Flashback: The Morrigan: A Yancy Lazarus Novella (Yancy Lazarus Series)

by James Hunter

  Ailia carefully padded over to the aforementioned meathead and offered him a curtsy and a hand, which Oghma reluctantly accepted. Ailia held the proffered hand for a long beat, which meant she was digging into something the mook probably would’ve liked to keep hidden. Eventually, though, she dropped his oversized mitt and gave him a smile; what amounted to a thumbs-up in my book. Could be Muscle-head McGee really was innocent, which would be a lucky break considering the guy could probably knock my head into the lower stratosphere without breaking a sweat.

  Dagda nodded his approval. “And here is Nechtan.” The king waved toward the most normal looking fella of the lot—a bald-headed guy with a thick beard of gray, sporting a brown robe with silver scrollwork at the hem and cuffs. “Nechtan is our steward and faithful to our court. Isn’t that right?” he asked, his tone implying Nechtan’s faithfulness was anything but certain.

  “Enough with this farce.” The words slashed through the air like an executioner’s blade. The speaker materialized from a pool of inky shadow on my left, slinking her way into the center of the room, back straight, shoulders square, gaze frosty as the Rockies, contempt plastered across her face.

  Somehow I’d missed her when we’d entered the room, which was saying something since it was my job to notice threats and this lady practically screamed I’m going to murder you and turn your skin into a rug. She stood over six feet—all long limbs and graceful curves, with red hair nearly black, cherry lips, and eyes so dark they made midnight look like noonday. Like huge, rough-cut chunks of obsidian, those eyes. A cloak, composed of gauzy crow feathers, trailed down her back and framed heavy ebony-black armor studded with cruel silver spikes.

  She moved like a panther on the prowl, and the way she wore that armor said it wasn’t for show. This woman was a finely wrought battle-axe: equal parts beauty and death, ready to strike and kill. And she was beautiful, no question about that. But not in the way you’re probably thinking. She wasn’t beautiful like a supermodel or a rose. No, she was beautiful in the way broken glass can be in the right light. Or in the way a forest fire can be as it rages across the landscape, lapping at the trees with tongues of flame and devouring the tall grass.

  She was utter destruction wrapped in a veneer of grace and civility.

  She was a wolf if ever I saw one.

  “You parade us before these mortals like show dogs,” she spat, paying us no mind as if we were beneath her notice, while circling the room, locking eyes with each noble in turn. “You ask us to kowtow to these insects, when we should be crushing them underfoot and demanding their tribute. Is this the kind of leadership we need?” she asked, voice rising with barely concealed fury. “You all know my disagreement with our king’s decrees in this matter, but surely you must now see the weakness in this. The foolishness of it.”

  The king tensed, forehead furrowing—great fissures running across his skin—jaws clenching, turning his cheeks into rocky panels. I’m sure as shit no empath, but even I could see rage and hate boiling beneath the surface of his carefully maintained exterior. “Allow me to present the Morrigan,” he said, then sighed long and deep.

  SIX:

  Satisfaction

  “I need no introduction,” the Morrigan replied, voice as cold and desolate as the arctic tundra. “If these mortals do not know me, it only serves to demonstrate what fools they are in truth.”

  And she was right. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not exactly a scholar of Irish mythology, but I sure as shit knew who the Morrigan was: The Irish War-Walker. The Chooser of the Slain. The Raven Lady. The Phantom Queen. She was a bat-shit crazy war goddess with the personality of General Patton and the disposition of Vlad the Impaler. A real nice gal from all accounts. Unless, of course, you didn’t enjoy being flayed alive, disemboweled, then force-fed to wild animals—’cause that was pretty much her thing.

  “Now is not the time for this, Morrigan,” Lugh said. “No need to air our private business out before visitors to our court.”

  “Visitors.” She laughed, a raspy sound that reminded me of the cawing of a raven. “They represent a foreign power invading our sovereign land. A foreign power which you”—she rounded on Dagda—“have invited into our halls. Halls which have witnessed the rise and fall of nations. You have invited them into my home and granted them disciplinary authority over us. What better time is there to discuss these matters then when your Highness’s”—she said the word like a curse—“weakness is on display for the whole court to witness?”

