said, laughing the epithet off. “If you think to insult me, you’ll need to do better than tell the truth. But enough chatter—let’s face facts. I’ve cut you off from your Oak, so you can’t portal the Seer home and beg for Niamh’s help. Neither can you take a gateway to Earth, since you saw fit to seal them yourself. You’ve few allies in Mag Mell, and none who can heal him. You are out of options, young druid. Come down from there and surrender yourself, and I’ll see to it that Tethra allows Oisín access to his father’s tomb. If you hurry, there might be time to save your beloved mentor.”
Plúr leaned close, whispering in my ear. “She lies, and father knows it. Tethra will never allow us near that tomb, as he fears we’ll raise Fionn from his grave.”
“What was that, darling?” Badb said, holding a hand up to her ear. “Speak up if you have something to share with the rest of us.”
“Nay, Badb. Ye’ll not be havin’ the young man. He’s a guest under me own roof. What kind o’ host would I be, ta’ turn him out me door and hand him over ta’ his worst enemy?”
“Oh, dearest bard, I’m hardly the worst enemy he has. I’m merely the first to take matters into my own hands. Now, stand aside so I can deal with this upstart properly, before he becomes even more of a nuisance to my people.”
“Afore he becomes a hitch in yer plans, ya’ mean,” Oisín replied. “I think not.”
As Badb and Oisín continued to argue, I grew more suspicious of the Morrígna’s intentions. Thinking back to everything Finnegas and Brigid had told me about the goddess, I decided to check things out in the magical spectrum. At first it seemed the coast was clear, but after focusing my concentration on Badb I noticed faint, wispy tendrils of magic drifting from her to the three of us.
She’s stalling, lulling us into dropping our guard. But where is the attack coming from?
Using my druid senses, I scanned the area around the keep, but there was nothing in sight for miles. A visual check revealed the same. The surrounding countryside had been stripped bare until it was devoid of any foliage that could facilitate a sneak attack. Oisín and his warriors weren’t stupid, after all.
Frustrated that I couldn’t sniff out the evil goddess’ attack, I leaned over to whisper in Plúr’s ear. “She’s stalling, and she’s been casting a glamour on us.”
Plúr’s eyes narrowed as she examined Badb. “I see it.” She mumbled something in Gaelic, weaving her fingers into complex patterns where Badb wouldn’t notice. “There—I’ve lifted her influence, for now. But what is her plan?”
I searched the area around the keep a second time with my own eyes, on the odd chance I might see something my magical senses missed. Still, nothing disturbed the gentle rolling plains that surrounding Oisín’s hold. But something caught my eye—a cloud, high up in the sky. To my recollection, it was the first cloud I’d seen in the short time I’d been in Mag Mell.
“Plúr, do you get much rain here?”
“Nay, except when some mage or sorceress wishes it. Why?”
Squinting and covering my eyes as I enhanced my vision with magic, I focused in on the cloud. Soon it became apparent that it was headed our way. As it drew closer I was able to make out a few details, and what I saw caused me to break out in a cold sweat. I screamed a warning at the top of my lungs as I pointed at the sky.
“Dragon!”
The last time I’d fought a dragon was the day Jesse died for the first time, and at my hand. We’d gone into a cave system near Kingsland to take care of a demon known as Caoránach. Irish legend said she was the mother of monsters, a demoness who spawned thousands of her kind. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was close enough. Being a primary, she was an alpha of sorts among the aes sídhe, drawing them to her much as a goddess like Niamh attracted earthbound fae to serve her as their queen.
Caoránach’s plan was to set up her own little demesne, carving out a chunk of Maeve’s territory and populating it with unseelie fae. Maeve wasn’t having it, but due to fae politics she decided to have a neutral third-party deal with her rival before things got out of hand. That’s how Jesse and I got the job.
The mission was supposed to be a graduation of sorts for the two of us. We were to take out this legendary evil, marking the completion of our training as fénnid—druid-trained warriors. According to the old man’s sources, Caoránach was supposed to be weakened from crossing the Veil, and thus unable to shift into her dragon form. Unfortunately, the intel we’d gotten from Finnegas had been dead wrong, and we’d walked into a trap.
Caoránach turned out to be way more than we could handle. Within moments of confronting the demoness, Jesse and I were both mortally wounded, causing my Hyde-side to make its debut appearance. In the battle that followed, I killed Caoránach—and Jesse as well. It was, by far, the worst day of my life.
It was also one of the longer battles I’d ever experienced. I fought that demonic bitch up close and personal, tooth and nail, for a good thirty minutes. That’s why I’d recognize her anywhere, all forty feet of her from head to tail.
