“Morrigan.” Dagda said her name with barely enough breath to give it sound. “My sweet winter.” His arms went around her and gathered her close to his warmth. “I do not pretend to know how you see what you see, and I do not doubt what you see. You see so far and your sight has been a boon to the Tuatha Dé Danann, but I fear you are also blind. There are many things you fail to see.”
She struggled to free herself but he held tight.
Dagda continued, “Many think I am stupid and I know I am not as talented as Lug, nor as clever as Nuada. I do not see things as you see them, but I do see you. I see the queen of the battlefield, the mother of the land and a woman lost in the dark. As each summer comes to an end, I see the despair grow in you. This is what you do not see.”
His voice was deep and soft. Morrigan leaned against him and tried to wrap herself in that voice.
“This darkness that comes upon you is not eternal. Let me show you.”
And because she wanted him to be right, she let him.
He lowered her to the ground and made love to her. When they lay satiated in each other’s arms, Morrigan felt some of the bleakness inside burn away.
The first of his needs fulfilled, it was no surprise when Dagda moved to the second.
“Have you learned of the Fomorian movements?”
Morrigan left his side and wrapped herself in her cloak. “I have. They will make land at Mag Ceidne.”
Dagda stood, pulling on his clothes. “Then we shall meet them at Mag Tuired.”
“The Plain of Pillars,” Morrigan whispered to the night.
“It will once again know battle and once again, our victory.”
She smiled at him, sad but tolerant. “You trust to the past too much.”
“And you do not. That is why you fear the future. Lug wishes to know how you will help our efforts.”
It was in her to deny her aid, but the warmth of his embrace suffused her still and quickened her blood. The desire to fly returned, but now it was to fly toward something, not away from it.
“Indech mac De Domnann,” she said. “The Fomorian king. I will go to Scetne and destroy him. Come battle, he will already be doomed.”
Dagda’s teeth flashed in the dark. “My sweet winter.”
****
“Where do the Tuatha Dé Danann mass?” Bres demanded.
“Mag Aurfolaig,” Balor of the Evil Eye replied. His voice growled from behind the iron lid required to keep the power of his eye from casting death wherever he looked.
Indech mac De Domnann spread his feet and crossed his arms. “I believe they mean to meet us at Mag Tuired. It is a site that will work in their favor. Already, they have experienced a great victory there.”
Balor turned to Indech. “Had the Fir Bolg the power I possess, they would not have been defeated.”
“You rely too much on your power,” Indech said. “Your greatest strength is your greatest weakness. If anything will win us this battle, it is the strength of my Fomorians and the steel they wield.”
“And you underestimate the might of the Tuatha Dé Danann champions,” Balor said. “Your men are little more than fodder. A means to tire the enemy only.”
Hands curled into fists, Indech took a step toward the giant man.
“Now, now, my lords,” Bres said, coming between them. “Our enemy awaits us at Mag Tuired, not in here. I did not bring you here―”
“No,” Indech snapped. “You did not bring us here. We brought you. This is your mess we are here to fix, Bres. You have no chance without us. Do not forget that.”
Indech spun on his heel with a grunt of anger. He left the tent, left Balor and Bres to argue over the folly that was the coming battle. Balor could do as he wished but Indech knew the true fighting would be between his army and that of the Tuatha Dé Danann. They would meet sword for sword, spear for spear and when the Fomorians triumphed, it would be Indech who forced tribute from the defeated.
A raven cawed. The carrion bird huddled on a branch of a tree close to Bres’ tent. It meet Indech’s gaze with a single, ice blue eye.
What had been the wild tale Bres told about ravens? No, not all ravens. Just one. The Morrigan. A fearless, cold, battle-hard woman who could turn herself into a raven. One of Bres’ feared champions of Ireland. She did not fight alongside the other legendary champions. Instead, she flew above the battlefield, watching with her far-seeing gaze, speaking prophecies that forged the hearts of this land’s warriors into potent weapons.
