“I have been watching the bird these last days. Whenever a Tuatha Dé Danann line wavers and looks about to break, the bird is there, swooping low and calling out in her carrion voice. And the men listen to her and they gain strength again. Their line grows firm and they repel your warriors once more.” Fionn tossed her long hair. “I think it is the Morrigan. I think their battle goddess watches over them.”
Indech’s eye twitched as he tried to suppress his anger. “I think you are a silly girl to believe such things.”
Lips thinned to mere white lines, his daughter said, “Then perhaps this silly girl should leave.” She turned and walked away.
Watching her go, seeing the confident sway in her hips, the arrogant tilt of her head, many things became clear to Indech.
Since the Dagda had come to their camp and Fionn had disappeared for several hours afterward, strange things had been happening. Accidents that saw two or three warriors injured: a well that turned bad and killed a score of men. Horses going wild and throwing their riders. And at each one, Fionn a silent witness.
Indech caught her just outside her tent. With a firm hand on her arm, he steered her inside.
“Father! What is the meaning of this?”
“You must think me terribly stupid, Daughter. Did you believe I would not know what you were doing? You’ve been killing your own people. Why do you work to subvert our cause?”
Fierce gray eyes narrowed. “What cause? We are here only because Bres was too pathetic to keep his throne. Fomor has no need of Ireland nor tribute from its people. This is folly, Father. Our people are dying for nothing! Hundreds have died in your battle and yet you question me about a score of men. The Tuatha Dé Danann belong here, we do not. Their gods and goddess fight alongside them and we are alone. Does that not mean we are wrong and they are right?”
Indech resisted the urge to smack her mouth. “Gods and goddess? I have seen nothing of the sort.”
“You are not blind, Father. You have seen. You only wish to ignore it because you fear it. The Dagda is as strong as a hundred Fomorian warriors. Nuada is far cannier than you or Bres could ever hope to be. Their leader, Lug, is a champion of champions. Their high king has deferred to him in this battle. And the Morrigan. She is a goddess of war. A phantom queen who steals the might and blood of her enemies so swiftly, those whom she kills do not even realize they are dead for days to come. You are dead, Father, and have been since the raven cast her gaze upon you.”
Fionn’s laugh was scornful and it stirred Indech’s fury as little else had. His resistance broke and he hit her. Fionn tumbled to the ground, mouth gaping in shock, eyes wide. Blood dripped from her split lip.
“You will never speak to me again,” Indech snarled. “From this day, you will be as dead to me as you think I am. If you try to leave this tent, you will be killed.”
Indech left before he could do anything worse. He ordered ten warriors to watch her tent and had them swear to strike his daughter down should she try to leave.
With a few harsh commands, he gathered Bres and Balor in his tent.
“This situation is preposterous. Our enemy is laughing at us. Balor, you must take to the field and end this thing.”
Balor rumbled something that might have been amusement. “I thought we needed no more than your warriors to win this war, Indech.”
“That was without the benefit of Bres’ honest assessment of the Tuatha Dé Danann.” Indech cast a baleful look on Bres as he circled the deposed king.
“I told you the truth,” Bres snarled.
“No. You told me ridiculous stories of champions that had never been defeated, of strange magical feats by druids, and spears and swords with fantastical properties.”
“And is this not what you have found?” Balor crossed his arms, his tone betraying the smug expression the lid concealed.
Hands curled into fists, Indech said, “What I have found is that the Tuatha Dé Danann have a mysterious means of refreshing their force each night. There must be caches of hidden warriors and weapons that we have not discovered. Had Bres not filled his own head with lies of―”
“They are not lies, you fool!” Bres shouted. “You heard Ruadan’s testimony of what he saw while in their camp. It was your refusal to see what is directly before your eyes that killed my son.”
The words, so close to those Fionn had spoken to him, made Indech’s blood seethe.