  “It is not weakness to understand which way the wind blows and adjust accordingly,” the king replied sternly, sausage fingers clenching into a fist. “You have always thought strength is all that matters, but it is not the strongest that survive. It is the most adaptable. And it is not as though an alliance with the magi is without precedent in our long history. Did not the Druids help us overthrow the Fomorians so long ago? They demonstrated their power and worth then, yet you doubt their successors now? Good relations with the other nations is survival. You have no subtlety in you, Morrigan, your single-mindedness has turned you into an obsolete weapon not fit for this day and age.”

  She cawed, her feather cloak bristling as she cackled. “You talk of survival, but we are godlings.” Her eyes narrowed to pinpricks of inky-black. “So why would we make deals with these humans? Perhaps the lesser beings of Outworld need fear their kind, but not us. These creatures have no power over us. You talk of our history, of the Druids of old, yet you forget they worshiped us and understood their proper place.”

  She paused, turning slowly to regard our meager party, weighing us, measuring us, judging us. “Besides,” she finished, “these three certainly are no Mathgen, Figol mac Mamois, or Dían Cécht. You,” she spat, fiery glare landing on me like a hammer blow. “You are an enforcer, here to execute your Guild’s judgment in this matter, true?”

  Ailia moved in a flash, interposing herself between me and the Morrigan before I could open my trap and stick my foot into it.

  “Please, Lady Morrigan,” she said, lowering her head in a show of submission. “We are here only to investigate the disappearance of our ambassador. If there is any wrongdoing, it will be left to your court to dispense justice. These men are only here as a sign of respect—they are among the Guild’s most fearsome warriors. We thought only to honor your court by showing respect to your strength. If we failed to send our best, what message would that give? That we thought you weak? That we believed the Tuatha De Danann deserved anything other than the finest the Guild can offer? I can assure you, no offense was intended.”

  The Morrigan planted gauntleted hands on hips and jeered, a flash of white teeth. “Yet, I am offended nonetheless. Offended by your presumption.” She dropped her hands and took several measured steps toward Ailia, hips swaying as she moved. “Offended that my kin and kith—beings of legendary renown and power, one and all—are beckoned by the command of our oafish monarch and forced to stand before the likes of you.” Several more steps, until she was within spitting distance, which made me more than a little nervous.

  A cold sweat broke out on my brow, fat beads of perspiration gliding down my temples as I shifted my weight on anxious feet and casually brushed at my side, feeling for my revolver. I didn’t know how this was gonna play out, but I didn’t see a way this was gonna end without at least a little bloodshed. This Morrigan had her back up, and she didn’t intend to let us walk away unhindered.

  “Offended,” the Morrigan continued, taking a step closer, “by you and your imbecilic lackeys defiling this”—she swept one arm through the air—“sacred space with your odious presence. I may have tolerated the scurryings of your ambassador, but this I will not tolerate. I demand satisfaction.”

  A sharp intake of breath rolled through the room, then the chamber descended into a pregnant silence, filled with the possibility of violence to come.

  “On what grounds?” Lugh demanded, the joking trickster-deity suddenly gone, replaced by a hard-edged man wh
o expected answers. “They haven’t slighted you. There is no reasonable cause.”

  “Weren’t you listening?” she asked, facing him and giving him an I-got-you-right-where-I-want-you stare that looked downright feral. “Their very presence in this room is a slight that demands retribution. My demand is not within the spirit of the law, perhaps, but certainly within the letter of it. And it is my right as the High Blood. Or would you and your brothers further dishonor our customs by denying me my lawful rights as a high lady of this court?”

  A grumble of muted protests trickled around the room like the low, deadly buzz of angry bees. Obviously, there were some deep political undercurrents here that we hadn’t been anticipating, and we’d managed to blunder in and kick the friggin’ hornets’ nest. Great. Perfect. ’Cause that was exactly what we needed.

  Lugh shared a long look with Dagda, who, after a time, simply shrugged.

