The Phantom Queen Awakes (23 page)

Indech circled the champion. “Then I think we
shall have to explore the reality. Bring me the cook!”

Over the next hours, bowl after bowl of
porridge was placed before the Dagda. He ate them all and asked for
more. With each ladleful of food consumed, the Fomorian warriors
laughed with ― and at ― the Dagda, and Indech’s apprehension grew
as the
Tuatha Dé Danann
champion’s stomach grew. The man’s
appetite was prodigious, equaled only by his capacity. When at last
the cook came to Indech to proclaim that no more porridge existed,
the Dagda released an earth-rumbling belch and toppled over,
snoring before he hit the ground. At first the warriors continued
to laugh, but slowly the joyous noise faded as they began to
realize what had happened. Each man turned to Indech, asking him to
refute the scene before them.

Unable to satisfy them, Indech roared, “Take
this man from my camp! I do not want to see him again.”

One of the warriors drew his sword. “My lord,
why not just kill him?”

“He came under a truce, you fool. Put up your
sword and remove him from my sight.”

Indech stalked away. In the tree by Bres’
tent, the raven still watched him.

“Do not think this means I believe the
stories,” he snarled at the bird. “It means nothing. Do you hear
me? Nothing.”

“Father? Are you well?”

His daughter, Fionn. Sweet and gentle, yet
cursed with a sharp wit and love of satire. She had been known to
ridicule any man who did not give her what she wished. As such,
Indech had not been able to forbid her journeying with the
army.

“I am well.” His tone was sharper than he
intended. “You should be in your tent. The camp is no place for
you.”

Fionn tilted her head. “But, Father, I heard
the Dagda was in the camp. I wished to meet him and find out if the
stories are true.”

“Aye, the fabled Dagda was in camp. At least
it was a
Tuatha Dé Danann
calling himself such. But he is
gone now. The next any Fomorian will see of him is on the
battlefield, where his fat stomach and thick head will avail him
little. Now return to your tent.”

Gray eyes flashing, Fionn nodded and
retreated.

On its branch, the raven rustled its feathers,
the sound of cloth brushing steel.

This time, Indech used a stone and he did not
miss. It hit the branch square and cracked it. The bird lifted up
in surprise as the branch broke away. Wings snapping furiously, it
squawked at him and darted into the night sky.

“Curse you,” Indech wanted to scream, but it
came as a whisper. “I shall prove you false in battle.”

****

Morrigan soared away from Indech both
satisfied and angered. His courage was tested, the fault lines that
would break under pressure had been laid. Her plan had moved along
faster than she had hoped, thanks to Dagda’s arrival. His display
had bolstered her subtle influence over Indech. While she
appreciated Dagda’s efforts, she resented them as well. Why had he
come? What had he thought to gain in going into the enemy
camp?

As if drawn by her questions, he appeared. The
Fomorian warriors had dragged Dagda’s slumbering body from the camp
and left him in a ditch. But he was not alone.

Circling closer, Morrigan recognized the girl;
the young, pretty thing that had come to Indech, calling him
‘father’ and wanting to know about Dagda. Fionn kicked him awake,
then stood over him, insulting his fat body, deriding his poor
mind. Dagda laughed and did nothing to defend himself.

Poor, simple Dagda. Morrigan wanted to swoop
down, to claw out the girl’s eyes and tear the meat from her skinny
bones.

Wing dipped, ready for the plunge, Morrigan
saw Dagda move. He stood and took the girl upon his back. Her arms
wound around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. His hands
slid over her bared thighs.

Knowing the potency in his touch, Morrigan
pulled up. She circled and watched.

Below, Dagda did not get far. The girl
wrestled him to the ground and they fell together, arms and legs
entangled.

Cold stabbed through Morrigan. She cried out
her anger, screamed out the betrayal. He did not hear her, consumed
as he was in the Fomorian girl.

