“It’s of no consequence, she’s dead now.”
“Even you can’t kill a goddess that easily, Centurion.” Conall squatted beside Larcius and stared into his face. “What did she say to you?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself with.” Larcius stood and stared at the water, lost in his thoughts.
The wind rose, bringing the smell of burning wood and flesh, and with it came the harsh squawk of crows. Dawn was hours away, the carrion birds should not have been stirring yet, but their cries echoed over the hills as they called to one another.
“What did she say to you, Centurion?” Conall asked again, and this time there was fear and urgency in his voice. “What did Badb Catha say?”
The cry of birds grew louder and closer until the night was filled with their screeching and the beating of their wings. The sky was thick with them, so many that they blotted out the stars.
Larcius ran back to the village, Conall following in his wake. What they saw there was like a vision of the underworld. Amid the burning huts and roundhouses, in the greasy light of the human pyre, swarms of birds pecked, scratched and bit at the legionnaires while the men scurried about, desperately trying to protect their eyes and faces. The shrieks of men mingling with the harsh cries of birds were like the cacophonous music of Pan himself.
“Form ranks, damn you, form ranks!” Larcius bellowed, trying to instill order in his panicked troops. A viciously pointed beak struck him, tearing a long strip of flesh from his cheek. He flailed and grabbed the bird, breaking its neck with a satisfying snap. Another flew at his eyes and he cut it in half with one swift slash of his gladius.
All around him, his men were roaring and dying, torn apart in a storm of wings. He saw a legionnaire fall, weighed down by a murderous flock of sleek, black bodies, his face a bloody mask. Another walked blindly into the burning wreck of a roundhouse, his eyes dangling against his cheeks like two obscene baubles. The high, hysterical scream of a horse cut through the night as Larcius’ mare died in the onslaught.
Then, as rapidly as they had come, the birds dispersed and the stars could be seen again, sharp pinpricks of light against the dark blanket of the sky.
Larcius found Olcinius in the middle of the burning village. The Optio’s face was marked with long, deep scratches and one eye was swollen shut and bloodied.
“In the name of Orcus, what’s happening, Centurion?”
Larcius shook his head. “I don’t know.”
****
By dawn the fires had burned out, leaving nothing but smoldering ashes. Even the pyre had dwindled to a pool of congealed fat decorated with charred flesh and protruding bone. Its thick stink lay over everything. Nearly half of the centuria had perished in the crows’ furious onslaught and the few of those who remained bore the rapidly festering marks of claw and beak as if the very touch of the birds carried corruption with it.
Larcius Servius walked through the dead and wounded in a daze. How could this have happened, how could his proud centuria have been so badly mauled by mere birds? The gash on his cheek throbbed with every heartbeat, his skin was coated with cold, greasy sweat, his vision swam and a fierce nausea threatened to overwhelm him.
He forced the sickness down and gulped in great breaths of foul air, waiting for his vision and mind to clear.
The birds had not attacked again ― instead, they filled the trees surrounding the village, sitting silently on branches as if waiting for a sign ― but they had trapped the centuria as effectively as a ring of steel.
He found Conall O’Ceirin near the outskirts of the ruined village, sitting on a small mound of earth and staring at the trees. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him and his face and hands were covered with a myriad of deep scratches.
“What are they?” Larcius asked, nodding towards the dark flock that stared intently back at them.
“The vengeance of the Morrigu,” Conall said. “The children of Badb Catha,”
“You used that name before,” Larcius said. “Last night, before the attack. What does it mean?”
“It’s an old name for the goddess, Centurion ― the Battle Crow ― fitting, don’t you think?”
“Your gods have a curious sense of humor, Conall O’Ceirin.”
“Don’t they all?” He turned his head to look at Larcius. The centurion appeared older than his forty years, his features drawn and haggard like the face of a man who has seen too much in too short a time.
From the branches of a great oak at the edge of the village one bird, larger than the rest, rose gracelessly into the slate-gray sky. It wheeled around the village three times then hovered directly above Larcius, screeching at him. And it seemed to him that there was mockery in the sound.
It’s taunting me, he thought, the bastard is taunting me.
“Bring that thing down,” he barked to an archer.
“Don’t waste your arrows, Centurion,” Conall said, “They won’t do any good against the Battle Crow.”
Filled with sudden rage and frustration, Gaius Larcius Servius threw his head back and screamed at the sky: “What do you want with me?”
And the voice that replied and whispered in his head was a strained croak, the words forced from a throat that had never been meant for speech. “I want your stain removed from this land, Roman. I want you and everything you stand for wiped from the memory of men.” The bird swooped closer. He could make out every feather, every knot and gnarl of its claws, every line of its beak and, most of all, the glittering, malevolent intelligence in its obsidian eyes.
“Where is your pride now, Gaius Larcius Servius? Where is your honor? Will they keep you warm when you lie in the green earth of Inis Ealga?”
The crow screeched with demonic fury and drove towards his head, claws extended, beak open wide. He flung his cloak in front of his face and the claws tore through the red material, their fury barely suppressed.
