Flashback: The Morrigan: A Yancy Lazarus Novella (Yancy Lazarus Series)
Page 9
Best Regards,
Scott Hoehner, Ambassador
P.S. Should you find me dead, please alert my brother Bartholomew—he is the executor of my will and trust. Furthermore, if possible, please see my remains are brought back to the Guild; I should like to be buried in my family plot. I saw little of them in this life, but perhaps I’ll be able to redress that grievance in the world to come.
After reading the note a couple of times through, I glanced up to find James and Ailia both staring at me. I folded the note up and handed it to James, who still held the folder in his hands. He stared at Ailia and me, shifting his gaze back and forth, nervously running his fingers over the twine securing the flap. “Once we open this, there’s no going back. Everyone understands that, correct?”
“Don’t be a drama queen,” I said. “We’re already past the point of no return.”
“No we’re not,” James said gravely, pinning me in place with his stare. “Whatever is in here is damning evidence and it could get us all killed. We’re in a foreign kingdom with no means of retreat, and we may well have an angry and spiteful godling gunning for us. If we leave this with Lugh—seal unbroken—perhaps we could walk away. Chalk this up as a bad mission and leave the Danann to straighten things out for themselves. Not a great option, I’ll admit, but that is precisely why Ambassador Hoehner is black-ops. So we can disavow him if need be.” He faltered, carefully rubbing his thumb against the waxy seal. “So what do we do here?”
Tension stretched out between us, filling the room with its weight. The weight of expectation. The weight of responsibility. The weight of consequence.
Shit. What a friggin’ mess this was.
Maybe James was right. Maybe we were in over our heads, and the best thing to do was call it quits and chalk the mission up as a loss. Bad ops happened sometimes. An ugly unfortunate truth, but there it was all the same. We could just hand over the folder to Lugh and diddy-bop our asses right on outta this place. Leave these Irish pricks to sort out their own issues.
Or, we could suck it up, take a look at the evidence, find out who the big-bad was, then bust some heads and get our ambassador back. Certainly not the easy route, but probably the right one.
Shit.
Before anyone could speak, I swiped the folder from James and broke the string without ceremony. “Might be we’ll regret this,” I said, “but we’re not gonna turn this folder over to Lord Lugh. Black ops agent or no, someone took one of ours—a man who has given his life to serving the Guild and making the world a better and safer place. I ain’t gonna leave him behind, not if there’s even a slight possibility he’s alive. That’s what the Guild is about, that’s why we do this.” I handed the folder over to Ailia.
She nodded—jaws set, body tight—accepted the documents, then sat in one of the chairs and riffled through the papers. James and I left her to it, knowing she was better at the brain work than we could ever hope to be. I made my way over to one of the windows, popped a squat on the ledge, and pulled out a pack of slightly smashed Reds. I tapped a cigarette free, stuck that bad boy between my lips, and conjured a flickering ball of flame, lighting up and inhaling deep before dismissing the little fire construct with a wave of my hand.
James joined me. “Can I get one of those?” he asked, nodding toward my smokes, his voice low and sullen, completely lacking all the charm and panache he usually exuded.
“Since when do you smoke anything other than fancy cigars?”
“Since you volunteered us for a death mission.”
“Give me a break,” I replied, sliding out the pack and working another smoke free. “Nothing’s changed—this is the same mission it always was.”
James slipped the cigarette up to his mouth and lit it, watching the cherry spark to life with a flare of Vis-wrought power. “I suppose,” he said, the words disturbing the plume of gray smoke hovering before him. “But I have this bad feeling, deep down in here.” He thumped his gut with his free hand. “I’ve been antsy about this job since we got it, but now? Now I feel like things are about to go sideways.” He shook his head. “I just dunno. But you’re right about the ambassador. We don’t leave our own behind.”
We waited in quiet, puffing our smokes while the rustle of pages floated through the otherwise still night air.