  “Unforeseen, but there is naught we can do,” the king rumbled, reaching up and rubbing at his neck with one huge hand. “She speaks true. It is her right, even if a gross misinterpretation of it.” He sighed, then regarded us solemnly from his throne. “The Morrigan believes her honor has been diminished by your presence among us as equals. To redress this grievance, she has challenged you, Ailia Levchenko, to single combat—though, let it be known that you may elect a champion to stand in your stead.”

  “This is an outrage, Your Majesty,” Ailia said, voice calm—not gentle, exactly, but commanding and self-assured. “Obviously, this is nothing more than a crude attempt to hinder my investigation.”

  King Dagda sighed again, then folded both hands over the end of his club, thick fingers restlessly dancing up and down. “I have no doubt it is as you say. These rules are barbaric, and little used, but such is still our custom. Most of the members of this court understand the need for change, yet our laws are not so fluid and easily adjusted.” He shrugged huge shoulders, broad as a small car. “Unfortunately, I cannot disgrace the customs of the court, which have stood for millennia.”

  “And if I refuse?” Ailia asked.

  The Morrigan moved in an eyeblink, darting in the last few steps and lashing out with her fist, a casual backhand slap that smashed into Ailia’s cheek and dropped her to the floor. “That is enough from your lips,” she said. “I have demanded satisfaction, and it will be met or I will see you three cast out as exiles.”

  “Gladium potestatis,” I muttered, conjuring up my Vis-wrought sword in a burst of azure light.

  A thin, single-edged blade of blue, about three feet in length and looking as fragile as fine lace, appeared in my outstretched hand. It wasn’t a real sword—just a construct of air, no different from any of the other workings I could conjure—but it was plenty sharp enough to slice and dice with the best of ’em.

  James, following my play, drew a thin silver blade from the cane he habitually carried. Glimmering arcane runes and sigils were worked into the steel and burned with an otherworld light, channeling the rage I knew was burning him up.

  “You wanna dance, lady,” I said over the hush that had enveloped the room, “then we can boogie. But you touch her again”—I nodded toward Ailia, who was picking herself up from the floor, gently probing her cheek as she stared at the Morrigan with hollow-eyed resolve—“and I’ll nuke your feathery ass back into the stone age where it belongs. Keep screwing around with us and you’re gonna find out exactly why you should be scared of the Guild.”

  She leveled her dead black eyes on me, ruby lips curling back in a snarl, willing me to flinch, to look away.

  Inside, my stomach was turning flips and my heart was thumping against my ribs in double time, but still I held her gaze.

  This is exactly what Lugh had warned me about with his stupid wolf proverb. This woman might’ve been clad in raven feathers, but she was a vicious, rabid wolf at heart—a predator right down to her core. I could see that plain as the delicate nose on her face. And the only way to deal with an animal like that is to stand your ground, unflinching. And if that fails, you have to beat the beast to death with a big friggin’ club. Creatures like the Morrigan only understand the language of power and violence, and I fully intended to let her know that was my mother tongue.

  Her sneer vanished, but her raven-eyed gaze never faltered. “Bold talk coming from a hairless ape. I have shoes in my closet older than the pair of you. You are children interfering in the affairs of your elders. Your betters.”

  “This doesn’t need to get ugly,” James said, edging to the right, positioning himself in case we ended up attacking, which seemed to be more likely by the second. “This is a diplomatic errand, Lady Morrigan, and so far your ill-tempered outburst has only demonstrated who the child here really is. Don’t push this or you’ll regret it. My friend might not have much tact, but he makes up for it with honesty. Screw around with us and watch the entire Fist, every council member, and every Judge descend on Tír na nÓg. Maybe you can defeat the three of us, but the Guild will ensure there isn’t enough left of you to fill a mop bucket.”

  “Enough talk.” She held up her right hand, and with a flourish—like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat—swirls of inky black shadow appeared in her palm. Tendrils of smoke wrapped around her fingers and whipped at the air, writhing in some unfelt breeze. A moment later she jerked her hand free, but instead of pulling out a cutesy bunny, she drew out a scythe, its double-handed shaft built of solid smoke with arcane symbols carved along its length, all of which glowed like the fiery tip of a fat cigar. The curved scythe-blade looked to be yellowed bone or maybe old stone.