In the tree, the raven turned its head and peered at him from the other eye. A shiver rolled down Indech’s spine.
It was just a bird. A filthy, scrawny scavenger drawn by the smell of cooking meat.
Bres’ stories of mighty champions had inflamed Balor’s battle lust. The giant’s need to destroy was as much reason why they were here as Bres’ pleading. Without Balor’s support, Bres would never have convinced the Lords of Fomor to send their army. Indech had come with them only to ensure victory. Balor was too arrogant and Bres ― a half-breed tainted with Tuatha Dé Danann blood ― was gullible enough to believe the stories about these so-called champions.
The Dagda. A man of such impressive girth that he could eat as much as an army in one meal, whose battle club was so large it required a wagon to move it. Idiocy. And Nuadu, the Tuatha Dé Danann high king; the man who toppled Bres from the throne by honor of a silver hand that moved as one of flesh: whose sword could not be escaped once it was drawn. Ridiculous.
And then there was this boy called Lug, with the skills of all men and a spear as unconquerable as Nuadu’s sword. Bres feared him most of all. The Tuatha Dé Danann had entrusted the coming battle to this boy’s command. Madness. Indech’s Fomorians would crush him without fail.
The Plain of Pillars would no longer ring with Tuatha Dé Danann victory, but instead with that of Fomor.
“My Lord!” an approaching warrior called.
“What news?”
“A Tuatha Dé Danann man has come asking for a truce. He claims to be the champion Dagda.”
“The Dagda?”
The raven bowed its head once and once only. Something squirmed in Indech’s stomach. He took a dagger from his belt and threw it at the bird. The creature fluttered out of the weapon’s path. Settling back to its perch, the raven resumed its silent, cold stare.
“My Lord?” The warrior stepped up, sword ready.
Hands clenched, Indech said, “Do you not think a sword is excessive against a dumb bird?”
The warrior sheathed his weapon. “I thought only of the stories of the Morrigan. Do you think the raven unnatural?”
“I do not. The only thing unnatural about it is this absurd idea of magical champions. Bring me this man.”
The Dagda both did and did not live up to the stories. He was certainly large and the club by his side impressive. Still, neither sight supported the exaggerations wholly. But there was an air of magnificence about him. He held his head high yet did not look down on anyone. His bulk was great but he moved with ease. The guard of Fomor warriors walked with weapons bared but relaxed.
“Indech mac De Domnann. King of Fomor.” The Dagda bowed his head once and once only.
Indech resisted the urge to look behind him at the raven. “And you are the Dagda of which we have heard so many stories.”
“I will have to take your word for that, since I have not heard these stories.”
Indech circled the champion. “Then I think we shall have to explore the reality. Bring me the cook!”
Over the next hours, bowl after bowl of porridge was placed before the Dagda. He ate them all and asked for more. With each ladleful of food consumed, the Fomorian warriors laughed with ― and at ― the Dagda, and Indech’s apprehension grew as the Tuatha Dé Danann champion’s stomach grew. The man’s appetite was prodigious, equaled only by his capacity. When at last the cook came to Indech to proclaim that no more porridge existed, the Dagda released an earth-rumbling belch and toppled over, snoring be
fore he hit the ground. At first the warriors continued to laugh, but slowly the joyous noise faded as they began to realize what had happened. Each man turned to Indech, asking him to refute the scene before them.
Unable to satisfy them, Indech roared, “Take this man from my camp! I do not want to see him again.”
One of the warriors drew his sword. “My lord, why not just kill him?”
“He came under a truce, you fool. Put up your sword and remove him from my sight.”
Indech stalked away. In the tree by Bres’ tent, the raven still watched him.
“Do not think this means I believe the stories,” he snarled at the bird. “It means nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
“Father? Are you well?”
His daughter, Fionn. Sweet and gentle, yet cursed with a sharp wit and love of satire. She had been known to ridicule any man who did not give her what she wished. As such, Indech had not been able to forbid her journeying with the army.