Eventually, Ailia flipped the folder shut, a stern, haunted look plastered over her features. “It’s bad,” she said, standing. “We need to get to Lord Lugh, and we need to wake the king before it’s too late.”
TEN:
Warm-Up
Lord Lugh led us down the ever shifting hallways of Tír na nÓg, bound for the throne room and an impromptu audience with the king, while Ailia filled us all in on the details.
A military coup.
War.
And naturally the Morrigan was at the heart of things.
Apparently the ambassador had happened upon a conspiracy, an alliance between the Morrigan and the Fomorians—dark supernatural beings of murder and death, who’d run these parts until the Danann had overthrown their nasty asses a couple of thousand years ago and had driven them deeper into Outworld as exiles.
Except now it seemed the Morrigan thought the Fomorian brand of crazy might be the way of the future—with her at the helm of the loony-bus, of course. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven. Milton said that, I think.
“How long before they attack?” Lugh asked, looking back at us, though never slowing his pace, which was damn near a jog.
“The ambassador thought it would be in a matter of weeks,” Ailia replied. “He was hoping to bring his findings to the king before the Morrigan could finish her battle preparations, which is probably why he went missing in the first place. Taken as a stopgap measure to prevent him from ruining things.”
“Even so,” James added, “the Morrigan must’ve known the Guild would send in a recovery party. That’s standard operating procedure.”
“Yeah, but it still bought her time,” I replied. “A week easy, which is more than she would’ve had, had Hoehner blabbed to Dagda. And I’ll bet dollars to donuts the Morrigan’s army has been working double time to make up for the setback.”
“I’ll go one further,” Ailia said. “I’d wager they are preparing their offensive as we speak. Surely she must suspect we now know the truth, which means the best window of opportunity for her to act is now—before the court can organize or we can call for reinforcements.”
“Lord Lugh,” James called from the rear, “I need numbers. How many of your people can we count on to fight with us?”
“Dagda and Oghma, obviously,” Lugh said. “Manannan will fight with us. Fand as well.”
“I wouldn’t be certain,” Ailia interrupted. “The ambassador couldn’t be sure, but he left plenty of notes suggesting a number of court members will be notably absent during the Morrigan’s insurrection. Nothing concrete, just suspicions. From what I read, the ambassador doesn’t believe these court members will openly oppose Dagda, but neither will they be present to offer aide in the critical hour.”
Lugh nodded, his pace picking up a step. “That’d be just like them. Sit things out and see how the cards fall. Necthan and Boann will almost certainly fall into that camp. Aine, too. Brigit and Aengus could go either way.”
After a long, straight cut of hallway, we hit a T-juncture unlike any we’d seen before. Instead of marble walls, priceless artwork, and tacky gold and silver filigree, the juncture was all ancient black rock, pitted and weathered by long years, yet solid enough to stand for a couple thousand years more.
Lugh faltered, his steps weary, his back knotted with tension, uncertainty damned near oozing off him as he adjusted and readjusted his grip on his spear. He drew to a halt and glanced down the left-hand path, then the right. I edged forward a few steps, only to find myself staring at more black stonework, completely obstructing both pathways.
A dead end.
Oh shit. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.
“What’s happening here?” Ailia said, stealing up beside me and glancing down the connecting passageways just as I’d done a moment before.
“As you’ve surely noticed,” Lugh replied, “the hallways of Tír na nÓg are shifting. Fluid.”
I only paid him half a mind as I opened myself to the Vis, drawing in sweet life and raw power, feeling time slow in herky-jerk fashion as energy pumped into my veins like live electricity. I started forming weaves and constructs, ready to whip up a hasty defense or a hard-hitting offense, depending on what the situation called for. I also drew my behemoth monster-smiting pistol. Though most regular handguns did little to the supernatural predators in the big-wide-world, this bad boy could leave pancake-sized holes of justice in even the most stalwart baddies.
