Now, lady! Give it your best shot! Morgan shouted down the emptying corridors of his consciousness.
“My presence must come as a complete surprise to our enemy or we must fail. Scatha’s strength is far too great for me to thwart alone.”
It had better happen pretty soon, lady, or you won’t have a body worth possessing. I kind of hate to give it up, but sharing the rent, as they say, is better than checking out of the old place forever. His protestations were ignored.
“Help us, oh Daughter of my Grove. Join with us that power that cracks the shell of this reality. Join! Join!”
The words, spoken by the Voice that he should not have heard, filled him with a wild hope, and as they rebounded vigorously from the walls of his skull, he actually felt his muscles respond to the combined urgings of the message and the ring. The thrumming in his finger began to match its rhythm to his heartbeat.
“Now, man!”
“Gaaah!” A primal scream erupted with the last of the spent gasses through the constricted pipeline of Morgan’s throat. A quick, jerking motion was all he could manage, but it broke the assassin’s iron grip for a brief moment, a moment long enough for Morgan to turn the blade sharply to one side.
A sharp, hissing sound from above broke into a quickly suppressed cry. The hand on Morgan’s throat relaxed a fraction, and he was able to draw a partial breath that burnt his lungs raw like the fires of hell and was less satisfying. Then the hose-clamp fingers trapped it inside again.
Partially stimulated by the tease of fresh oxygen, Morgan’s chest began to heave and convulse as before.
“Peace, Mortal. Thou hast the breath thou needest for life. Hold but a little, and we shall see what work we have wrought here.”
Morgan obeyed his hallucination and concentrated on maintaining his revitalized grip on the enemy’s knife hand. He hung on grimly as the pinwheels again began to spin before his blind eyes in lazy circles.
Inexplicitly his opponent abruptly changed his method of attack and, began to thrash Morgan with devastating jackhammer blows, using his entire body. The fingers that dug into Morgan’s neck bit deeper, and the knife hand whipped in such violent arcs that Morgan’s elbow beat violently and painfully against the tiled floor.
The hammering of his elbow weakened Morgan’s already unequal hold on the assassin’s wrist and he despaired of holding on long enough to see the result of the work he and the imaginary goddess had done, if any.
Abruptly, the thrashing subsided into a drumming which Morgan found easier to endure. The drumming, too, ceased, and his powerful opponent drew a long, sobbing breath as if it was he who had been savagely strangled, not Morgan.
“Oh—I” The tone was one of bewilderment, mixed with unendurable pain. “Thy sting is too hard!” The trembling commenced to shake Morgan once more, and then the assassin simply collapsed onto his near-dead victim and rolled, unmoving onto the tiles.
“Belenus, baby, light up my life!” Morgan rasped through his tormented throat and rolled onto his uninjured elbow. As he moved, the knife that had been meant for him fell to the tiles.
“Shit, Lady,” he whispered as the room filled with light, revealing the green-smeared knife and its wielder clearly for the first time. “Looks like we pulled Scatha’s teeth.”
“Scatha has many servants and many teeth, man. But, for now, we have, indeed, won a victory.” The disembodied voice came from a point ahead and above him, no longer from inside his head. “Thou must guard thyself against a second attack, for my assistance will be known to the Dark One now.”
“I’ll guard my back well, my Lady.” He paused, unsure of his next words. “I guess I owe you, Aiofe. It’s a little beat up just now, and my tennis game won’t ever be the same, but my body is yours.”
“What makes you men think that all females are envious of your sex? If I would, in fact, wish to possess thee, it would be as a woman possesses a man, in bed. But for now, mortal, I do not want thy body, only thy belief. It will be good to have a man worship at my shrine. Promise me that. As for the other matter,” the voice said coyly, “perhaps my daughter will share thee with me some night.” The voice seemed to recede. When it came again, it was diminished and metallic. It spoke to him from the ring, and the lips that formed the words were those of a beautiful woman who was not Brigid.
