He crushed the flower then collapsed to his knees, feeling his strength drain. He breathed in ragged breaths while gently probing his wound. The flesh was badly torn, the muscle too, but time would mend him. If not, he would die a better death than by poison.
Below, metal clanged and good men died honorably.
And with each passing breath, Aodhan felt surer of his survival. He wrapped the silver branch securely in wool then grabbed the chariot and pulled himself to his feet. Just as he wished the Morrigan would appear and drag Turi from the field, a flock of crows circled overhead.
One crow, larger than the rest, cawed, its cry as loud as the clash of metal on the battlefield.
The Morrigan swooped downward with a hundred crows streaming behind her like a black veil. With her mighty beak, the Morrigan struck Turi’s head, the force splitting his skull.
Turi keeled over. Beside him lay the mortally wounded Keir.
The Morrigan landed on Turi’s chest. Perhaps he still breathed...Aodhan couldn’t tell from atop the rise. Again the Morrigan struck Turi with her beak, this time stabbing his chest. When her bloody beak withdrew, it held Turi’s heart. She threw it in the air, caught it and gobbled it down.
The flock of crows, a mass of flapping black wings and mournful caws, swarmed Turi’s corpse.
Turi’s kinsmen fled, the battle over.
Aodhan gave the crows a grateful nod to acknowledge their power before passing out.
When he came to, he lay in his chambers, Dagda bandaging his wounds. Bav and Fiallan stood at the foot of the bed. Not even a scratch marred Fiallan’s freckled skin.
Aodhan smiled at his daughter; she’d married a good warrior.
“We should hunt them down,” Fiallan said. “They will choose a new ruler, a new champion. They will seek revenge.”
“They will fear us,” said Aodhan. “The crows will convince them our druids have greater power than theirs, that we have the gods’ protection.”
Fiallan bowed his head. “With respect, I disagree. I believe they will seek to garner the gods’ favor, then test it. We must prove our strength has no mercy, for they will show us none.”
“I’ll not entertain thoughts of a lengthy war...not just now.”
“Will you when they attack our village?”
“If and when, yes.” Aodhan raised his hand then winced. “You will see I am right. Our village hasn’t so many enemies.” Only fifteen left. Not nearly enough to be an army.
Lying in bed recovering gave Aodhan time to consider many things. Often he held the silver branch and ran his fingers lightly over the fragile crystals.
Twice he’d used the Morrigan’s gift and twice been lucky. Or perhaps charmed.
****
Through the coming year, Aodhan crushed four more blooms. Four more times, enemies fell.
A dishonest trader drowned when crossing the ford. A foreigner from across the sea who sought to steal Aodhan’s secrets of silver smithing fell overboard. Horrific reports claimed an eel, another of the Morrigan’s form, had slithered around the man, choking him, dragging him under the briny waves. A horned cow gorged a thief. A raven plucked out a jealous man’s eyes so that he stumbled off a cliff.
Over the year that followed that, Aodhan crushed ten more blooms, ten more enemies gone, as he led his people to power through conquest.
Only two blooms remained. One last enemy and himself.
Aodhan ran his hand over the silver branch. The filigree leaves had worn in places. A few had bent. A couple had broken off. Like autumn to the trees.
“You’ve served me well,” Aodhan whispered. The branch had kept him safe, preserved his tuath. Simply holding it filled him with power.
The Morrigan might foresee a death, but with the branch, Aodhan could cause it. The broken crystal shards cut deeper and surer than any sword. He could kill his enemy from afar...although he much preferred to witness his enemy’s end. He’d garnered little satisfaction from those who had died far away.
Across the green isle, surely all had heard of the great Chieftain Aodhan, impervious to treachery and attack. If his last enemy possessed any wisdom, he would never show his face, never make his name known.
****
On the night of the summer solstice, before the bonfire, Erim threw his spear at Aodhan’s feet. The man stood tall and lean like his weapon, his hair as red as the blood that stained its tip. Erim set his clan torque beside the spear.
“I’ll not fight for you anymore,” Erim said. “Haven’t we spilt enough blood? Haven’t we lost enough lives? All so you can lay claim to more land than we can hold?”