“The halls are ever shifting,” Lugh continued, “because Tír na nÓg itself is ever shifting—the landscape changes constantly based on star alignments, the ebb and flow of ley lines, the configuration of waypoints. Complicated stuff, very hard to predict. We elder members of the court can manipulate the landscape—at great cost, understand—at least for short periods of time.”
“Hate to cut off the dissertation,” James interrupted from behind us, “but we have company. They don’t look particularly friendly. Or well dressed.”
I wheeled around, bringing my pistol up and to the ready, finger on the trigger. Like the intersection before us, the hallway behind us had undergone a transformation. All the finery vanished, replaced by more black stone and inky shadow which, twenty feet out, opened onto a landscape I’d glimpsed briefly in the throne room. The same landscape the Morrigan had fled to after our tiff: Arid badlands. The ground caked with dusty gray sand. The skyline interrupted by jagged peaks of obsidian stone far in the distance. A clump of stunted, malformed trees off to the right.
More concerning was the line of ass-ugly visitors—ten of ’em—loitering at the hallway’s entrance.
Willowy, vaguely humanoid creatures with pinched, hard-angled faces and lipless, fishlike mouths filled to overflowing with hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. Pronounced horns protruded from the back of their skulls and curved toward the dark sky overhead. Each of the sons of bitches stood seven feet or taller: all ropy muscle, covered in slick gray skin, which blended perfectly with the landscape around them. Unlike the Tuatha De Danann—finely dressed beings who exuded an air of civility, at least superficially—these creatures were garbed in dusty leather armor trimmed in dirt-caked fur, studded with dull metal rivets, and inscribed with arcane runes and symbols.
The Fomorians. Yay for us.
They stared at us with jet-black eyes that held no trace of humanity and not even the faintest whiff of empathy. Looking at them was like looking at a walking nightmare. Like looking at a pack of hungry piranha that’d just gotten a scent of blood.
Standing dead center, with thuggish creeps spread out to either side, was the Morrigan. Crossed arms, cruel smile, and a smoldering stare that promised a slow and painful end. ’Cause yeah, why wouldn’t things end this way?
James had his sword out in a wink, and positioned himself between our group and the Morrigan’s. The point man, ready to lead the charge. He lowered his sword until the tip rested lightly on the ground before him, then carefully folded both hands over the pommel. “First, let me start by wishing you a good evening,” he said, sounding neither worried nor rushed. He looked like a man at his leisure, discussing the morning news with the neighbor before heading off to work for the day.
He certainly didn’t look like some poor schlub facing down a squad of Irish demons, and a casual observer would also never guess he was a man on the verge of extraordinary violence. But I knew the truth. James wasn’t the sort to tip his hand with big talk or showy displays of power. As in many things, we were opposites in that respect. No, he was the kind to smile and nod, cool and calm, right up until he planted a knife in your gut and exploded the brain matter out the back of your friggin’ skull.
“Second,” he continued, “thank you for saving us the trouble of hunting you down. As I assume you must already know, our Judge has uncovered evidence implicating you in the disappearance of the Guild’s ambassador, Scott Hoehner. Your crime is a serious one, and as lieutenant commander of the Fist of the Staff, I hereby charge you with capital offenses against the Guild and her people. Return our ambassador or his remains to us immediately and I will consider leniency in your sentencing.”
She laughed, the cold cackle of a crow. “And if I fail to comply?” she asked after her laughter died.
I pushed up next to James, pointed my hand cannon at her porcelain face, and cocked the hammer back with an audible click. “Then we get to finish our duel, and this time we’re not gonna stop at first blood. Nope. We’re gonna unleash a whole can of Guild-sanctioned whoop-ass on you and yours. And, assuming you’re still alive when we’re through, you’re gonna have to scrape your goons off the ground with a spatula.”
She didn’t laugh this time. Instead she absently caressed her throat, as if recalling the finale to our last encounter, even though no wound remained on her pale skin. Not a mark. “Oh the plans I have for you,” she said. “I will be happy to finish what we started earlier, but sadly, we will have to forgo the pretense of the missing ambassador, since I truly am not responsible for his disappearance.”
