The Phantom Queen Awakes (21 page)

“What did she say to you, Centurion?” Conall
asked again, and this time there was fear and urgency in his voice.
“What did Badb Catha say?”

The cry of birds grew louder and closer until
the night was filled with their screeching and the beating of their
wings. The sky was thick with them, so many that they blotted out
the stars.

Larcius ran back to the village, Conall
following in his wake. What they saw there was like a vision of the
underworld. Amid the burning huts and roundhouses, in the greasy
light of the human pyre, swarms of birds pecked, scratched and bit
at the legionnaires while the men scurried about, desperately
trying to protect their eyes and faces. The shrieks of men mingling
with the harsh cries of birds were like the cacophonous music of
Pan himself.

“Form ranks, damn you, form ranks!” Larcius
bellowed, trying to instill order in his panicked troops. A
viciously pointed beak struck him, tearing a long strip of flesh
from his cheek. He flailed and grabbed the bird, breaking its neck
with a satisfying snap. Another flew at his eyes and he cut it in
half with one swift slash of his
gladius
.

All around him, his men were roaring and
dying, torn apart in a storm of wings. He saw a legionnaire fall,
weighed down by a murderous flock of sleek, black bodies, his face
a bloody mask. Another walked blindly into the burning wreck of a
roundhouse, his eyes dangling against his cheeks like two obscene
baubles. The high, hysterical scream of a horse cut through the
night as Larcius’ mare died in the onslaught.

Then, as rapidly as they had come, the birds
dispersed and the stars could be seen again, sharp pinpricks of
light against the dark blanket of the sky.

Larcius found Olcinius in the middle of the
burning village. The Optio’s face was marked with long, deep
scratches and one eye was swollen shut and bloodied.

“In the name of Orcus, what’s happening,
Centurion?”

Larcius shook his head. “I don’t
know.”

****

By dawn the fires had burned out, leaving
nothing but smoldering ashes. Even the pyre had dwindled to a pool
of congealed fat decorated with charred flesh and protruding bone.
Its thick stink lay over everything. Nearly half of the centuria
had perished in the crows’ furious onslaught and the few of those
who remained bore the rapidly festering marks of claw and beak as
if the very touch of the birds carried corruption with
it.

Larcius Servius walked through the dead and
wounded in a daze. How could this have happened, how could his
proud centuria have been so badly mauled by mere birds? The gash on
his cheek throbbed with every heartbeat, his skin was coated with
cold, greasy sweat, his vision swam and a fierce nausea threatened
to overwhelm him.

He forced the sickness down and gulped in
great breaths of foul air, waiting for his vision and mind to
clear.

The birds had not attacked again ― instead,
they filled the trees surrounding the village, sitting silently on
branches as if waiting for a sign ― but they had trapped the
centuria as effectively as a ring of steel.

He found Conall O’Ceirin near the outskirts of
the ruined village, sitting on a small mound of earth and staring
at the trees. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him and his face
and hands were covered with a myriad of deep scratches.

“What are they?” Larcius asked, nodding
towards the dark flock that stared intently back at
them.

“The vengeance of the Morrigu,” Conall said.
“The children of Badb Catha,”

“You used that name before,” Larcius said.
“Last night, before the attack. What does it mean?”

“It’s an old name for the goddess, Centurion ―
the Battle Crow ― fitting, don’t you think?”

“Your gods have a curious sense of humor,
Conall O’Ceirin.”

“Don’t they all?” He turned his head to look
at Larcius. The centurion appeared older than his forty years, his
features drawn and haggard like the face of a man who has seen too
much in too short a time.

From the branches of a great oak at the edge
of the village one bird, larger than the rest, rose gracelessly
into the slate-gray sky. It wheeled around the village three times
then hovered directly above Larcius, screeching at him. And it
seemed to him that there was mockery in the sound.

It’s taunting me, he thought, the bastard is
taunting me.

“Bring that thing down,” he barked to an
archer.

“Don’t waste your arrows, Centurion,” Conall
said, “They won’t do any good against the Battle Crow.”

Filled with sudden rage and frustration, Gaius
Larcius Servius threw his head back and screamed at the sky: “What
do you want with me?”

And the voice that replied and whispered in
his head was a strained croak, the words forced from a throat that
had never been meant for speech. “I want your stain removed from
this land, Roman. I want you and everything you stand for wiped
from the memory of men.” The bird swooped closer. He could make out
every feather, every knot and gnarl of its claws, every line of its
beak and, most of all, the glittering, malevolent intelligence in
its obsidian eyes.

“Where is your pride now, Gaius Larcius
Servius? Where is your honor? Will they keep you warm when you lie
in the green earth of Inis Ealga?”

The crow screeched with demonic fury and drove
towards his head, claws extended, beak open wide. He flung his
cloak in front of his face and the claws tore through the red
material, their fury barely suppressed.

“When darkness falls,” the cruel voice told
him, “when darkness falls you will be mine.” And then the bird
whirled away into the sky. He watched as it returned to its perch
on the oak’s branches and began to preen itself, the movements
languid and insolent.

“Olcinius!” The Optio was by his side almost
immediately.

“Yes, Centurion Servius?” The Optio’s wounded
face was covered with a blood soaked bandage and his skin was
pale.

“Have the men prepare torches. We’re breaking
out of here. We’ll see how well these damned birds like
fire.”

“Yes, Centurion.” He hesitated for a moment.
“What in the name of Juno’s tits is happening, Larcius?”

It was Conall who answered. “The magic of the
old gods, Optio Olcinius. The Morrigu feasts on blood and death,
and Rome has brought those in plenty since she came to
Hibernia.”

