The Celtic Mirror

by Louis Phillippi

  Morgan snorted derisively. “Good. I’m glad you’ve figured out how to cover yourself with the glory and keep the title, if not the responsibilities, of High Chief at the same time. But I’m not a member of the Council and I’m a warrior, too. Remember me?” It was his turn to shout at Connach from a distance of three centimeters. “I trained these men. Hell, I trained you. I claim the right as a warrior and as your adopted clansman to take the fight to the mainland.” He was caught up by his own rhetoric and had forgotten, for the moment, the woman who meant everything to him. “You control all of Reged’s filids now. Let the goddamn civilians rebuild the boats! Let a warrior fight!”

  “The hell I’m going to let you come along!” Connach yelled back, eyes rolling wildly, whites reflecting the fires that still flickered smoky on the water.

  “Then try and stop me!” Morgan returned, grabbing onto the bottom rung of the gondola ladder. The hatch stood open; the black pilot was watching the struggle below him with, Morgan saw, and interest.

  “Kirkpatrick,” Morgan said, feeling Connach’s eyes on his back, “how many more men can you take tonight, if you dump the bomb load in the harbor?”

  The answer was instantaneous, “I could take the whole damned commando force if weight was the only concern, but I’ve only got room aboard for five more men and their equipment.” The airman had lost all diffidence and spoke crisply and with authority. The craft was his to command. “Even then, it would be crowded.”

  “We’ll only be in the air a couple of hours,” Morgan retorted. He twisted on the ladder. “Team Three, sling all equipment and move aboard!” He stuck his face back into the gondola. “Kirkpatrick! Have your men defuse the ordinance now! We’ll jettison the whole load as soon as we get over the water.”

  Kirkpatrick touched his eyebrow in a sloppy salute and quietly gave his crewmen Morgan’s orders.

  Morgan took another step up the ladder when Connach roughly grabbed his ankle and prevented him from climbing the last two rungs that penetrated the flight deck.

  The face that glowered up at Morgan was dark with a suffusion of blood. “Who’s in charge of this operation, you or me?” Connach snarled, baring his teeth. His eyes were menacing, and his free hand was clenched around the hilt of his dagger. Morgan had gone too far, and both men knew it.

  Another injudicious move on his part would cause blood to spill. Morgan looked past Connach at Brigid’s beautiful face. She was Reged, and Reged had to survive.

  “Ian,” he said in a reasonable tone, “I just want to do the job you hired me to do—grab our now mutual enemy by the balls. With three teams on the mainland, you can still infiltrate three cities. You personally take Caerwent; I’ll take Duleek, as planned. Then you can send Kirkpatrick and the aircrew to one of the remaining target areas. You are in command,” he added, placatingly, “You make the final decision.”

  He was aware of Brigid watching him, silently pleading with him to remain behind, to repair the boats, as Ian had wanted. Tears had already begun welling up in the corners of her eyes. In a moment, her cheeks would be as wet as they had been earlier. Morgan forced his gaze from hers with an effort and faced the High Chief; the lust for action suddenly surged through him like strong liquor, stronger than a woman’s love.

  “It’s this ye’ll be needin’ if ye intend to sail for the coast on the Hellwinds,” boomed a voice ringing with the wild accents of the Lothian Highlands. A double-bladed, short-handled battleax was unceremoniously shoved into Morgan’s vision.

  Coel Chulainn’s gap-toothed gin thrust its own self into view—barely visible through the thicket of mustache that shaded his upper lip. The Lothian giant’s green eyes flashed as they peered through the rungs of the boarding ladder at the tense pair, halted in mid-argument.

  Grateful that Chulainn had deliberately broken the tension, Morgan reached for the weapon and hefted it, critically. He had taken a few cuts with it, or its mate, in sessions with the Lothian sword master. It was heavy—too heavy to carry just to please Chulainn.

  “My friend,” he said, hoping with a great deal of diplomacy, “my chosen weapon is this.” He patted the holstered Nighthawk. It did not feel nearly as substantial as the broadsword.

  The Lothian chief was not offended. He was astonished.