Fleeing, Morrigan tried to leave the pain
behind with Dagda and Fionn. This girl was not the only one he had
betrayed her with ― she was simply the latest. It was not in Dagda
to remain faithful, just as it was not in him to limit his other
appetites. He would eat until he slept and fight until he
dropped.

Returning to Unshin, Morrigan settled to the
ground in human form and walked amongst the
Tuatha Dé Danann
host until she found Lug. He sat with his foster fathers and druids
and devised the battle that lay ahead.

“I would speak with you,” she said, continuing
past and back into the night.

Young and unworthy though he looked, Lug was
formidable. He followed her without question but did not submit to
her anger.

“You have word of Indech.”

“The Fomor king is defeated. He is yet to
understand it fully, though.”

“I thank you, Morrigan.”

Red cloak drawn tight, she said, “I want to
know why you sent Dagda to the Fomor camp. He told you what I would
do and yet you send him after me.”

Lug’s face betrayed no hint of anger at being
questioned. “I did not send him after you. He is there to spy for
us. That is all.”

“Wrong. He is there to eat his fill of their
porridge and bed their daughters. You know him well enough to know
that.”

“Yes. I do know him well enough. That is why I
sent him. You must trust me, Morrigan. I know what it is I do. And
you must trust Dagda as well.”

“I want to trust you. But there is so much
about this world that we do not understand. How do you know that
this battle will advance the way you believe it will?”

Lug smiled. “Morrigan, who has the power of
prophecy, asks me this.”

The desire to fly away returned, a sharp
dagger in her guts turning and twisting.

“I see into the distance of time, yes, but I
cannot see how we get there.”

“Then allow me to be the one to put our feet
on the right path. You may see the destination, but I see the
journey. Let me show you the way.”

He meant to comfort her with his words, but
they merely strengthened the need to hide from the inevitable
battle and the undeniable future. If only she could make them see
what she saw. If only they would believe it.

“I thank you, again, for what you have done,
Morrigan,” Lug said. “But I must ask more of you.”

Swallowing her fear, she faced him, shoulders
back. “I have stood fast this far and I shall continue to do so. I
will pursue what I have begun and I will kill for you.”

The young leader of the
Tuatha Dé
Danann
nodded his thanks and left her. There were many more he
needed to see before battle was joined.

Morrigan returned to the river, to where Dagda
had met her, where he had tied her to himself and therefore to Lug.
She did not go amongst the host again, could not bear to watch the
laying of Lug’s path toward the future she had seen. Yet she heard
of Dagda’s return and of how he had managed to secure Fionn’s help
against her father and the Fomor. There was much rejoicing and
Dagda was hailed as the greatest champion.

Trust me
, Lug had said and so it seemed
she should. He had sent Dagda to the Fomor, knowing the champion’s
weakness and had profited by it.

Perhaps this meant that Lug could see the
path, and perhaps it meant the path he saw led them not to the
horrors she had seen, but away from them.

Her spirit warmed once more, Morrigan leapt
into the air on the first day of battle between the
Tuatha Dé
Danann
and Fomor. The fury was great on both sides. It stripped
the warriors of titles and prestige until there were no kings or
lords, just ferocious and proud men. Morrigan wheeled above it all,
watching moments of tremendous courage and moments of wrenching
shame.

Warriors screamed in righteous anger. Swords
and shields clashed, bodies thundered together. Quivers rattled and
spears and javelins hummed on their deadly flights.

Men, beautiful in their towering
battle-madness, fell beneath enemy blades, betrayed by blood-wet
ground and their own weariness. As they hacked at each other, hands
and feet almost met. Spear-shafts as red as the hands that held
them gored deep. Warriors fell to their knees and their heads were
swept from their shoulders. Rivers of blood cut gorges in the
soil.

And Morrigan witnessed it all.

Inspired by Lug’s confidence, she rose on air
heated by spilled blood, lifted to dizzy heights where she could
rejoice in the carnage. This was the right path. Defeat the Fomor,
retain the land that was destined for the
Tuatha Dé Danann
;
deny the future she saw each time she closed her eyes.