Aodhan exhaled slowly. “I’d never thought you a coward.”
Erim didn’t pick up his spear as Aodhan had hoped.
“If I’m a coward,” said Erim, “you are a glutton for wealth you can’t possibly control.”
“How can I be greedy when I’m building a stronger tuath? Would you deny us our rightful place as lords?”
“I believe, chieftain, that you desire to be more than a lord, more than a king. You seek to become a god.”
“Perhaps we are the next gods. Even the gods were once of the land.”
“And driven under it,” Erim said.
“You speak sacrilege.” At Aodhan’s words, the gathering of druids nodded. Aodhan grabbed the spear. “Take back your weapon, take your place among my men.”
“And now we are men...not gods?” Erim laughed harshly. “Do you not fear the gods will take note of your lust for power?”
“If they take note, they will bless us. The gods admire strength, not weakness.” Aodhan felt the first prickles of a cold shiver. Why didn’t Erim understand this simple principle? Could Aodhan’s last enemy be within his own clan?
Aodhan recalled Pert, thinking, the first and last.
“Has some seer bespoke the future to you, Chieftain Aodhan?” Erim demanded. “How can you know you haven’t invited the gods’ wrath?”
“I am the Chieftain, I know.”
“Suppose you are mistaken? Suppose their wrath is so great it befalls not just you, not just our tuath, but the whole of the isle?”
Muttered agreement arose among the kinsmen.
The cold prickles became sharper, stabbing pains, needling Aodhan’s gut. His instincts had never served him wrong. A strange joy at knowing he would soon deal with his last enemy and sadness that his enemy had once been a friend and honorable warrior, swept through Aodhan. But he had no choice.
He couldn’t let Erim sway his warriors with cowardly talk.
“Erim, however misguided, speaks from his heart,” said Aodhan. “Although the gods watch over fools, they defend the righteous. We shall put his fears to the test, put my beliefs to the test. Whichever man the gods favor shall no longer be questioned.”
Aodhan left the clearing.
In solitude, he unwrapped the silver branch.
“I’d hoped to never need you again.” Even as he spoke the words he felt the lie on his tongue. To let one enemy live was unpardonable.
He stared at the two blooms ― one Erim’s; one his. Indeed, the gods would choose the champion. The Morrigan would.
Without thinking further, Aodhan wrapped his hand around a bloom. As his fingers squeezed, he said, “Erim.”
As before, Aodhan felt no different.
He stared at the branch. “If the gods are willing, this man’s life shall be forfeit by my hand. Meaning no disrespect to the Morrigan, I’d rather exact my own justice.”
Aodhan grabbed a dagger with an antler handle and returned to the bonfire. Erim was half Aodhan’s age. To defeat him before all assembled would squash any doubts. And if Erim was victorious, at least Aodhan would die fighting.
Aodhan stabbed the dagger into the heart of a stump. His blood pumped so hard he could taste it on his tongue.
“One last fight,” said Aodhan. “Defeat me, and the tuath is yours.”
Erim plucked the knife free. Smoothly, he spun, slashing at Aodhan.<
br />
Aodhan jumped clear then stooped quickly, grabbing up a branch intended for the bonfire. He shoved the forked end into Erim’s gut. Erim grunted but held onto the blade. They circled, the branch between them; Erim slashed while Aodhan pushed.
Erim shoved down hard on the branch then climbed atop it, knocking it from Aodhan’s hold. Aodhan reached for Erim’s legs.
But Erim cut downward, slicing into Aodhan’s forearm. Blood soaked Aodhan’s sleeve; the pain would hit later, if he survived. The silver branch and the crushed flower flashed though Aodhan’s mind.
At least I’ll die fighting. Whether he or the Morrigan had changed his fate didn’t matter. Not in the end.
Blood dripped to the floor.
Erim stood hunched, approaching like a wolf stalking prey. He slashed twice more, once striking Aodhan’s thigh.
Aodhan jumped back, wincing, feeling the second, deeper cut.
Rushing forward, Erim slipped in the blood. He fell onto the dagger, driving the blade into his stomach. Blood spread across the floor in a thick pool.
