by Trisha Telep
“That I want children,” he said. “Legitimate children to bear my name. The men I lead, every day I watch them teach their sons to shoot a bow or wield a sword. I want to hold a child of mine in my arms, Morrígan. Emer can give me that. She’s a good woman.”
“Then I wish you the best,” Morrígan said harshly and pushed away from him.
Cullen grabbed her wrist. “She’s a good woman, but she isn’t you. No one will ever replace you in my heart, Morrígan. This doesn’t touch what we have, were those not your words?”
“That was different,” she snapped, jerking her hand from his grasp.
“How is this any different than you lying with Dagda?” he demanded. “It is a means to an end, is it not?”
“The difference is that I do not willingly choose to be with him. You have a choice.” She laughed harshly as she slid her cloak on. “Think what you like of me, Cullen, but you, with your wife and your string of harlots, have betrayed me far worse than I ever did you.” She turned and looked down at him with cold disdain. “Goodbye, Cullen, you will not see me again until it is time for you to fulfil your end of our bargain.”
Before he could reply Morrígan was back in Faerie, as far away from him as she could get. And even there she could hear him calling her name. Furious, she stomped through her castle, breaking anything that had the misfortune of being near to hand. When the novelty of that wore off she became tempted to cross the Veil again. A good war would be a perfect outlet for her anger. Queen Medb of Connacht was always good for a slaughter or two.
Morrígan sighed and sank down at the foot of the grand staircase. It was her own fault for believing in him. Was anything he’d ever said to her true? Or was it simply a means to an end, as he’d put it? Keep the goddess happy and she’ll give you anything you want.
Morrígan put her head in her hands. Getting involved with a human had been a grave mistake. It wasn’t jealousy she felt for his future bride, or for any of the women he’d lain with. She was a goddess and no mortal female would ever threaten her vanity. No, what she felt was a deep sense of resentment that, by the very fact that they walked with him in the human world, they would always have a piece of him that she could not touch. That was the price the gods paid for dallying with mortals.
But he would not be mortal forever. He would still be with her when these humans were nothing more than dust and bone. She should swallow her pride and forgive him. She could afford to be magnanimous.
Morrígan, however, was a war goddess and a generous nature had never been one of her virtues.
Nine
Over the following years Morrígan became quite adept at avoiding Cullen. He still called to her on occasion but she resolutely ignored his summons. When he had need of her blood she would enter the castle disguised as a servant and slip it into his goblet, leaving quickly before she succumbed to the urge to eviscerate Emer on sight. Indeed, Morrígan had not set eyes on Cullen in years, not until the night she discovered that Queen Medb had convinced the sons of Calatin – dark mages the lot of them – to forge a mystical spear capable of killing Cúchulainn. He could not ride against Medb’s army, for Morrígan wasn’t certain she had the power to save him from such a weapon.
She found him alone in the stables, preparing his chariot for the coming battle. The sight of him made her steps falter and her heart race. His body, once lean and rangy, had filled out into a solidly muscled frame her fingers itched to touch. The boyish beauty of his face now held a rugged masculinity that was breathtaking to behold. If she could have created the perfect man, she could not have done better than the one standing before her.
Walk away, her conscience told her. Find another warrior, for this one will only bring you pain.
She could release him from their bargain. She could choose another to lead her army, someone for whom she had no tender feelings. She could do things differently the next time. She could . . . not. He was hers and she would never let him go.
“Cullen,” she said softly.
He was crouched down, one hand braced on the wheel of his chariot, inspecting the axle. She saw his body stiffen and his knuckles turn white. Slowly he stood and, almost reluctantly, he turned his gaze to her. She walked forwards, watching him watch her. She could see the desire in his eyes and for a moment she could not remember what could have been important enough to drive them apart.
He had a bit of straw in his hair and she reached up to pull it free. Before she could touch him, his hand clamped around her wrist and his expression grew cold and hard. She sighed. That she remembered all too well.
“Why are you here, Morrígan?” he demanded.
“It is time,” she replied simply.
“Time for what?”
“For you to fulfil your end of our bargain.”
He stared at her blankly for a moment, not comprehending her words. And then a look of understanding crossed his face, followed closely by fear and anger.