In her dragon form, Caoránach looked a lot like that famous statue of Ljubljana's dragon in Slovenia, minus the beaked maw. She had a body that was a cross between a lion and a lizard—fast and agile, with large leathery wings that were able to carry her aloft in true flight. Ruby-red, slitted crocodile eyes set deep beneath a bony brow on her serpentine head and neck ensured she didn’t miss much on the field of battle. Black scales and spines along her back, fading into a deep then bright r
ed on her underbelly protected her from most mundane and some magical weapons. And as for weapons of her own, she had a spiked, prehensile tail, a mouthful of teeth like spears, and dagger-like claws to round out the set.
In short, a nightmare come to life. The last time I’d fought her, I’d been in my fully-Fomorian form—and even then, she’d nearly been the end of me. This time I might have had a better grasp of druid magic, but one swipe of those claws or a single snap of her mouth and I’d be toast. If there was any saving grace to be had today, it was that she didn’t have a breath weapon when last we met.
Thank heaven for small favors.
An alarm horn had sounded all across the keep. Oisín was busy directing his warriors as they scrambled to load and aim wall-mounted scorpions and smaller arbalests to keep the beast at bay. Meanwhile I remained rooted in place, staring up at the creature I’d supposedly killed just a few short years ago.
Primaries weren’t supposed to come back from death that quickly. It usually took decades or even centuries for a primary to reform after crossing back over the Veil. Knowing that, how the bitch had come back from the dead so quickly was a mystery to me.
“Recognize your old friend, druid?” Badb taunted from below. “When I realized how eager she was to cross back over, I thought, ‘Badb, why not arrange a reunion between Caoránach and the McCool boy?’ To facilitate this meeting I resurrected her, using a bone fragment from that cave where you first met. By the way, wasn’t Finnegas supposed to have destroyed all evidence of that battle? He’s been slipping for some time, you know. If I were you I’d simply let him die. That old horse should’ve been put out to pasture long ago.”
When she mentioned the old man, it snapped me out of my trance and I quickly looked around to assess the situation. The fiann were shooting huge, spiked crossbow bolts at Caoránach, keeping her at a distance. But eventually they’d run out of ammo, and then we’d be fucked.
Time to get to work.
Badb had gotten on my last nerve, so I cast a quick ball lightning spell in her direction. Of course, it went straight through her body, since she had just been an illusion all along. The Morrígna’s cackling laughter echoed off the keep’s walls as her hologram faded away into mist.
“Never you mind, druid—we’ll meet in person soon enough. If you survive this little reunion, do be sure to send Finnegas my best.”
“Fucking cunt,” I muttered, turning my attention to the dragon. Caoránach had flown well out of range of the artillery. Currently she was digging up several large boulders, which she’d soon drop on us from on high.
Oisín had that nasty spear in his hand, and he was pacing back and forth along the battlements, never taking his eyes off the dragon. Plúr was ensconced in an alcove nearby, weaving her fingers in the air as she cast some sort of protective shield over the keep. Near-goddess or not, she’d be hard-pressed to maintain a spell of that scope for long. I left her alone so she could concentrate on protecting their warriors, and jogged over to her dad instead.
“Got any ideas on how we should deal with her?”
“Heard ye defeated her once, did ye not?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at me.
“I did, but it was when I was in my Fomorian form. Plus, we were inside a cave, so she couldn’t fly away.”
“Gah, it figures.”
I inclined my head at the weapon in his hand. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Nay,” he said. “Father’s spear rests within his tomb. This is merely a pale imitation.”
“How good are you with that thing?” I asked.
“I’ve practiced all my life, and in the afterlife as well,” he said archly. “I do not miss.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” I said, reaching into my Bag.
I handed him Diarmuid’s Gae Dearg. “I’m gonna want this back, so don’t get too attached to it.”
The bard’s eyes went wide as his hands closed around the shaft. “Ne’er was a finer weapon made, ’cept perhaps fer Lugh’s own.” He spun it around his body, then hefted it in his right hand with a longing sigh. “Ah, what perfect balance—she almost begs ta’ be thrown.”
“How close does that bitch need to be for you to stick that thing through her heart?”
“With a weapon this fine? Perhaps three-hundred paces or less.”
“Hmm, roughly 750 feet or so. That’s a hell of a throw.” He gave me an indignant look, as if I were challenging the veracity of his claim. I quickly raised my hands in a supplicating gesture. “Relax, I believe you. It’s just impressive, is all.”
“No harm done,” he said. “What’s yer plan?”
“Let’s keep it simple. I’ll draw her in, and then I’m counting on you to finish her fast. I doubt I’ll last longer than a few seconds once she closes the gap.”