“Right,” I said, “and I suppose the fact that he uncovered evidence of your insurrection against the court is one big coincidence. I’m not half as dumb as I look.”
“No. You are far more foolish.” She gave a rueful shake of her head. “As though I cared about the scampering of some insignificant Guild spy. Dagda has seen my revolt coming for ages—it was inevitable—and a little forewarning would change nothing. No, the only thing that pretentious spy could accomplish was alerting the Guild of my plans. Something else that concerns me not at all. The Guild would never dare interfere in the politics or disputes of a sovereign nation.
“For all of his sneaking about,” she continued, “your ambassador uncovered a bit of party trivia—useless at best and utterly meaningless at worst.” She looked past us for a moment, locking her viper’s gaze on Lugh. “No, I am quite sure you can lay the disappearance of your ambassador squarely at his feet. Our dearest Lugh has played you all from the moment you arrived.” She sneered her contempt, though whether for us or Lugh I couldn’t be sure. “A smiling spider, ensnaring you crude creatures in intricate webbing of his design. But none of that is of any consequence now, since I’m going to murder you all slowly and feed you piecemeal to the crows.”
“That is where you are wrong, Morrigan,” Lugh replied, slicing the mounting pressure in the air like a knife. “You have always underestimated humanity and their defenders, and so it will be to your downfall. Crude, short-lived beings they may be, but the magi wield a big stick. If you pursue this revolt, things are going to turn out poorly for you and yours. King Dagda has the boons of the three. In their hands”—he nodded at us—“your coup will be in vain and, at best, you will find yourself living out a very long, very lonely exile.”
“Do you think you are the only one with eyes and ears?” the Morrigan asked. “Many in the court are sympathetic to my cause. I know Dagda has the boons, just as I know why you summoned these three monkeys. But it is already too late to stop—the wheels of my war machine are in motion, my forces underway—and I plan to rob you of these hairless apes before Dagda can ever get the boons in their grubby little hands.” A vicious grin cut across her creamy face. “Much to my personal satisfaction, They. Will. Die.”
That final word, die, hung in the air like the knell of a bell, and then she inclined her head, a minute bob, which sent the Fomorians surging into action, flowing around her in an uneven line that spanned the
entire length of the hallway.
The lanky creatures moved with an aquatic grace—oil slipping along the surface of water—mouths yawning in wicked snarls.
James, the closest to the action and never one to shy away from a good brawl, darted in, sword cane in one hand, his other hand out, palm up. He swept his arm left to right, weaving fine streams of water and air, which coalesced into a barrage of icy spikes, clear as glass and sharp as obsidian. The hail of the projectiles, like a cloud of frozen arrows, filled the air and slammed into the frontline fighters: slashing exposed limbs, slicing through armor, and chewing into the flesh beneath.
A few temporarily fell back, wails of pain ripping from lipless faces as hands floundered at the frozen spikes protruding from chests and stomachs and legs. Most, however, didn’t even bother to notice—if anything, the agonized cries of their compatriots spurred the others to even greater levels of violent hate. Screeches of bloodlust filled the hallway as the creatures moved. And the whole while, the Morrigan stood in the back, surveying the battle with dead black eyes.
“You two hold the line while Lugh and I find a way out,” Ailia shouted, her voice amplified by a simple Vis construct so it carried over the din of battle.
“On it,” I called, unleashing a flurry of rounds into the line of scary-ass monsters stampeding toward us like a herd of pissed-off elephants. Despite the severity of our plight, I didn’t fire haphazardly—especially since such pray-and-spray shooting would’ve run the risk of hitting James. Instead, I took my time, lining up my shots to ensure the few rounds I had would do maximum damage. There’s an old saying I’ve hung onto since the Corps: Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. I believe that all the way to my soul, especially when it comes to shooting.