“And your gullibility has seen thousands of my warriors killed. I say we end this on the morrow. I say we do not give them the time to replenish their ranks again. Balor claims that he can sweep their army from the field with one look from his eye. I say we let him try.”
The great iron lid turned to Indech. “You do not believe in the skills of the Tuatha Dé Danann but you are willing to trust the power of my eye?”
Indech forced himself to speak calmly. “Aye. Perhaps it is time to fight fire with fire.”
And while Balor of the Evil Eye took to the field, a giant in black armor with a glowing eye, sure to draw the might of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Indech would strike the distracted enemy and finish this madness once and for all.
****
“This will be the final day of battle,” Morrigan said.
Lug asked, “You have foreseen this?”
“No. Today is the day Indech mac De Domnann finally realizes that he is dead.”
“Aye,” Dagda rumbled. “The man will not stand by the end of the day.”
“And what of Balor?” Lug looked between them.
Morrigan shook her head. “His life I have not touched. Balor of the Evil Eye is your fate, Lug.”
The young leader of the Tuatha Dé Danann squared his shoulders. “He is my origin and my fate. I will meet him today.” He smiled. “Though I would like my greatest champions by my side when I do so.”
Dagda pounded his fist to his heart. “It will be so.”
With a single nod, Morrigan pledged the same.
Drawing his sword and thrusting it high, Lug turned to the massed warriors of Ireland. “Today we are victorious! Today we reclaim what is fated to be ours!”
The great host cheered and Morrigan leapt to the sky, carried high by the fervor of Lug’s warriors. They were glorious in their passion. She wheeled overhead, drinking in the heady rush of their ferocity. Today would be a day of heroic battle and devastating defeat. Yet it would not be the Tuatha Dé Danann who retreated from the field.
Beneath her, the Plain of Pillars was a treacherous tangle of ploughed earth, drying blood-mud and the littered remains of Fomor dead. So different to what she had flown above mere days ago. A lush, green plain slowly giving way to the touch of frost. Winter was coming, a time of death and cold, but always, ever always, summer would return and death would give way to blossoming potential and sweet life. Yet all she saw then was now in ruins.
Was this what the world was to become? Something beautiful and precious made ugly by the wars of men and gods? Were they all destined to drown in blood? Would every plain become a battlefield sowed with the hearts of the young, only to be harvested in hate?
Morrigan cried out her pain and the armies below roared back. Glittering with deadly light, swords and spears rose in challenge and once more, the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomor clashed.
Lug was a shimmering beacon amongst the men of Ireland. Released from his promise to not take to the field, the greatest of champions fought at the head of his warriors at last. They rallied to him, they battled more valiantly, they died to protect him and they lived to give him everything they could. The front line of the Tuatha Dé Danann swept aside the Fomor and drove a spear-point into their enemy’s heart.
Then, from the back of the Fomor, came a massive black shape.
Morrigan flung herself down for a closer look.
Balor.
The giant waded through his own warriors with no regard for who he knocked over, who he stood on in his drive toward the front. The heat of his concealed eye reached up to Morrigan,
caught her in a crushing grip. She battled free and climbed back to dizzying heights. From here she saw his destination.
Wings beating hard, she raced him back to Lug.
“Balor of the Evil Eye,” she shrieked down to him and Dagda. “He means to meet you now.”
Dagda laughed and swung his huge club. Lug grew grim and determined. He sent his faithful warriors back, determined to keep them safe from Balor’s power.
“Come, my sweet winter,” Dagda called. “We will destroy this enemy together.”
His words burned away the despair of what she had seen from on high.
Something caught the corner of her sharp, raven eye.
Flaring her wings, Morrigan twisted and faced the disturbance.
The echo of Dadga’s battle lust burst into flame in her chest.
“Indech!” she screamed and flew for him as an arrow fired from a bow.
Diverted by the appearance of the fabled Balor, the Tuatha Dé Danann host had left its flank exposed. A small, fast group of Fomor had splintered away and now raced for this new vulnerability. At their head, Indech mac De Domnann.