“Bring her within range, and consider it done,” he replied with a grim nod.
“Will Plúr’s barrier hold, once we have a dragon dropping rocks on our skulls?” I asked.
“Aye, but not fer long. If ya’ plan ta’ bring the bitch in close, be quick about it.”
“Can do.” Caoránach was still digging in the dirt way out in the fields to the north—or what I assumed was north, anyway. Before she could get airborne again, I jumped up the ramparts and began heckling her.
“Hey, Caoránach!” I yelled in a magically-amplified voice. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, you ugly second-rate excuse for an oilliphéist. They call you a dragon? Pfft—I’ve seen monitor lizards that are scarier.”
On hearing my voice, the dragon lifted her head to address me. “I remember you, little druid,” she said in a deep, rich, feminine voice. “But you are not the one I came to face, so do not think you can tempt me to attack with your childish invectives.”
“What do you mean, I’m not the one? I’m the guy who beat your ass and tore you limb from limb not more than a few years ago.”
She dug around in the dirt for a second, hauling out a suitcase-sized rock that would crush a human into goo. “You are not the same creature. The one who bested me was a Fomori. You are merely his vessel.”
I had to stop and scratch my head at that one. “But we’re the same person, you stupid, reptilian twat. You kill me, you kill him—what’s so hard to understand about that?”
The dragon remained unperturbed by my insults. “Bring the other one forth or watch as I destroy the keep and its inhabitants from high above where your weapons cannot reach. I can keep you and the fiann pinned down in the keep, indefinitely if necessary. Then I’ll pick the fénnid off one at a time, wearing down your defenses until only you, I, and a pile of stones are left.”
“Fuck,” I muttered. If my smart mouth couldn’t bait her, then there was only one option left. I turned to Oisín as I stripped off my clothes and doffed my Craneskin Bag. “As soon as you kill that scaly, demonic cunt, have Plúr ready to revive me.”
“Revive you—?” he began to ask, but I was already shifting into my full Fomorian form.
No sooner had my bones started lengthening, my skin thickening, and my muscles expanding, than those terrible wounds I’d earned in battle with Diarmuid began to leak my lifeblood out on the keep’s walls. Without a moment to spare, I was still completing the change as I jumped off the ramparts and over the moat, hitting the ground at a sprint.
Despite the superhuman strength and endurance I enjoyed in this form, I felt my vitality ebbing by the second. The bitch of it all was that Caoránach wasn’t even paying attention, as she’d decided to busy herself by amassing several piles of boulders in the distance. At the rate I was leaking red Koolaid, I figured I had maybe a minute or two before my Fomorian healing factor was outpaced by my rate of blood loss. After that I’d pass out, and then I’d bite the big one.
Better make this quick.
“You rang?” I yelled across the field at the top of my prodigious lungs, scooping up a mailbox-sized stone that I hurled at the dragon’s head. It smacked her right between the eyes, shattering i
nto a dozen pieces. The rock didn’t do a hell of a lot of damage, but it did get her attention.
“Fomori,” she hissed, drawing herself up as she snapped her wings wide. “I am pleased you could make an appearance.”
18
I skidded to a halt, maybe two-hundred yards from the keep’s walls—well within Oisín’s spear range. The problem was, with a toss that long it’d be easy to dodge. Caoránach was quick for such a large, bulky creature, and I had no doubt that if she saw it coming, she’d dance out of the way for sure. I needed to pin her down and distract her if I wanted to make sure the bard’s throw hit its mark.
“C’mon then, lizard,” I shouted while trying not to stagger or sway. The blood loss was making me dizzy, and that short sprint hadn’t helped matters.
Caoránach beat her mighty wings as she came at me from a few hundred yards out, beyond the maximum effective range of the ballistae. She was moving fast, skimming across the ground at a pace no horse could match. When she got within a hundred yards, I realized she was bigger than the last time we fought—much bigger.
And smoke was coming out of her nostrils.
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” I groused as I tried in vain to plug my largest wounds with my two massive, misshapen hands.
Seventy-five yards away the dragon stopped, just outside of the bard’s range. She hovered in the air about thirty feet off the ground and opened her jaws wide. Caoránach sucked in a breath, and then another, and soon her fire glands began to glow yellow-orange on either side of her throat.
In an attempt to bring her in closer, I began backing up. Weakened by blood loss, I tripped and fell. Slowly, shakily, I pushed myself to my feet and continued to stagger backward towards the keep.
The dragon opened her mouth wide, revealing the blazing fury barely held in check within her. She hovered forward to match my pace, taking one last, long inhalation of oxygen-rich air. Just as I thought she was ready to blast me, she stopped and lingered in place.