The Phantom Queen Awakes (22 page)

As with so many of the tales I write, ‘The
Children of Badb Catha’ had a difficult birth, and I am greatly
indebted to Amanda Pillar for correcting the historical
inaccuracies that loomed large in the original draft and for her
and Mark S. Deniz’s honing of the story into a leaner and more
focused narrative.

The Roman Ireland presented here is, of
course, pure speculation, since Agricola’s ‘single legion, with a
moderate band of auxiliaries’ never crossed the North
Channel.

But what if they had?

****

Biography

James Lecky is a writer based in Derry, N.
Ireland. His previous fiction has appeared both in print and online
in a number of publications including
Beneath Ceaseless
Skies
,
Heroic Fantasy Quarterly
,
Sorcerous
Signals
,
Aphelion
,
Mystic Signals
and
Emerald
Eye: The Best Irish Imaginative Fiction
.

****

L.J. Hayward

The Plain of Pillars

He came to her on Samhain, the night between
life and death, between summer and winter, and watched her bathe.
She stood, unashamed of her nakedness, feet apart, and drew the
river across her skin in slow strokes. Her bones chilled the water,
bringing the first touches of winter to the world. Where the water
dripped from her rust-red hair, it fell as ice back to
Unshin.

“You could doom us all to a cold death if you
wished.” He lay on the bank.

Morrigan cast a glance over his broad, rounded
body and some of the cold inside her melted. “I would never wish
such a thing.”

Dagda returned her look with appreciation.
Then he sighed. “But sometimes, you do.”

She turned and looked across the river at
Ireland ― pure and honest and in danger. If the danger came only
from the advancing Fomorians, there would be no division in her
heart.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Sometimes I
do.”

She left the water and went to his side. He
draped her red cloak around her shoulders and drew her to the
ground.

“So cold,” he murmured, his hands warm as they
touched her arms and breasts.

Morrigan pushed his hands aside. “No, Dagda.
Not this time.”

“No?” He sat back. “You have never refused me
before.”

Her throat tightened at the hurt and confusion
in his voice, and the words she desperately wanted to speak caught
fast to her tongue and stayed inside. He was such an uncomplicated
thing, all action and intemperance, ruled by his desires. How could
she make him understand that the world was moving beyond the simple
passage between winter and summer, death and rebirth? He saw only
the present. His gaze never strayed beyond the next meal, the next
woman, the next fight. And right now, she was merely two of those
things to him. He would not listen.

But she had to try.

“Dagda, I have seen the future.”

“I have seen it as well. It is full of
Fomorians, tearing up our land, stealing what is rightfully ours
and enslaving our people.” He gestured to the river, the droplets
of ice she had left behind drifting on the current. “This is a dark
time for the
Tuatha Dé Danann
. They need us to bring them
through it.”

“But what if we fail? What if we should not
even try?”

“If anyone can, we can. And why should we not
try? You cannot tell me that what the Fomorians have done has not
angered you. This is our land. You hate Bres as much as I
do.”

Morrigan got to her feet, holding her cloak
tight. The breeze caught the material and lifted it like wings. She
had the sudden desire to fly, to go far away, let the wind take her
to a place where she was not this person, not this
woman.

“There is more than Bres out there, Dagda,”
she said, instead of fleeing. “There are greater dangers than an
invading army.”

“Do you mean the giant Bres brings with him?
Balor of the Evil Eye? We will defeat him as we have defeated all
others.”

“I do not mean Balor. He is an enemy we can
see and fight. He is the least of the dangers I have
seen.”

Dagda stood, took one of her arms in his
strong hold and turned her to face him. “Then what else is there?
Morrigan, you must tell me. If we have more than one enemy
approaching, we must know so that we can prepare. Why did you not
tell Lug about this earlier?”

“This is not an enemy we can see clearly, nor
fight with steel and muscle. The greater enemy I foresee is the
future, Dagda. I have seen what this world will become and I am
horrified. What if our actions now lead us to that future? What if
it leads us to something even worse? Perhaps it would be best if
the Fomorians are allowed free reign of this land. Perhaps I should
coat the world in winter and leave it there.”

He was quiet for a long time, holding her arm
so she could not escape. She was grateful for the tether because
the desire to run spiked. Beneath her cloak, her skin itched with
the need to move, to change and be free. She had to stay, she had
to convince him. He was simple but good and she would hate to leave
him behind.

“Morrigan.” Dagda said her name with barely
enough breath to give it sound. “My sweet winter.” His arms went
around her and gathered her close to his warmth. “I do not pretend
to know how you see what you see, and I do not doubt what you see.
You see so far and your sight has been a boon to the
Tuatha Dé
Danann
, but I fear you are also blind. There are many things
you fail to see.”

She struggled to free herself but he held
tight.

Dagda continued, “Many think I am stupid and I
know I am not as talented as Lug, nor as clever as Nuada. I do not
see things as you see them, but I do see you. I see the queen of
the battlefield, the mother of the land and a woman lost in the
dark. As each summer comes to an end, I see the despair grow in
you. This is what you do not see.”

His voice was deep and soft. Morrigan leaned
against him and tried to wrap herself in that voice.

“This darkness that comes upon you is not
eternal. Let me show you.”

And because she wanted him to be right, she
let him.

He lowered her to the ground and made love to
her. When they lay satiated in each other’s arms, Morrigan felt
some of the bleakness inside burn away.

The first of his needs fulfilled, it was no
surprise when Dagda moved to the second.

“Have you learned of the Fomorian
movements?”

Morrigan left his side and wrapped herself in
her cloak. “I have. They will make land at Mag Ceidne.”