Morrigan dived down over the heads of the distracted Tuatha Dé Danann, crying out for their attention. They looked up at her and cheered, and swung around to see where she flew. Made aware, filled with her need for blood, they saw their enemy and as one, charged.
Shifting into her human form, she touched ground in front of her magnificent warriors and stood tall before the Fomor king.
Indech, eyes wide, jaw dropping, skidded to a clumsy halt. From behind, his warriors swarmed forward. They parted around him as river waters around a rock. The furious charge of the Tuatha Dé Danann similarly swept around Morrigan, their passage flaring her red cloak around her body. The clash of battle was deafening and yet, Morrigan did not flinch. She had no sword or spear but did not fear the long blade gleaming in Indech’s hand. For it appeared he forgot he held it. The enemy king was struck dumb and she felt the disbelief, the doubt, the anger, the zeal for victory, drain from him as the blood was drained from his warriors.
Morrigan smiled. In his eyes, she saw him know the truth. He was dead.
“No!” Indech roared the denial and spun. He fought his way free of the battle and fled back toward the Fomor host.
“Be victorious, my warriors!” Morrigan sang to the fighting men and lifted once more from the ground. There was another promise yet to keep.
Back to Lug and Dagda she went, as fast as she could. Again, she landed and resumed the shape of a woman. Drawing her red cloak tight, she took her place beside Dagda, just behind Lug. Around them, the opposing armies had backed away. This single combat would define the future for all.
Beyond Lug was Balor of the Evil Eye. He towered over his men, his lidded face tilted down toward the young champion. He carried a monstrous sword but it was not his greatest weapon.
In contrast, Lug had passed off his spear and sword. He stood before the giant, small and defenseless.
“Balor!” Lug called so all men on the field could hear him. “Your host is defeated. Ireland belongs to the Tuatha Dé Danann and they do not pay tribute to anyone! Retreat or die.”
The Tuatha Dé Danann warriors bellowed their agreement, chorusing to a cacophony of swords smacked against shields.
Over the din, Morrigan could just hear Balor laughing. And beneath the amusement, she heard something else.
Through the Fomor host came Indech, screaming. No one but those close to him could make out his words, and they began to push away from each other, trying to flee the Plain of Pillars.
“Too late,” Morrigan whispered and Dagda nodded, his grin wide and gleeful.
“Who is this boy before me?” Balor rumbled as the noise lessened. “I would like to see this talkative fellow who converses with me.”
And the great lid began to rise on his ill-gotten eye.
“Stop!” Indech stumbled from the front line of Fomor. “It is all true...” His voice died away as the red light of Balor’s eye shone forth over the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Heat cut across Morrigan in a cruel sweep. It blasted the air from around her and scorched her skin. Cries rose from the closest warriors. There was a loud clatter of weapons dropping from burnt hands.
Lug was a mere blur in the suddenly red world. He stood tall, his clothes and hair smoking. The leader of the Tuatha Dé Danann reached to his belt, bare of weapons of steel, and pulled forth a simple sling ― a child’s toy, a means of hunting small game for a meal. Already loaded, he swung the sling expertly and loosed the stone right into the evil eye.
Balor roared and staggered. His gaze swept up to the sky, the lid falling back to fully reveal the killing power of his eye. Morrigan, gasping for cool air, was thankful she was not on the wing. The giant spun violently, a useless attempt to regain his balance. The red swath of his eye fell upon his own ranks. Those closest to him vanished instantly. Those behind, turned to ash.
Panic rose in the Fomor as their greatest weapon cut through them. They turned and fled, slashing and stabbing at their fellows in a desperate attempt to outrun Balor’s dying act.
Indech, utterly lost, stared as Balor crashed to his knees. He did not even move when, with a final groan, the giant toppled over. The very crown of his head struck Indech in the chest. A great gush of blood spurted over the king’s slack lips. He collapsed under the weight of Balor’s head and was pushed into the blood-mud.