  “And what will ye be harvestin’ trophies with, lad?” The Ax-Wielder queried archly. “With that cheese cutter at your side?” He disdainfully tweaked at the sheath of Morgan’s dagger. The blade inside had been honed to an edge keen enough to part a man from his skin without removing his tunic.

  Ah, yes, Morgan thought. Niches in the halls, niches in the walls, filled with grinning, staring, ivory-colored balls. Morgan hesitated before answering Chulainn. He should not have done so.

  “Perhaps you’ve not the wrist for the double-bladed ax, young lord,” Chulainn said, prying the edged weapon from Morgan’s unresisting fingers.

  Morgan colored at the not-so-subtle slur to his manhood.

  “Dongall!” the Lothian yelled, handing the ax to a skinny soldier with the Lothian plaid sewn onto his left sleeve. He looked like a prime candidate for a tuberculosis ward, being so emaciated that his tunic hung in loose folds from his frame. The skeletal warrior grinned up at Morgan and executed a brilliant display of cuts and thrusts with the ax that blurred into mere impressions of haft and steel.

  Morgan looked away in embarrassment. He was spared from having to react further to Chulainn’s lesson.

  “What are you doing here, Coel?” Connach asked imperiously.

  “Goin’ to Caerwent with ye, as far as I can tell,” the giant purred, arching his thick brows. “Even Reged’s High Chief would not deny a Chulainn the honor of killing Mercians on his home territories, would he?” His stance dared the red-haired prince to respond negatively, but Morgan sensed that the overloud bluster and was for Lothian observers and not for Connach.

  Surprisingly, Connach seemed to understand. He hugged the Ax-Wielder through the iron rungs and laughed loudly enough to attract the attention of the watchers to himself.

  “The Lothian tartan will return to the mainland before the dawn star rises. By Lug’s spear, I swear it,” Connach assured the warrior,” and the singers will soon tell of the Chulainn’s deeds, or I am not fit to lead men in battle under my grandfather’s banner.”

  Connach’s booming voice easily reached the mainlanders who milled around the steps. Morgan watched many nod their heads in satisfaction at the words they were allowed to overhear. Then Connach embraced Chulainn once more and spoke more sincerely but just audible enough for Morgan and the massive warrior to hear.

  “You’re large enough to steal places in the gondola away from any two ordinary fighting men, you old bag of hot air. But I’d rather reach the coast by skimming the foam from the seas than to chance my fortune without you guarding my backsides.”

  Chulainn roared with mirth and clapped Connach on the back with such force that the prince was nearly strained through the iron rungs. The Lothian then swarmed past Morgan up the ladder like a great ape. Immediately, pieces of unwanted and heavy Mercian paraphernalia began to rain down upon the ground making warriors in the impact area run for cover. The Chulainn was hard at work.

  “Lord!” A high voice penetrated the din. It belonged to the consumptive Dongall. He offered Morgan a shagreen scabbard and the weapon it held.

  Morgan half-drew the blade from its raw cowhide sheath. The polished steel reflected the harbor fires like a mirror, perfect and undistorted. A thin red line wept a single ruby drop when he touched a finger lightly to the edge, testing. It was fit for a better swordsman.

  “The Ax-Wielder’s?” he asked Dongall quietly.

  “Aye, Lord.” The reply held no mockery.

  Morgan was moved by the honor shown him by the giant and allowed Dongall to strap the long blade to his left side, noticing at the same time that the little army was beginning to bristle with similar examples of ancient Celtic hardware. He searched the nearby area for Bri
gid but could not find her anywhere near the gondola. It was just as well, he thought. She would not have appreciated the shining look on his face as he stroked the scabbard; women seldom did understand the allure of battle.

  The blue stone on his finger was as cold as a woman’s displeasure.

  “Patrick!” The High Chief shouted at the Optio who had been one of Morgan’s guards. “Bring up two more Mirror receivers on the double! Castillo!” he yelled over the Babel of voices in the loading area. “Have a message sent out to all gun crews. Order them to cease-fire immediately! We don’t want to get downed by friendly fire.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll give it a try. But Shadow World radio communication is shaky tonight. Could be solar activity or Brotherhood interference.”

  “I don’t give a shit what it is. Try!” Connach paused. “Screw your science and technology. Locate someone who can rapport the stones.”