“When darkness falls,” the cruel voice told him, “when darkness falls you will be mine.” And then the bird whirled away into the sky. He watched as it returned to its perch on the oak’s branches and began to preen itself, the movements languid and insolent.
“Olcinius!” The Optio was by his side almost immediately.
“Yes, Centurion Servius?” The Optio’s wounded face was covered with a blood soaked bandage and his skin was pale.
“Have the men prepare torches. We’re breaking out of here. We’ll see how well these damned birds like fire.”
“Yes, Centurion.” He hesitated for a moment. “What in the name of Juno’s tits is happening, Larcius?”
It was Conall who answered. “The magic of the old gods, Optio Olcinius. The Morrigu feasts on blood and death, and Rome has brought those in plenty since she came to Hibernia.”
“Why here? Why now?” Olcinius asked. He was a practical man, unused to any problem that could not be solved at the point of a sword and, perhaps for the first time in his life, he knew the cold caress of fear. They could see it in his scarred face and hear it in the barely suppressed tremble in his voice.
“The village was under her protection,” Conall said. “The people we killed were her children.”
“How can you know this?” Larcius said.
The Gael laughed, the sound was small and bitter. “I am a traitor to my people, Centurion, but I know their ways and the ways of their gods ― my gods ― before I turned from them and took your silver.”
“I fear no gods but my own.” Larcius said, his voice defiant. “And if the Morrigu feasts on blood and death then we will feed her till she bursts.”
****
By noon the centuria was ready to move.
But as Larcius watched his men gather themselves together, he realized that his troops were a pale shadow of the proud force that had left Campus Roborum, as if the sinister attack in the night had not merely wounded their bodies, but had scarred their souls as well.
The legionaries swayed where they stood, but kept on their feet through iron resolve
. An unnatural, fetid stink rose from their wounds and the fierce light of growing desperation burned in their faces. Each man held a gladius in his right hand and a burning brand in his left. Behind them, their pilum and shields had been neatly stacked ― such equipment would only hinder them now.
Larcius stood before them, hands on hips and head thrown back arrogantly, though it was an arrogance he no longer felt.
“Soldiers of Rome,” he barked. “There is your enemy!” He drew his sword and pointed it towards the trees and the birds that perched there. “Not men, but animals ― and what animal does not fear fire and steel?”
But even as he spoke he heard the voice of the Morrigu echo through his mind. “Come to me, Gaius Larcius Servius. I will quench your torches, blunt your blades, and my vengeance will be terrible.”
There is no longer a place for you in this world, bitch, he thought, and he knew that she could hear him, go back to the hell that spawned you. He picked up a torch and signaled the centuria to advance.
As the soldiers passed the village perimeter the flock rose to meet them, their squawks and squeals filling the air. As one, the birds banked and swooped toward the Romans, screeching their battle cries. And at their head was the creature Conall had called Badb Catha.
The black wave broke upon a shore of fire and steel.
Larcius swung his sword in a tight arc, cleaving through fragile flesh and brittle bone with each stroke. As he fought, he thrust out with the torch and the creatures shrieked at the touch of the flames. But for every crow he killed another took its place, then another, and another, and another...
His men were dying, torn to pieces by beak and claw: the birds were above them, below them, behind them, between them. To his right he saw Olcinius fall under a great swarm, his sword rising and falling even as they ripped the flesh from his bones. To his left, Conall O’Ceirin swung his axe two-handed, its long reach bringing down scores of crows as they flew towards him.
Then, abruptly, Larcius was free of the butchery, slipping and sliding on the blood-soaked earth. Conall was by his side, grabbing his arm to steady him.
“Run, Centurion, run!”
Larcius pushed him away. “I will not leave my men.”
“Your men are dead, Larcius. Look!”
The slaughter was all but complete. A legionnaire stumbled blindly with birds clinging to his head and limbs, pecking at his flesh. The man sank to the ground as a final, wordless scream was torn from his ruined throat. The rest of the centuria lay where they had fallen, their bodies now perches for the crows.
Badb Catha sat at the centre of the carnage. Her form was human, but her features shifted constantly between youth and age, beauty and hideousness, animal and woman.
She looked directly at Larcius and smiled.
“Join us, Gaius Larcius Servius,” she said. “Your men are waiting for their commander.”
As she spoke, the flock took to the air with a great beating of their wings, the sound as loud as thunder in the quiet aftermath of battle.
And then, as Larcius and Conall watched, the legionnaires began to move, rising to their feet and forming ranks. Behind them, the dead soldiers in the village rose and joined them until the entire centuria faced their commander once more.
No blood flowed from their wounds, but their flesh was gray, corrupt, their eyes gleaming with unholy fury and a gangrenous stench surrounded them.
As one, they drew their swords and advanced upon the horror-struck Centurion and the Erdin turncoat. And Badb Catha was at their head.
****
They marched. The centuria marched through the Rapa Hills towards Campus Roborum. Above them a silent black cloud flew, keeping pace with their tireless steps.
Larcius was at the head of his men, a crow perched upon his shoulder. From time to time the bird would nuzzle his cheek, running its beak along the suppurating wound that ran from ear to jaw.