“How dare you?” he railed. “How dared you abandon me and then come here and tell me this? You promised—”
“I promised to make you into the greatest warrior not only of your time but of any time. And in return you promised yourself to me at the end of your life. You never asked when the end would come, Cullen.”
“That is unfair, Morrígan,” he accused. “How could I have expected it would be when I was merely thirty-five?”
She looked closely at him. “Thirty-five? Truly? You look so much younger.”
It must be the immortal blood in his veins, she thought. Interesting.
“What has that to do with anything?” he snapped, dragging her thoughts back to the issue at hand.
“It has everything to do with everything,” Morrígan replied. “I need a warrior in his prime, Cullen. If you were to live to be a wizened old man, you would be of no use to me. I do not have the power to turn back time.”
“I would be young again when I enter the Summerlands,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but once you are there I can never bring you back to the human world. I must take you quickly between your death and the afterlife, Cullen. I must turn you into something dead but living, something more than human but not yet a god, something that will confuse the magic that pulls a soul into the Summerlands. It is the only way for you to remain here.”
He scowled at her. “You would make me a monster.”
“No, Cullen. I will make you into something glorious,” Morrígan said vehemently. “I will give you a portion of my godhood, a small bit of my power. I will make you young and strong and beautiful forever, just as I promised. But it must happen soon. I did not mean to spring this on you so suddenly, Cullen. When I saw you . . . well, the years sometimes pass more quickly than I expect them to. I will give you time to say your goodbyes and get your affairs in order, but you must fulfil your promise by Samhain.”
He looked at her and Morrígan could hardly bear the resentment shining in his eyes. This was not how she had imagined it all those years ago. She had been so certain that, when the time came, he would love her enough to come with her willingly.
“You said you did not come here to take me. Then why are you here?” he asked.
“I came to warn you not to ride out against Medb’s army tomorrow. The sons of Calatin, whom you slayed, have finally sought their vengeance. They have used the darkest of magics to forge an enchanted spear. If you are pierced by it, it will kill you, Cullen. I will gladly grant you more time, but I cannot save you if you go into battle tomorrow.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I am Cúchulainn. I do not need a woman to save me.”
Morrígan narrowed her eyes. “You arrogant bastard. You are only alive because I wish it! If it weren’t for me you would be nothing more than a common soldier. I made you everything you are and I can take it away just as easily.”
“Then do your worst, Morrígan,” he said fiercely, “for I will not run from this battle or any other.”
Morrígan sighed. She had set ou
t to create a great warrior and she had succeeded. Unfortunately, he also had the ego of one. Well, on the morrow he would learn not to believe all the stories the bards told of him. He was not immortal. Yet.
Ten
The following morning, Emer – and indeed every man, woman, and child Cullen encountered on his way from his chamber to the stables – begged him not to ride against Queen Medb’s army. Obviously Morrígan had been whispering portents of doom in their ears as they slept. His irritation turned to fury when his horse, his faithful Liath who had pulled his chariot in countless battles, would not allow Cullen to harness him.
“Damn her,” Cullen cursed. “Is not even a man’s horse sacred?”
He was in a fine rage by the time he finally got Liath harnessed and drove out to join Conchobar’s army. That is, until he reached the river. What he saw there tempered his anger with fear. It was a sight every warrior dreaded – the Washer at the Ford. The old woman was said to appear to soldiers who were meant to die in battle. The doomed would see her washing their armour in the river . . . and today she was washing his.
“I know I told you to do your worst, Morrígan,” Cullen called out. “But this is simply petty. It’s worse than causing Emer to be barren.”
The crone transformed herself into the beautiful goddess he knew. “I did nothing of the sort,” she assured him. “Not that I couldn’t, but I didn’t. And I am not being petty. I am the Washer at the Ford. This is my duty as a death deity.”
Cullen snorted in disbelief and drove his chariot through the shallow water to the opposite shore, never looking back.
Morrígan had to admit to herself that she was being a little petty. Perhaps she had gone too far, but the man needed a lesson in humility before she made him immortal. But she didn’t realize it would be so hard for her to watch. Taking the form of a raven Morrígan circled the battlefield, flying high over Medb and Conchobar’s armies. She was a war goddess and normally she enjoyed watching two worthy hosts clash on the field of honour. This once, though, she took no joy in it, for today she would have to see Cullen die.