“Farewell, Morgan. Call thy guards, now. And, remember that as long as thou hast my ring, I am with thee. Believe.”
Morgan looked at the dead assassin whose hairless, naked body, was contorted with the incredible pain he must have felt at the moment of death.
Morgan believed.
“Guards!” he screamed.
Two men burst through the outer door of the apartment with drawn swords. They assessed the damage in the main room professionally and without breaking stride but positioned themselves so that each man protected the other’s back.
“In here, damn it!” Morgan growled.
Both guards froze at the entrance to the bathing chamber and stared at Morgan and the dead man.
“Quit staring and get this dead meat out of here!” Morgan whispered. “And get Connach over here, now!”
“We heard nothing, Foreign Lord,” the younger soldier said. “No one entered this chamber, I swear it.”
“You need help, Lord.” The Optio, who held a rank equivalent to Sergeant, put an arm around Morgan and helped him to a sitting position. “Send for a healer,” he told the other.
“Never mind that, Optio. Send for Connach.” Morgan hoped that he would be awed enough by the corpse to take orders from the man he had been assigned to keep prisoner.
He was awed enough, but he would not obey Morgan’s orders.
“Lord Connach will not come, Foreign Lord. It is his express will that he not be summoned at your request.”
“Then tell him that Scatha sent you!” Morgan was exasperated and in a great pain just then. “Take the knife as a present from me, then.” He hefted the dagger. The green smear was tinted with a drop or two of blood...the assassin’s blood. His attacker had barely been nicked, and yet he had died horribly.
The Optio knelt beside Morgan and took the knife from him with a towel-protected hand. “That substance on the blade is Scatha’s venom, Lord, a strong poison. Certain death.” He looked Morgan over carefully. “Has the knife actually touched you anywhere?”
“No.” Morgan thought. “Yes. Here on my cheek, I think.”
“Let me wash that spot well, Lord. The poison has been said to work its harm through unbroken skin.”
Morgan relaxed and let the non-com wash the poison from his skin and throw the towel away. “Call Connach for me. Get him here.”
The two men carried Morgan gently to his couch. The Optio then saluted him.
“Cedric will remain with you until I return. I will arrange for the body to be disposed of without the Brotherhood knowing anything, Lord Morgan. Then I will approach the Lord Connach. He will be angry with me for disobeying his orders, and he will not come to you. Of that I am certain.”
Morgan watched the soldier resignedly leave the room toward a predictable reprimand. Then his eyes were drawn to the corpse that lay in his bathing chamber. The dead eyes stared directly into Morgan’s, and the rictus-stretched mouth seemed to be laughing at him.
“God damn you, Connach!” Morgan cried, startling his young sentry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You may curse him, Foreign Lord, but Lord Connach will not answer your summons.” The optio, Patrick, bore the marks of a severe dressing-down with stoicism, but Morgan read the signs as clearly as if the non-commissioned officer had been wearing a placard around his neck.
“Pretty rough on you, was he, Optio?” Morgan shut his eyes against his own more physical pains. Scatha’s assassin still waited there for him in the darkness behind his eyelids; the blue scales tattooed on the hairless body were made even more real by the remembrance of the swollen, surgically split tongue.
Morgan opened his eyes. Th
e corpse was gone. Things were much better with his eyes open. The pleasant face of the non-com had developed a faint smile.
“Lord Connach was, indeed, hard on me, Lord Morgan, for there is no one louder in anger than a member of this House. Fortunately my own master, Lord Chulainn, was present in the Great Hall and took my part. There is no one living who can curse as well as a Black Lothian, and Lord Chulainn is the best of his clan. While they were rattling the walls, I took my leave. You should know, Lord, that my chief is strongly urging that you be set free to continue training our force.”
“Thank you, Optio. I shall not forget this service.”
“I await your release, Lord Morgan.” He saluted. “Farewell.”
Alone again, Morgan tried to ease into a comfortable position but found no part of his body that did not ache. He needed to sleep; yet he was afraid of closing his eyes. His guards had already proved no match for a determined assassin.