  “I ask again,” Ailia said, wiping away a smear of blood from a fat lip, “what if we refuse?”

  The Morrigan carelessly draped her scythe over her shoulder as she turned to regard Ailia. “If you refuse to accept my challenge,” she said, voice cool and pleased, “the three of you will be cast from this land, exiles from the golden hills of Tír na nÓg, unable to return on pain of death. Moreover, you will prove yourselves, and your Guild, to be cowards of the first order. The rules of single combat are simple: the first to draw blood wins. Only traditional weapons may be used”—she waved her free hand toward me—“no firearms, no magic, though I will allow your man to use his Vis-blade.

  “Should you grow a spine and choose to accept, I’ll even be a good sport about it.” The Morrigan casually paced around the room in a slow circle, twirling her weapon with a grace and skill that was downright unnerving. “First I will even the odds and duel both of your men-at-arms as one, such is my confidence. A token to my esteemed brothers and sisters, a demonstration of just how little we have to fear from the esteemed warriors of the Guild. Second, Judge Levchenko, you wanted to ask questions, yes? Well. I will answer whatever questions you have until first blood is drawn. After all, I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m stalling your investigation.”

  I caught James’s eye with a glance, then nodded toward Ailia—this was her show, so ultimately it was her call.

  Stick around, likely have our asses beat into the dirt by an Irish war goddess, or be exiled forever and fail to find out what’d happened to the Guild ambassador. No good options there, but I’d abide by whatever Ailia decided. I trusted her to make the right call.

  Ailia dithered only for a moment, biting at her lower lip, eyes unfocused, then gave a curt nod, do it.

  SEVEN:

  Single Combat

  I moved inside the space of a breath, darting in before the Morrigan could prepare for an assault. Although sword fights in movies or TV shows often drag on forever and a day, most real sword fights end in the first few moves: a quick rush and a brutal, unexpected strike could finish this thing before it got out of hand. I stepped and lunged, thrusting my sword forward—tsuki—only to find the Morrigan’s scythe handle crashing into the side of my blade, diverting the strike left and off course.

  With a curt smile, she sidestepped, the motion effortless and unconcerned, before pivoting, spinning her scythe with a flourish
, then whipping the curved blade toward my face. I shifted right, dropping into a back stance, my sword flashing up into an overhand block, uke-nagashi.

  A sharp clang reverberated through the room as my counter caught the incoming blow mere inches from my skin. A second later, the blade slipped off my upraised katana—water rolling from an umbrella—leaving her exposed for the briefest of moments.

  Lightning quick, I stepped in, pulling my sword around and up in a diagonal slash.

  The blade edge smacked into smoky scythe handle and, before I could readjust and launch another attack, a booted foot shot out and caught me square in the gut, throwing me back five or six feet, leaving me doubled over, wondering where all the air had gone. I wheezed and groped at my ribs with my free hand. Screw me sideways, that hurt. It wasn’t exactly like I was going into this fight fresh: my middle was already littered with bruises from the minotaur and this certainly wasn’t gonna help the healing along.

  Still. Holy shit could this broad pack a wallop.

  “So these are two of the Guild’s finest,” the Morrigan said, pacing back and forth, edging closer to James with every step. “I expected better. Admittedly, it’s been an age since I fought a member of the Guild—must’ve been around the Spanish Inquisition—so maybe my memories are hazy. Still, Judge Levchenko, I would be quick in asking whatever questions you have in mind. Can’t image this will take long.”

  “Did you abduct Ambassador Hoehner?” Ailia asked, voice cool and level, though I could hear the thread of worry underlying the words.

  “Bold and to the point,” she replied. “I like that.” She moved as she spoke, charging James in a single, fluid motion, weapon zipping and twirling. James feinted right, then ducked in with a quick thrust followed by a daring slash aimed at her thighs.