“The gods have chosen,” the arch-druid murmured.
Aodhan knelt beside Erim and took back his dagger, taking back his tuath.
Erim had sought to end the fighting betwixt clans. With Aodhan’s last enemy dead, the need to fight was no more. A bitter irony, one Erim might have appreciated.
Still, Erim’s death saddened Aodhan more than any other.
As the blood seeped from beneath Erim, it spread like a raven’s wings. Aodhan grimaced. The Morrigan’s sign. Even in his last battle, she held sway.
****
As the days passed, Aodhan felt more and more empty. Life lacked zest; it lost all zeal. It felt complete, at an end. Except that his death was foretold to come by poison, Aodhan might have welcomed an end to his lifeless existence.
“The harvest feast will cheer you,” Dagda said.
Aodhan sighed at his wife. Food lacked taste anymore.
Samhain. The days slipped by so easily; Aodhan had forgotten the time of year. Would the Morrigan again roam among his kindred? Hope that she would stirred life within his breast.
If nothing else, he wanted to thank her.
During the feast, he couldn’t concentrate on conversation. Perhaps the words drifting past his ears wove some tale or coherent strand. Yet Aodhan only heard random sounds.
Then Cathaoir, a man half Aodhan’s age, jammed a knife in the table. “You’ve grown long in the tooth, old man, and your ways are as long and as crooked. It’s time to step aside.”
Aodhan stared in disbelief. He had no enemies left. All but one bloom had been crushed. Yet a new enemy had arisen.
A gift from the Morrigan?
Or a trick?
Perhaps there had been eighteen enemies all along and the Morrigan had only said that one bloom was tied to Aodhan’s own life to temper his use of her gift. She would have realized that when the last true enemy showed his face, Aodhan would recognize him.
Or perhaps, having used the branch wisely, the Morrigan offered Aodhan a chance to die fighting. Even so, to live was always the preferable choice. But only if he lived as chieftain.
Aodhan inclined his head, saying sadly, “I accept your challenge. But I would rather not have your blood on my fine shirt.”
In his chambers, Aodhan changed his shirt then sat in the corner cradling the silver branch. He stared at the last bloom. If he was wrong, and the bloom was his, crushing it ensured his doom. But if he was right...
He crushed the bloom and felt no different.
Already tables had been pulled clear. The dagger lay on the floor.
Aodhan faced the challenger. Cathaoir’s eyes flashed like iron, cold and even-tempered. Although Aodhan’s gaze locked on his enemy, a glimpse of red snared his attention for just a moment. The Morrigan watched, a hood drawn around her delicate face.
In that distracted instant, Cathaoir lunged for the knife.
Aodhan, a breath behind him, threw himself onto Cathaoir. Heavier and stronger, Cathaoir rolled, knocking Aodhan on his back.
Aodhan latched onto his enemy’s wrists, his grip tighter than death. The dagger swung, grazing Aodhan’s forearm. Still, the shallow cut stung deeply.
A good fight lasted, raising a glistening sheen of sweat. But a good victory was swift. Seeking victory, Aodhan swung his foot, hooking Cathaoir’s leg. He bent his knee sharply and twisted, wrenching his opponent’s knee.
Cathaoir cursed.
With a harder twist, Aodhan knocked Cathaoir onto his side, onto the dagger. The blade punched between ribs and Cathaoir’s last breath bubbled out with his blood.
Sitting on the floor, Aodhan labored to breathe. He barely heard the cheers. Though he searched the crowd for red, his bleary sight couldn’t find the Morrigan.
“Here, father.” Bav handed Aodhan a goblet of stout, heady korma.
Fiallan hauled Aodhan to his feet. “Most impressive, Chieftain Aodhan.”
Aodhan drank deeply then nodded to his son-in-law, though in his heart, he disagreed. Now, truly, his life was done. The branch was bare. There could be no more glorious fights.
Though he should feel joy in his heart, Aodhan only felt tired. Leaving his kinsmen to celebrate the harvest, Aodhan retired for the evening.