  “That, I can do.” Castillo gave Connach a perfunctory salute and limped rapidly out of the hangar.

  A young Druid pushed past Morgan and attempted to scramble up the gondola’s ladder at Chulainn’s urgings. Connach stopped him with one white-knuckled claw fastened around the slight priest’s shoulder.

  “And who would this be, Coel?” Connach fired at the Ax-Wielder.

  “And what d’ye think he be, Lord Connach?” the Lothian chief jibed, poking his great head through the open hatchway. “I found ye a Druid who bears no love for the great Nero’s teachings.”

  “We go to kill Mercians,” Connach sneered. “What do we need with this scrawny priestling?”

  Chulainn’s sarcasm matched Connach’s. “Perhaps the men of the Connach tartan can fight and die well without the aid of a priest to prepare the way to the Sacred Place. But without the help of both tartans and Lug, there can be no victory for us. Every schoolchild knows that.” He smiled smugly in his own logic.

  “This is no real priest you have found,” Connach returned nastily, turning the terrified boy to face him, making him clutch at the rails to keep from falling at the prince’s feet. “See, Coel,” Connach said, pointing to the black-stitched Wheel on the thin chest. “This boy is only an acolyte.”

  Morgan watched, fascinated. He had to agree with Connach. At this point, and with the space in the gondola at a premium, a fighter was infinitely more valuable than a holy forward observer. The acolyte, however, did not adhere to Morgan’s logic.

  The young boy straightened his back and looked unflinchingly into Connach’s hostile eyes.

  “I may be but an acolyte, Lord Connach, but I’ve passed all trials and testing necessary to enter the Grove and become a full priest. I have remained an acolyte only because Reged’s High Priest has little love for my convictions.”

  Connach’s expression softened. “You favor war then, lad?” he asked appraisingly.

  “Not particularly, Lord Connach, but if you and these warriors cannot free our captive lands from the desecrators, the Wheel of Life may be broken forever.”

  “You show some good sense...for a priest,” Connach responded dryly, “but what can you do to aid me in this holy mission, if I allow you to sail with us on the Breath of Odinn this night?”

  The boy’s hesitation was only momentary. If Connach awed him, he did not show any sign that Morgan could detect. “I know the prayers for victory and those for the dead, Lord,” he told the High Chief. “And I can rapport the Mirror nearly as well as the Master Transporter, himself.” He reached out with a strength and speed that had been hidden by his gentle appearance and robes of office and caught Morgan’s hand. He held it aloft so that the stone burned like an ember with reflected firelight. “I also know the chants needed to multiply the powers of the Keening Stones.”

  A look of pure pleasure swept over Connach’s face. The prince smiled, a mere flashing of teeth that was soon replaced by his leadership expression, but Morgan recognized triumph in that brief display.

  “Then you are for us, priestling,” Connach announced, loudly enough for all to hear. “It will be the first time in a century that the gods will be directly asked to aid the House of Connach.”

  Morgan watched the play of muscles about Connach’s mouth and knew that his friend’s newly assumed political self was at war with the old impulsive self, fighting the urge to laugh. When the political Connach conquered, Morgan realized that Connach might be able to survive as High Chief after all.

  With religious matters dispensed with, Connach turned his attention to the details of loading men and equipment aboard the gondola. Morgan, freed of responsibility, slipped through the ranks of soldiers and searched for Brigid.

  He found her standing alone in the darkness outside, watching the Vik airships drop explosives down upon her beloved city.

  “Brigid?” He went to her and placed his arms around her waist. She stiffened and averted her head, not looking at him.

  “You could have remained here with me,” she said bitterly, “yet you choose to leave.” It was an accusation, and it lay between them like a poisonous serpent.

  Morgan swallowed hard. What she said was entirely true. Yet she was wrong. How could he make her understand? He knew with certainty that he could not. Her brother had given them the freedom to love one another openly, yet he, Kerry Morgan, had spurned the chance in order to serve the bloodiest mistress of all. The ring felt like ice against his skin.

  “I have to go with them,” he pleaded with a constricted throat.

  “Nay. You begged Ian to let you go. You begged him!” There was no love in her look; her face was as set as a stone.