“Aiofe,” he whispered. “I need to heal. And to heal, I’ve got to get some sleep. Watch over me, Lady.”
The ring vibrated in response.
“I hope that’s a ‘yes’,” he said wearily, and fell into an exhausted sleep before he could dim the lights
He was halfway through a pain-filled but cautious workout the next morning when the day’s guard, a red-haired young seaman whose name Morgan couldn’t pronounce, admitted a hooded naval officer into the room. The officer remained ominously silent, and only points of light reflected from dark eyes were visible through the shadow of the cowl. The mysterious visitor should have made Morgan apprehensive, considering his most recent caller.
In fact, Morgan had a difficult time suppressing the urge to laugh.
The scene was as phony as a politician’s promise, and he was glad that his guard had not been weaned on Channel Three reruns. Morgan had.
In his best Late Show manner, Morgan began the charade. “Ah, Lieutenant Malo,” hoping that he was supposed to have recognized his shrouded visitor. “Please do sit….” the door eased shut behind the departing sentry, “…down.”
Lieutenant Malo mutely slid back the cowl, revealing Brigid’s concerned face. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she examined Morgan’s battered body. “The servant of Scatha did this to you?”
“Could have been worse, I’m told.”
Wordlessly, Brigid led Morgan to the bathing chamber and turned the water on full, emptying the contents of a vial into the swirling waters. A strong herbal odor filled the room with a sense of health.
She beckoned him closer. “Come, my love. Let me heal thy wounds.” She then stripped him slowly, examining each injury, touching him gently with cool fingers. Then she allowed Morgan to undress her, which he did just as slowly and just as gently.
The sunken tub was definitely designed for two bathers.
Later, they lay on the wide couch together. Morgan had shed much of his bodily pains during the long, sensual bath. What aches were left to him, he found he could easily endure with Brigid next to him. He slid his arm around her, cupping her breast with his hand, reveling in the satin of her skin. He reached for the winged pendant but found it gone.
Brigid met his glance, smiled bravely and raised the reaching hand to her lips. “I did not wear the stone to bed because I wanted you to know that I will use no magic to keep you in thrall. I vowed this after my brother shamed me by revealing the stone’s powers to you.”
Her eyes held a deep worry, and Morgan saw that she was actually afraid that he might reject her. He searched her face, used to the deceptions, some none too small, practiced by Kendra. He saw no similar guile in Brigid’s perfect features.
He kissed the place where the pendant had lain. “Even though I have a lot to thank Aiofe for, you never needed her help to make me love you,” he told her, softly. “I loved you from the first day on the docks.”
“I had already. . . .” She began, but Morgan stopped her confession with a kiss that turned her protestations into cries of pleasure.
When Morgan took his lips from hers, he said, “When I removed the ring in the Guardian’s chambers I knew what you had done, and I didn’t care.” His touch made her gasp, and she reached out, hungrily for him once again.
As they unhurriedly dressed in the still-dimmed chamber, Brigid flashed Morgan an amused smile. “Malo actually did have business with you, but none of the kind we have had.”
“I should hope not,” Morgan laughed.
“Malo is an officer serving the Council of Ten,” she said slyly, “and he was sent here at my brother’s bidding. He was to come here today even before Chulainn threatened to remove Lothian support if you were not soon freed. The failed attempt on your life, though, was the deciding factor. Ian does love you, despite his disapproval of our ‘entanglement’ as he calls it.”
Morgan rubbed his jaw, still sore from Connach’s vicious blow. “You can tell Ian that I don’t care much for his version of brotherly love.”
She placed her fingers on his lips to silence him. “I shall tell him, but in my own unmistakable manner. But, be still; let me tell you of Malo. It may be important that you appear to know this.”
“This same Malo is in love with my handmaiden, Elena. Without my permission, Elena can marry no one.” She grinned triumphantly. “Malo was quite happy to spend this time with her in my chambers, with my promise to consider her marriage to him, and leave the business of message-taking to me.”