Its voice echoed through his skull.
“I will give you work for your swords, Gaius Larcius Servius, and I will give you legions to command. March then, Centurion! On to Roborum, to Eblana and, in time, to Rome itself.”
****
Afterword
Despite the fact that it is the land of my birth and the place where I continue to make my home, I have written very few stories set in Ireland. With ‘The Children of Badb Catha’, I sought to redress this balance a little.
Irish mythology has fascinated me ever since my ten-year-old self picked up a copy of Rosemary Sutcliff’s The High Deeds of Finn McCool. But that fascination has rarely found its way onto the page since better writers than I have told and re-told the stories of Irish heroes: from the warriors of the Tuatha Dé Danann, to Fionn mac Cumhaill and Cu Chulainn.
But stories have a way of forcing themselves into the air regardless and with the announcement of The Phantom Queen Awakes I was finally able to find a narrative lynchpin ― that of the Morrigan herself ― that allowed me to write a tale that brought my obsessions and cultural heritage together.
As with so many of the tales I write, ‘The Children of Badb Catha’ had a difficult birth, and I am greatly indebted to Amanda Pillar for correcting the historical inaccuracies that loomed large in the original draft and for her and Mark S. Deniz’s honing of the story into a leaner and more focused narrative.
The Roman Ireland presented here is, of course, pure speculation, since Agricola’s ‘single legion, with a moderate band of auxiliaries’ never crossed the North Channel.
But what if they had?
****
Biography
James Lecky is a writer based in Derry, N. Ireland. His previous fiction has appeared both in print and online in a number of publications including Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Sorcerous Signals, Aphelion, Mystic Signals and Emerald Eye: The Best Irish Imaginative Fiction.
****
L.J. Hayward
The Plain of Pillars
He came to her on Samhain, the night between life and death, between summer and winter, and watched her bathe. She stood, unashamed of her nakedness, feet apart, and drew the river across her skin in slow strokes. Her bones chilled the water, bringing the first touches of winter to the world. Where the water dripped from her rust-red hair, it fell as ice back to Unshin.
“You could doom us all to a cold death if you wished.” He lay on the bank.
Morrigan cast a glance over his broad, rounded body and some of the cold inside her melted. “I would never wish such a thing.”
Dagda returned her look with appreciation. Then he sighed. “But sometimes, you do.”
She turned and looked across the river at Ireland ― pure and honest and in danger. If the danger came only from the advancing Fomorians, there would be no division in her heart.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Sometimes I do.”
She left the water and went to his side. He draped her red cloak around her shoulders and drew her to the ground.
“So cold,” he murmured, his hands warm as they touched her arms and breasts.
Morrigan pushed his hands aside. “No, Dagda. Not this time.”
“No?” He sat back. “You have never refused me before.”
Her throat tightened at the hurt and confusion in his voice, and the words she desperately wanted to speak caught fast to her tongue and stayed inside. He was such an uncomplicated thing, all action and intemperance, ruled by his desires. How could she make him understand that the world was moving beyond the simple passage between winter and summer, death and rebirth? He saw only the present. His gaze never strayed beyond the next meal, the next woman, the next fight. And right now, she was merely two of those things to him. He would not listen.
But she had to try.
“Dagda, I have seen the future.”
“I have seen it as well. It is full of Fomorians, tearing up our land, stealing what is rightfully ours and enslaving our people.” He gestured to the river, the droplets of ice she had left behind drifting on th
e current. “This is a dark time for the Tuatha Dé Danann. They need us to bring them through it.”
“But what if we fail? What if we should not even try?”
“If anyone can, we can. And why should we not try? You cannot tell me that what the Fomorians have done has not angered you. This is our land. You hate Bres as much as I do.”
Morrigan got to her feet, holding her cloak tight. The breeze caught the material and lifted it like wings. She had the sudden desire to fly, to go far away, let the wind take her to a place where she was not this person, not this woman.
“There is more than Bres out there, Dagda,” she said, instead of fleeing. “There are greater dangers than an invading army.”
“Do you mean the giant Bres brings with him? Balor of the Evil Eye? We will defeat him as we have defeated all others.”
“I do not mean Balor. He is an enemy we can see and fight. He is the least of the dangers I have seen.”
Dagda stood, took one of her arms in his strong hold and turned her to face him. “Then what else is there? Morrigan, you must tell me. If we have more than one enemy approaching, we must know so that we can prepare. Why did you not tell Lug about this earlier?”
“This is not an enemy we can see clearly, nor fight with steel and muscle. The greater enemy I foresee is the future, Dagda. I have seen what this world will become and I am horrified. What if our actions now lead us to that future? What if it leads us to something even worse? Perhaps it would be best if the Fomorians are allowed free reign of this land. Perhaps I should coat the world in winter and leave it there.”
He was quiet for a long time, holding her arm so she could not escape. She was grateful for the tether because the desire to run spiked. Beneath her cloak, her skin itched with the need to move, to change and be free. She had to stay, she had to convince him. He was simple but good and she would hate to leave him behind.
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