“Why here? Why now?” Olcinius asked. He was a
practical man, unused to any problem that could not be solved at
the point of a sword and, perhaps for the first time in his life,
he knew the cold caress of fear. They could see it in his scarred
face and hear it in the barely suppressed tremble in his
voice.

“The village was under her protection,” Conall
said. “The people we killed were her children.”

“How can you know this?” Larcius
said.

The Gael laughed, the sound was small and
bitter. “I am a traitor to my people, Centurion, but I know their
ways and the ways of their gods ― my gods ― before I turned from
them and took your silver.”

“I fear no gods but my own.” Larcius said, his
voice defiant. “And if the Morrigu feasts on blood and death then
we will feed her till she bursts.”

****

By noon the centuria was ready to
move.

But as Larcius watched his men gather
themselves together, he realized that his troops were a pale shadow
of the proud force that had left Campus Roborum, as if the sinister
attack in the night had not merely wounded their bodies, but had
scarred their souls as well.

The legionaries swayed where they stood, but
kept on their feet through iron resolve. An unnatural, fetid stink
rose from their wounds and the fierce light of growing desperation
burned in their faces. Each man held a
gladius
in his right
hand and a burning brand in his left. Behind them, their pilum and
shields had been neatly stacked ― such equipment would only hinder
them now.

Larcius stood before them, hands on hips and
head thrown back arrogantly, though it was an arrogance he no
longer felt.

“Soldiers of Rome,” he barked. “There is your
enemy!” He drew his sword and pointed it towards the trees and the
birds that perched there. “Not men, but animals ― and what animal
does not fear fire and steel?”

But even as he spoke he heard the voice of the
Morrigu echo through his mind. “Come to me, Gaius Larcius Servius.
I will quench your torches, blunt your blades, and my vengeance
will be terrible.”

There is no longer a place for you in this
world, bitch, he thought, and he knew that she could hear him, go
back to the hell that spawned you. He picked up a torch and
signaled the centuria to advance.

As the soldiers passed the village perimeter
the flock rose to meet them, their squawks and squeals filling the
air. As one, the birds banked and swooped toward the Romans,
screeching their battle cries. And at their head was the creature
Conall had called Badb Catha.

The black wave broke upon a shore of fire and
steel.

Larcius swung his sword in a tight arc,
cleaving through fragile flesh and brittle bone with each stroke.
As he fought, he thrust out with the torch and the creatures
shrieked at the touch of the flames. But for every crow he killed
another took its place, then another, and another, and
another...

His men were dying, torn to pieces by beak and
claw: the birds were above them, below them, behind them, between
them. To his right he saw Olcinius fall under a great swarm, his
sword rising and falling even as they ripped the flesh from his
bones. To his left, Conall O’Ceirin swung his axe two-handed, its
long reach bringing down scores of crows as they flew towards
him.

Then, abruptly, Larcius was free of the
butchery, slipping and sliding on the blood-soaked earth. Conall
was by his side, grabbing his arm to steady him.

“Run, Centurion, run!”

Larcius pushed him away. “I will not leave my
men.”

“Your men are dead, Larcius. Look!”

The slaughter was all but complete. A
legionnaire stumbled blindly with birds clinging to his head and
limbs, pecking at his flesh. The man sank to the ground as a final,
wordless scream was torn from his ruined throat. The rest of the
centuria lay where they had fallen, their bodies now perches for
the crows.

Badb Catha sat at the centre of the carnage.
Her form was human, but her features shifted constantly between
youth and age, beauty and hideousness, animal and woman.

She looked directly at Larcius and
smiled.

“Join us, Gaius Larcius Servius,” she said.
“Your men are waiting for their commander.”

As she spoke, the flock took to the air with a
great beating of their wings, the sound as loud as thunder in the
quiet aftermath of battle.

And then, as Larcius and Conall watched, the
legionnaires began to move, rising to their feet and forming ranks.
Behind them, the dead soldiers in the village rose and joined them
until the entire centuria faced their commander once
more.

No blood flowed from their wounds, but their
flesh was gray, corrupt, their eyes gleaming with unholy fury and a
gangrenous stench surrounded them.

As one, they drew their swords and advanced
upon the horror-struck Centurion and the Erdin turncoat. And Badb
Catha was at their head.

****

They marched. The centuria marched through the
Rapa Hills towards Campus Roborum. Above them a silent black cloud
flew, keeping pace with their tireless steps.

Larcius was at the head of his men, a crow
perched upon his shoulder. From time to time the bird would nuzzle
his cheek, running its beak along the suppurating wound that ran
from ear to jaw.

Its voice echoed through his skull.

“I will give you work for your swords, Gaius
Larcius Servius, and I will give you legions to command. March
then, Centurion! On to Roborum, to Eblana and, in time, to Rome
itself.”

****

Afterword

Despite the fact that it is the land of my
birth and the place where I continue to make my home, I have
written very few stories set in Ireland. With ‘The Children of Badb
Catha’, I sought to redress this balance a little.

Irish mythology has fascinated me ever since
my ten-year-old self picked up a copy of Rosemary Sutcliff’s
The
High Deeds of Finn McCool
. But that fascination has rarely
found its way onto the page since better writers than I have told
and re-told the stories of Irish heroes: from the warriors of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
, to Fionn mac Cumhaill and Cu
Chulainn.

But stories have a way of forcing themselves
into the air regardless and with the announcement of
The Phantom
Queen Awakes
I was finally able to find a narrative lynchpin ―
that of the Morrigan herself ― that allowed me to write a tale that
brought my obsessions and cultural heritage together.