“I am well.” His tone was sharper than he intended. “You should be in your tent. The camp is no place for you.”
Fionn tilted her head. “But, Father, I heard the Dagda was in the camp. I wished to meet him and find out if the stories are true.”
“Aye, the fabled Dagda was in camp. At least it was a Tuatha Dé Danann calling himself such. But he is gone now. The next any Fomorian will see of him is on the battlefield, where his fat stomach and thick head will avail him little. Now return to your tent.”
Gray eyes flashing, Fionn nodded and retreated.
On its branch, the raven rustled its feathers, the sound of cloth brushing steel.
This time, Indech used a stone and he did not miss. It hit the branch square and cracked it. The bird lifted up in surprise as the branch broke away. Wings snapping furiously, it squawked at him and darted into the night sky.
“Curse you,” Indech wanted to scream, but it came as a whisper. “I shall prove you false in battle.”
****
Morrigan soared away from Indech both satisfied and angered. His courage was tested, the fault lines that would break under pressure had been laid. Her plan had moved along faster than she had hoped, thanks to Dagda’s arrival. His display had bolstered her subtle influence over Indech. While she appreciated Dagda’s efforts, she resented them as well. Why had he come? What had he thought to gain in going into the enemy camp?
As if drawn by her questions, he appeared. The Fomorian warriors had dragged Dagda’s slumbering body from the camp and left him in a ditch. But he was not alone.
Circling closer, Morrigan recognized the girl; the young, pretty thing that had come to Indech, calling him ‘father’ and wanting to know about Dagda. Fionn kicked him awake, then stood over him, insulting his fat body, deriding his poor mind. Dagda laughed and did nothing to defend himself.
Poor, simple Dagda. Morrigan wanted to swoop down, to claw out the girl’s eyes and tear the meat from her skinny bones.
Wing dipped, ready for the plunge, Morrigan saw Dagda move. He stood and took the girl upon his back. Her arms wound around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. His hands slid over her bared thighs.
Knowing the potency in his touch, Morrigan pulled up. She circled and watched.
Below, Dagda did not get far. The girl wrestled him to the ground and they fell together, arms and legs entangled.
Cold stabbed through Morrigan. She cried out her anger, screamed out the betrayal. He did not hear her, consumed as he was in the Fomorian girl.
Fleeing, Morrigan tried to leave the pain behind with Dagda and Fionn. This girl was not the only one he had betrayed her with ― she was simply the latest. It was not in Dagda to remain faithful, just as it was not in him to limit his other appetites. He would eat until he slept and fight until he dropped.
Returning to Unshin, Morrigan settled to the ground in human form and walked amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann host until she found Lug. He sat with his foster fathers and druids and devised the battle that lay ahead.
“I would speak with you,” she said, continuing past and back into the night.
Young and unworthy though he looked, Lug was formidable. He followed her without question but did not submit to her anger.
“You have word of Indech.”
“The Fomor king is defeated. He is yet to understand it fully, though.”
“I thank you, Morrigan.”
Red cloak drawn tight, she said, “I want to know why you sent Dagda to the Fomor camp. He told you what I would do and yet you send him after me.”
Lug’s face betrayed no hint of anger at being questioned. “I did not send him after you. He is there to spy for us. That is all.”
“Wrong. He is there to eat his fill of their porridge and bed their daughters. You know him well enough to know that.”
“Yes. I do know him well enough. That is why I sent him. You must trust me, Morrigan. I know what it is I do. And you must trust Dagda as well.”
“I want to trust you. But there is so much about this world that we do not understand. How do you know that this battle will advance the way you believe it will?”
Lug smiled. “Morrigan, who has the power of prophecy, asks me this.”
The desire to fly away returned, a sharp dagger in her guts turning and twisting.
“I see into the distance of time, yes, but I cannot see how we get there.”
“Then allow me to be the one to put our feet on the right path. You may see the destination, but I see the journey. Let me show you the way.”