****

As the days of battle wore on, Indech noticed
something very strange. His warriors fought bravely and savagely.
Their accounting on the field of blood was beyond impressive. Day
after long, weary day, they cleaved and hacked their way through
the
Tuatha Dé Danann
. Warriors on both sides fell and were
trampled beneath their friends and enemies alike. The sod turned to
blood-red mud and caught the downed men firmly. The Fomor counted
the dead in hundreds.

Yet while Indech’s army dwindled, that of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
did not. Each morning the host that formed
up on the far side of the field at Mag Tuired never grew smaller.
Each night the dead
Tuatha Dé Danann
were taken from the
field and somehow restored.

Bres babbled tales of the healer Dian Cecht
and his powers. Indech demanded that someone be sent into the enemy
camp to discover the hidden ranks that were replacing the dead.
Ruadan, son of Bres, went and returned with talk of a magical well
that healed the dead. He also spoke of a smith, Goibniu, who
crafted new swords and spear-points with incredible speed to
replace those lost during battle. Ruadan was sent back with intent
to kill Goibniu. He returned, unsuccessful, to die at his father’s
feet, pierced through by one of Goibniu’s spears.

Leaving behind the dead youth and his keening
mother, Indech vowed that the
Tuatha Dé Danann
would know
defeat on the morrow. It was past the time this madness ended for
good.

“Father.” Fionn came to his side. “Tell me,
have you seen the lone raven that flies above the field of
battle?”

Hands curled into fists, Indech looked to the
sky and searched for the bird even though the day’s fighting was
long over.

“You have seen it,” Fionn said. “Do you think
it is the Morrigan?”

“Tales,” he snapped. “Lies told to try to
frighten us. You do not believe them, surely?”

“I have been watching the bird these last
days. Whenever a
Tuatha Dé Danann
line wavers and looks
about to break, the bird is there, swooping low and calling out in
her carrion voice. And the men listen to her and they gain strength
again. Their line grows firm and they repel your warriors once
more.” Fionn tossed her long hair. “I think it is the Morrigan. I
think their battle goddess watches over them.”

Indech’s eye twitched as he tried to suppress
his anger. “I think you are a silly girl to believe such
things.”

Lips thinned to mere white lines, his daughter
said, “Then perhaps this silly girl should leave.” She turned and
walked away.

Watching her go, seeing the confident sway in
her hips, the arrogant tilt of her head, many things became clear
to Indech.

Since the Dagda had come to their camp and
Fionn had disappeared for several hours afterward, strange things
had been happening. Accidents that saw two or three warriors
injured: a well that turned bad and killed a score of men. Horses
going wild and throwing their riders. And at each one, Fionn a
silent witness.

Indech caught her just outside her tent. With
a firm hand on her arm, he steered her inside.

“Father! What is the meaning of
this?”

“You must think me terribly stupid, Daughter.
Did you believe I would not know what you were doing? You’ve been
killing your own people. Why do you work to subvert our
cause?”

Fierce gray eyes narrowed. “What cause? We are
here only because Bres was too pathetic to keep his throne. Fomor
has no need of Ireland nor tribute from its people. This is folly,
Father. Our people are dying for nothing! Hundreds have died in
your battle and yet you question me about a score of men. The
Tuatha Dé Danann
belong here, we do not. Their gods and
goddess fight alongside them and we are alone. Does that not mean
we are wrong and they are right?”

Indech resisted the urge to smack her mouth.
“Gods and goddess? I have seen nothing of the sort.”

“You are not blind, Father. You have seen. You
only wish to ignore it because you fear it. The Dagda is as strong
as a hundred Fomorian warriors. Nuada is far cannier than you or
Bres could ever hope to be. Their leader, Lug, is a champion of
champions. Their high king has deferred to him in this battle. And
the Morrigan. She is a goddess of war. A phantom queen who steals
the might and blood of her enemies so swiftly, those whom she kills
do not even realize they are dead for days to come. You are dead,
Father, and have been since the raven cast her gaze upon
you.”