Lug, his deadly sling still in hand, went forward to look down on his fallen enemies. Morrigan and Dagda followed.
“Declare,” Indech gasped. “Who...who is the...man?”
“A man who does not fear you,” Lug said.
Tears streaming from his eyes, Indech found Morrigan and lifted a hand to her, pleading.
“You are dead, King Indech mac De Domnann,” she told him.
Stepping away from Indech, Morrigan turned to the men of Ireland. She flung her arms to the sky, her cloak billowing out like wings.
“Kings of Ireland,” she cried so all would hear. “Arise to the battle!”
They answered with a battle cry louder and more beautiful than anything she had ever heard before. Weapons rose into the air and the Tuatha Dé Danann charged once more into battle, to drive the last of the Fomor from their precious green isle.
****
It was at an end. The Fomor were defeated, sent back to sea forever. Bres was captured and spared ― though his continued life came at great personal cost. The former king was no more, instead forced to plough the grain fields and milk cows.
The Plain of Pillars, with a turning of the seasons, returned to its splendor. Rich green, nodding grass-flowers, darting rodents and, overhead, hunting birds.
Morrigan soared over the battlefield, recalling the carnage and blood-mud and rotting corpses. All was peace now. The plain was returned to them, the glory of their land their own once more. Yet as the world moved on, Morrigan could still feel the tug of the past, the killing and the loss would never leave this place. It would reach forward into the future from the past and shape the destiny of men and gods.
Despair filled her breast as she fled the Plain of Pillars and sang out at long last the prophecy she had feared to tell Dagda when he came to her on Samhain...
****
“I shall not see a world
Which will be dear to me:
Summer without blossoms,
Cattle will be without milk,
Women without modesty,
Men without valor.
Conquests without a king ...
Woods without mast.
Sea without produce...
False judgments of old men.
False precedents of lawyers,
Every man a betrayer.
Every son a reaver.
The son will go to the bed of his father,
The father will go to the bed of his son.
Each his brother’s brother-in-law.
He will not seek any woman outside his
house...
An evil time,
Son will deceive his father,
Daughter will deceive ...”
~ Translated from the ‘Cath Maige
Tuired’ by Elizabeth A. Gray.
****
Afterword
Back when I was discovering fantasy as a genre, some of the first books I came across (and loved) were Katharine Kerr’s Deverry series and Kenneth C Flint’s Sidhe series. Needless to say, these books inspired a fascination with all things related to Celtic mythology and it paved the way for an interest in ancient history in high school. All that led to a university degree and a subsequent working life in science. Logical, really.
When the call for submissions for this anthology came out, I was thrown right back into those days of Kerr and Flint devotion and the decision to submit was made for me. The tripartite nature of Morrigan intrigued me, so I set about reading everything I could about her, searching for that spark of something to inspire the unfathomable creativity of the back-brain. Nothing jumped out at me. Then I found a translation of the Cath Maige Tuired, the tale around which Flint set some of his Sidhe stories. Still, little in the tale stood out to me. Morrigan’s part was vague and confusing. Then I reached the end and found her prophesy. The opening lines―
I shall not see a world
Which will be dear to me
―caught my attention like a sprung bear-trap. This woman had just fought tooth and nail to save a world she believes will turn into something she could hate. I was immediately struck by the disparity between the two images of Morrigan in the tale ― the cucumber-cool creature who went to King Indech and took from him “the blood of his heart and the kidneys of his valor” and the heartbroken woman who saw a future world she could not love. What would make a person swing between these opposing natures?
The only answer I could find was love. Love of a man. Love of country. Love of life. The Morrigan loves Dagda, so she listens to his council, takes his comfort and lets him talk her into doing things she otherwise wouldn’t do. She loves her country, so she fights for it and sacrifices the lives of her people for it. She loves life, so she despairs over the losses, and grieves that perhaps those losses were in vain.
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