He meant to comfort her with his words, but they merely strengthened the need to hide from the inevitable battle and the undeniable future. If only she could make them see what she saw. If only they would believe it.
“I thank you, again, for what you have done, Morrigan,” Lug said. “But I must ask more of you.”
Swallowing her fear, she faced him, shoulders back. “I have stood fast this far and I shall continue to do so. I will pursue what I have begun and I will kill for you.”
The young leader of the Tuatha Dé Danann nodded his thanks and left her. There were many more he needed to see before battle was joined.
Morrigan returned to the river, to where Dagda had met her, where he had tied her to himself and therefore to Lug. She did not go amongst the host again, could not bear to watch the laying of Lug’s path toward the future she had seen. Yet she heard of Dagda’s return and of how he had managed to secure Fionn’s help against her father and the Fomor. There was much rejoicing and Dagda was hailed as the greatest champion.
Trust me, Lug had said and so it seemed she should. He had sent Dagda to the Fomor, knowing the champion’s weakness and had profited by it.
Perhaps this meant that Lug could see the path, and perhaps it meant the path he saw led them not to the horrors she had seen, but away from them.
Her spirit warmed once more, Morrigan leapt into the air on the first day of battle between the Tuatha Dé Danann and Fomor. The fury was great on both sides. It stripped the warriors of titles and prestige until there were no kings or lords, just ferocious and proud men. Morrigan wheeled above it all, watching moments of tremendous courage and moments of wrenching shame.
Warriors screamed in righteous anger. Swords and shields clashed, bodies thundered together. Quivers rattled and spears and javelins hummed on their deadly flights.
Men, beautiful in their towering battle-madness, fell beneath enemy blades, betrayed by blood-wet ground and their own weariness. As they hacked at each other, hands and feet almost met. Spear-shafts as red as the hands that held them gored deep. Warriors fell to their knees and their heads were swept from their shoulders. Rivers of blood cut gorges in the soil.
And Morrigan witnessed it all.
Inspired by Lug’s confidence, she rose on air heated by spilled blood, lifted to dizzy heights where she could rejoice in the carnage. This was the right path. Defeat the Fomor, retain the land that was destined for the Tuatha Dé Danann; deny the future she saw each tim
e she closed her eyes.
****
As the days of battle wore on, Indech noticed something very strange. His warriors fought bravely and savagely. Their accounting on the field of blood was beyond impressive. Day after long, weary day, they cleaved and hacked their way through the Tuatha Dé Danann. Warriors on both sides fell and were trampled beneath their friends and enemies alike. The sod turned to blood-red mud and caught the downed men firmly. The Fomor counted the dead in hundreds.
Yet while Indech’s army dwindled, that of the Tuatha Dé Danann did not. Each morning the host that formed up on the far side of the field at Mag Tuired never grew smaller. Each night the dead Tuatha Dé Danann were taken from the field and somehow restored.
Bres babbled tales of the healer Dian Cecht and his powers. Indech demanded that someone be sent into the enemy camp to discover the hidden ranks that were replacing the dead. Ruadan, son of Bres, went and returned with talk of a magical well that healed the dead. He also spoke of a smith, Goibniu, who crafted new swords and spear-points with incredible speed to replace those lost during battle. Ruadan was sent back with intent to kill Goibniu. He returned, unsuccessful, to die at his father’s feet, pierced through by one of Goibniu’s spears.
Leaving behind the dead youth and his keening mother, Indech vowed that the Tuatha Dé Danann would know defeat on the morrow. It was past the time this madness ended for good.
“Father.” Fionn came to his side. “Tell me, have you seen the lone raven that flies above the field of battle?”
Hands curled into fists, Indech looked to the sky and searched for the bird even though the day’s fighting was long over.
“You have seen it,” Fionn said. “Do you think it is the Morrigan?”
“Tales,” he snapped. “Lies told to try to frighten us. You do not believe them, surely?”
The Phantom Queen Awakes Page 16