  Morgan despaired. “You’ve got to understand that I have to go. This is my war now, don’t you see?”

  “I see now that the stones were wrong. A soldier like you has a need to kill that kills all love. I see that I also have forgotten my duty as a Priestess of the Grove.” Her mouth twisted as she spoke, but her voice was toneless and steady. “I have remembered that duty. I will not forget it again.”

  She removed Morgan’s hands from her waist and stood apart from him. “You go now and fill Cernunos’s Cauldron with the enemy until you, too, become meat for the Horned God. You are possessed of a lust I cannot understand, you and Ian. So, go now and drink your fill of blood. I will complicate your life no longer.”

  She fled from him into the night, and Morgan had never felt as alone as he did at that moment, watching her running figure disappear into the darkness. He dropped his hand to the sword’s hilt, reaching for comfort from a soldier’s tool. “Lay on, MacDuff, and damn’d be he that first cries, ‘hold, enough!’” Morgan laughed bitterly and walked slowly back to the company of his fellow soldiers.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The gondola was uncomfortably crowded. The iron cage, designed to carry a Vik crew of three, held thirteen men that night. Thirteen. Would the gods of human conflict frown upon the warriors from Reged or upon the Viks? Morgan could not recall whether thirteen was lucky or unlucky to the Celts. He gave up trying to remember and wryly observed the inside of the vehicle that was riding the Hellwinds back toward the mainland. His ticket had come high, he thought, too high for the pleasure he was then enjoying.

  There were few handholds and no seats except for the pilot left in the stripped gondola, and most, like Morgan, squatted or sprawled uneasily on the iron deck. Some soldiers were sallow with the beginnings of airsickness. Others had passed that point; the sharp smell of bile rendered the already close atmosphere almost unbreathable.

  The rank smells, the tension, the fears, the grim soldiers—none of which was new to Morgan. He had spent hours of his life rocking with the peculiar motions of a “Blackhawk,” M-16 held between his knees, similar men beside him. The picture dredged from the past had been completed when Connach positioned gunners at the open ports on both bulkheads, M-60’s pointed outward. There was no terrorist enemy below; their targets were other airships.

  If the powers that spawned the unnatural winds knew of the invader, they made no overt move against i
t, perhaps even favored it in a perverse search for entertainment. Maybe, Morgan speculated, Aiofe had added her small strength to Odinn’s exhalations without Brigid’s intervention. Whatever the reasons, the Reged ship seemed to glide more swiftly than the machines of the enemy fleet. The impostor steadily overtook and passed the more sluggish Mercian vessels and shot bursts—every fifth round a tracer—into each gasbag. He figured he had the best seat at a Fourth of July spectacular, did Kerry Morgan.

  Slow-seeming arcs of white fire floated through opaque envelopes of hydrogen, and then in magnificent slow motion, a napalm-like ball would roll heavenward while another Mercian gondola plummeted to earth. It was most satisfying to Morgan and to the action-starved Celts who were not too airsick to watch. The men from Reged were not endangered by the other Mercian craft during the unequal turkey shoot. By waiting until they had passed the enemy ships before firing, the flickering muzzle flashes could only be seen by the crewmen of the doomed craft. And they would talk to the living no more.

  The Reged defenders on the ground were good, too, and Morgan grudgingly admired their work with Shadow World weaponry. The order to cease-fire had not been received or had been ignored by the enthusiastic gunners below and the commandos were constantly in mortal danger from their earthbound allies. Morgan could see the boiling fireballs of direct hits all around the rebel’s own gondola, but their craft was untouched, as if charmed. Morgan glanced at the ring he wore, then at the trembling boy-priest. Maybe they were charmed, at that.

  The gun flashes of Verulamium and Brecon finally fell behind them, and the fiery gauntlet of the seacoast town of Moyarney was almost run. The greenish luminescence of breakers on Reged’s windward shore was faintly visible below. The channel had been reached. Wind shrieked through the suspension cables, making even shouted conversation difficult enough to discourage anything but essential communication. Most of the warriors chose to ride in silence, betraying their nervousness in the repeated checking and rechecking of perfect equipment, the cleaning and recleaning of flawless weapons.