Dagda stood, pulling on his clothes. “Then we
shall meet them at Mag Tuired.”

“The Plain of Pillars,” Morrigan whispered to
the night.

“It will once again know battle and once
again, our victory.”

She smiled at him, sad but tolerant. “You
trust to the past too much.”

“And you do not. That is why you fear the
future. Lug wishes to know how you will help our
efforts.”

It was in her to deny her aid, but the warmth
of his embrace suffused her still and quickened her blood. The
desire to fly returned, but now it was to fly toward something, not
away from it.

“Indech mac De Domnann,” she said. “The
Fomorian king. I will go to Scetne and destroy him. Come battle, he
will already be doomed.”

Dagda’s teeth flashed in the dark. “My sweet
winter.”

****

“
Where do the
Tuatha Dé
Danann
mass?” Bres demanded.

“Mag Aurfolaig,” Balor of the Evil Eye
replied. His voice growled from behind the iron lid required to
keep the power of his eye from casting death wherever he
looked.

Indech mac De Domnann spread his feet and
crossed his arms. “I believe they mean to meet us at Mag Tuired. It
is a site that will work in their favor. Already, they have
experienced a great victory there.”

Balor turned to Indech. “Had the
Fir
Bolg
the power I possess, they would not have been
defeated.”

“You rely too much on your power,” Indech
said. “Your greatest strength is your greatest weakness. If
anything will win us this battle, it is the strength of my
Fomorians and the steel they wield.”

“And you underestimate the might of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
champions,” Balor said. “Your men are
little more than fodder. A means to tire the enemy
only.”

Hands curled into fists, Indech took a step
toward the giant man.

“Now, now, my lords,” Bres said, coming
between them. “Our enemy awaits us at Mag Tuired, not in here. I
did not bring you here―”

“No,” Indech snapped. “You did
not
bring us here. We brought you. This is your mess we are here to
fix, Bres. You have no chance without us. Do not forget
that.”

Indech spun on his heel with a grunt of anger.
He left the tent, left Balor and Bres to argue over the folly that
was the coming battle. Balor could do as he wished but Indech knew
the true fighting would be between his army and that of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
. They would meet sword for sword, spear for
spear and when the Fomorians triumphed, it would be Indech who
forced tribute from the defeated.

A raven cawed. The carrion bird huddled on a
branch of a tree close to Bres’ tent. It meet Indech’s gaze with a
single, ice blue eye.

What had been the wild tale Bres told about
ravens? No, not all ravens. Just one. The Morrigan. A fearless,
cold, battle-hard woman who could turn herself into a raven. One of
Bres’ feared champions of Ireland. She did not fight alongside the
other legendary champions. Instead, she flew above the battlefield,
watching with her far-seeing gaze, speaking prophecies that forged
the hearts of this land’s warriors into potent weapons.

In the tree, the raven turned its head and
peered at him from the other eye. A shiver rolled down Indech’s
spine.

It was just a bird. A filthy, scrawny
scavenger drawn by the smell of cooking meat.

Bres’ stories of mighty champions had inflamed
Balor’s battle lust. The giant’s need to destroy was as much reason
why they were here as Bres’ pleading. Without Balor’s support, Bres
would never have convinced the Lords of Fomor to send their army.
Indech had come with them only to ensure victory. Balor was too
arrogant and Bres ― a half-breed tainted with
Tuatha Dé
Danann
blood ― was gullible enough to believe the stories about
these so-called champions.

The Dagda. A man of such impressive girth that
he could eat as much as an army in one meal, whose battle club was
so large it required a wagon to move it. Idiocy. And Nuadu, the
Tuatha Dé Danann
high king; the man who toppled Bres from
the throne by honor of a silver hand that moved as one of flesh:
whose sword could not be escaped once it was drawn.
Ridiculous.

And then there was this boy called Lug, with
the skills of all men and a spear as unconquerable as Nuadu’s
sword. Bres feared him most of all. The
Tuatha Dé Danann
had
entrusted the coming battle to this boy’s command. Madness.
Indech’s Fomorians would crush him without fail.

The Plain of Pillars would no longer ring with
Tuatha Dé Danann
victory, but instead with that of
Fomor.

“My Lord!” an approaching warrior
called.

“What news?”

“A
Tuatha Dé Danann
man has come asking
for a truce. He claims to be the champion Dagda.”

“The Dagda?”

The raven bowed its head once and once only.
Something squirmed in Indech’s stomach. He took a dagger from his
belt and threw it at the bird. The creature fluttered out of the
weapon’s path. Settling back to its perch, the raven resumed its
silent, cold stare.

“My Lord?” The warrior stepped up, sword
ready.

Hands clenched, Indech said, “Do you not think
a sword is excessive against a dumb bird?”

The warrior sheathed his weapon. “I thought
only of the stories of the Morrigan. Do you think the raven
unnatural?”

“I do not. The only thing unnatural about it
is this absurd idea of magical champions. Bring me this
man.”

The Dagda both did and did not live up to the
stories. He was certainly large and the club by his side
impressive. Still, neither sight supported the exaggerations
wholly. But there was an air of magnificence about him. He held his
head high yet did not look down on anyone. His bulk was great but
he moved with ease. The guard of Fomor warriors walked with weapons
bared but relaxed.

“Indech mac De Domnann. King of Fomor.” The
Dagda bowed his head once and once only.

Indech resisted the urge to look behind him at
the raven. “And you are the Dagda of which we have heard so many
stories.”

“I will have to take your word for that, since
I have not heard these stories.”