That night, he couldn’t sleep for thinking of his glimpse of the Morrigan. He thought to steal away to the sidhe, the dolmen where he had once passed to the Otherworld.
But as he tried to move, cramps knotted his gut. He curled into a ball, his bowels twisting as sharp pains sliced through him. Sweat soaked his bed linens. Though his stomach roiled, nothing came up.
Aodhan shivered and convulsed for what seemed hours. Sometime during his suffering, Dagda woke and screamed.
Bav and Fiallan came running.
While Dagda bathed Aodhan’s forehead with cool water, Aodhan remembered the washerwoman at the ford. He felt the Morrigan’s fingers and not those of his wife bathing his dying body. And he felt the Morrigan’s hand reach inside him, pulling out his soul as if plucking a root free of the soil.
Aodhan stood by the bed, watching his grieving family.
Dagda wept bitterly. Then Fiallan picked up Aodhan’s torque and put it around his own neck.
“It is time,” the Morrigan said.
Her words transported them. Aodhan’s spirit walked the Morrigan’s isle where stood her Crystal Keep.
“Though I would’ve preferred a more noble death, I am eternally grateful for your gift. Few men can die knowing they have killed all their enemies.”
“But you only killed seven,” she said.
He stopped. “I crushed all the blooms.”
The Morrigan curled a hand, bidding him to follow. She led him inside the Crystal Keep to a windowless chamber. A hundred skulls, each glowing from a candle within, rested on shelves and filled small niches. In the center sat a cauldron with three legs, no fire beneath it.
The Morrigan stirred its waters with a ladle. Light of all colors radiated from the liquid. In the radiance, Aodhan saw verdant hills and stormy seas.
The Morrigan dipped the ladle and drew water from one verdant hill. “Each bloom claimed a man’s life as I promised. Yet you only brought about the death of seven of your true enemies. Ten you killed could have become allies, and with you, would have united Ireland for all time.”
In the ladle Aodhan saw ten faces, nine of whom he did not know. But one was his daughter, Bav’s.
****
Afterword
I’ve always been fascinated by stories dealing with bargains with death or the devil or some such force. The Morrigan is an interesting, multi-faceted goddess, and so I thought it would be fun to work a story with a warrior making a deal with her. I wanted to do a bargain story in which the conditions were met without trickery.
****
Biography
Linda Donahue, an Air Force brat, spent much of her childhood traveling. Having earned a pilot’s certification and a SCU
BA certification, she has been, at one time or another, a threat by land, air or sea. For eighteen years, she taught computer science, mathematics and aviation. Now when not writing, she teaches tai chi, belly dancing and writes non-fiction articles.
You can find Linda’s twenty-plus stories in various anthologies from Yard Dog Press, Fantasist Enterprises, From the Asylum Books, Elder Signs Press, Permuted Press, Ricasso Press and Kerlak Publishing. Linda also co-authored a story with Mike Resnick for Martin Greenberg’s Future Americas, available from DAW Books. Linda’s stories also appear in MZB’s Sword & Sorceress 23 from Norilana Books and in Esther Freisner’s anthology, Strip Mauled, published by Baen Books. Her work is soon to appear in Esther Freisner’s upcoming anthology, Fangs for the Mammaries and you can read her first published novel, Jaguar Moon, available from Yard Dog Press. In early 2010, she will feature in The 4 Redheads in Apocalypse, a collaborative novel.
In non-fiction writing, Linda published an article in the 2007 Rabbits USA Annual. She and her husband live in Texas where they keep rabbits, sugar gliders and a cat.
http://www.LindaLDonahue.com.
****
Martyn Taylor
The Good and Faithful Servant
Corbelathan was a brute of a man, tall, broad shouldered with flowing red hair and moustache, and an insatiable hunger for women. When there were no women around, sheep were in peril if he was in his cups, which was shortly after sunset most days.
“What’s the point of being a prince if I cannot enjoy myself?” he would roar, laughing, sometimes laughing until he fell over. And we, his father’s carls, laughed with him, carrying on as though we wanted nothing more than to be at Corbelathan’s beck and call forever. Perhaps some of us did. For my part, my knife wanted to slake its thirst in his blood.
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