She continued to amaze Morgan.
“Why was this lucky officer initially coming to call on me?”
“To tell you to report to the briefing room at six hours tomorrow morning, ‘Voodoo Time’ as the other sailors from your world call it.”
“You’d better have the real Malo or one of my guards get me for that briefing, because I don’t think my guardians outside will let me leave alone.” She nodded and began to caress him again, and he was extremely sorry that the visit had to end before the guards grew suspicious.
“Any lackey could have delivered that message in a note, you know,” he said, hoarsely, responding to her touch.
“True,” she answered and stopped her teasing. “But Malo is considered to be an accomplished reader of emotions. My brother wanted to know if Malo found you to be ‘dangerous’ or not.”
“Am I?”
“Only in bed. I hope Ian never finds out just how dangerous you are to my peace of mind.”
“Me, too. This stint in the slammer has been about all I can take.” Then he frowned. “Malo’s mission should have taken no more than ten or fifteen segmenti at the outside. What if the guards get suspicious? After last night’s episode, how can they keep a four-hour visit to themselves?”
Her smile brightened the room. “Do not forget that I am a daughter of Aiofe’s Grove. The guards will think that Malo left minutes after his arrival.” Despite her assurances, she slid to the floor and retrieved her tunic but fastened it with a tantalizing slowness that Morgan knew was deliberate. She did not need the pendant for anything.
“My brother is softening a little,” she said, fastening the final clasp. “He cares for both of us too much to carry on this pouting much longer.”
“That’s not quite how the Optio, Patrick, reports it.”
“He’s not a Connach,” she reported, closing the matter. “Coel Chulainn has declared his support for you; so has Grandfather. Don’t ask me why.”
Morgan was half-afraid to ask her how she arranged her hair, let alone her family’s affairs.
“Grandfather has liked you from the start,” she continued, unaware of Morgan’s speculations. “I think he never cared much for Clan Cunneda, even though he has never said so in my hearing. I know he feels that Father was wrong to try and connect the two families by an arranged marriage.”
“The idea doesn’t appeal much to me, either, and I’ve never met Martin Cunneda,” Morgan said, honestly.
“Oh, Martin’s all right, I suppose. I was ready to marry him, once.” She studied Morgan’s face as he h
ad earlier scrutinized hers. Morgan could not hide the flicker of jealousy that darkened his face. She smiled in apparent satisfaction at the involuntary reaction to her cavalier comment. When Morgan frowned, she brushed the creases between his brows with her lips. “One last kiss, my Welshman, and then I must go. If the guards change shifts, even my magic won’t be able to hide the length of my visit.”
Morgan was dressed in a fresh tunic and was ready to go by the fifth hour of the longer Reged day. His bodily aches had receded still further and he was optimistic about his coming meeting with Connach.
When the rap on the door finally came, Morgan nearly tore hinges loose, pulling a surprised Eogan, stumbling, into the room. The servant recovered and touched Morgan’s right palm with his own.
“It’s good to see you again, sir.”
In his most proper Pan-Celtic, Morgan replied, “And it’s good to be able to speak to you this time, Eogan.”
“My Lord Connach wishes to see you, sir,” the servant said, beaming.
“Yes, I know. Lieutenant Malo brought me a message to that effect last night. Any idea why your master has relented? Or am I to be executed this morning?”
“No, oh no, sir. N…nothing like that at all. I venture that he seeks your advice about the captured Vik airship.”
“Airship?” He was surprised and his face registered it. Why had Brigid said nothing about it?
“I don’t know many details,” Eogan said, unhelpfully, “but everyone is talking about it.”
Not quite everyone.
“Well,” Morgan said out loud, “lead on, my friend. Lead on.”
The briefing room was empty except for Ian Connach. He sat reading at one end of the oval table and briefly looked up and nodded when Morgan was ushered inside. He waited until Eogan exited before beginning.
“Thanks for coming.” Connach’s expression and voice betrayed nothing.
“Did I have any choice?”
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