She spied him, driving his chariot deep into the heart of Medb’s army. The first spear flew through the air and its aim was true; it would strike him. Before she realized what she was doing, Morrígan reacted on instinct, using her power to shift the trajectory of the spear away from Cullen. Instead of hitting him, it pierced Liath’s chest, causing the big horse to stumble and fall.
“Oh damn,” Morrígan cursed, “Cullen loved that beast.”
Above the din of the battle she could hear Cullen’s roar of outrage. It was followed swiftly by a cry of pain as the second spear pierced his side. Morrígan had been a death deity through time immemorial but letting that spear hit its mark was the hardest thing she had ever done. She watched helplessly as Cullen drew the weapon from his body and fell from the chariot.
An eerie silence descended over the battlefield as both armies watched the great warrior struggle to his feet. With one hand over his wound Cullen stumbled forwards, cutting one of the reins from the harness of his dying horse. The soldiers watched as he slowly and painfully made his way to the edge of the field. Once there he fell against a standing stone, blood pouring from his side to pool at his feet. With single-minded determination he took the rein and lashed himself to the stone.
“I am Cúchulainn,” he shouted, “and I will not die on the ground. I will take my last breath standing, as a warrior should.”
A cheer of pride went up from Conchobar’s men but they could not reach Cullen, trapped as they were on the other side of Medb’s army. Morrígan flew down, landing lightly on his shoulder. She rested her raven’s head on his cheek to let him know she was there.
“I’m an arrogant ass,” he whispered, the pain now slurring his words. “But I am now yours, if you’ll still have me.”
Cullen fell unconscious and Morrígan watched as the warrior Lugaid and his men approached. Lugaid had been the one to throw the spears that mortally wounded Cullen and his horse. Morrígan assumed that the gathering crowd of soldiers meant to pay tribute to the defeat of a worthy adversary, but instead Lugaid raised his sword.
“The head of Cúchulainn is mine!” he announced.
As his blade swung towards her lover’s neck, Morrígan revealed her true form. Her mighty sword took Lugaid’s hand off at the wrist before he could complete his gruesome task. Amid his screams of pain Morrígan smiled, taking grim pleasure in her vengeance.
“Cúchulainn is mine,” she hissed to the cowards. “You are not worthy of him.”
Then the goddess wrapped one arm around her warrior and they both disappeared.
Eleven
Morrígan brought Cullen across the Veil to her great castle of Tara. Gently, she removed his clothes and armour and laid him on her bed. He had lost so much blood that his heart was barely beating. It was time. Quickly she raked one fingernail across her wrist, slicing deeply.
“Cullen, listen to me,” she said. “You must drink.”
He opened his mouth and Morrígan’s blood spilled across his lips. Before he could turn away in disgust she forced her wrist between his lips.
“You must take my blood into your body, Cullen,” she repeated urgently. “It is the only way you can live. Please, stay with me.”
He drank and, when he could hold no more, he slept. For three days he lay cold and pale as a corpse in her bed. Morrígan had never attempted such a transformation before and she stayed by his side, hoping that she would not lose him to the Summerlands forever. On the third night he took a gasping breath and sat up, blinking at her in surprise and confusion.
“Liath?” he asked groggily.
Morrígan threw back her head and laughed. Only a man would return from the dead and ask for his horse!
“Liath is here, in my stables,” Morrígan informed him. “I had to beg a favour of my cousin Epona in order to save him. It is not a debt I look forward to repaying.”
“Thank you,” he said grimly.
Morrígan’s heart fell. She had hoped that things would be different once he was at Tara with her. At the very least she hadn’t expected him to behave like . . . well, like she had killed his favourite horse and allowed him to be slain, not by a stronger foe but by the deceitful use of sorcery. Morrígan rose from the bed and walked to the window. But that was exactly what she had done. She supposed his lack of enthusiasm for her company should not surprise her.
“My heart does not beat,” he said.
“No,” she replied absently. “It does not.”
“You should have let me go to the Summerlands.”
“Perhaps I should have,” she agreed. “But I could not.”
He was quiet for a moment and then he shook his head and asked, “Why, Morrígan? You do not love me. If you did, you would have come to me when I called you, when I needed you, over the years. What purpose does all this serve?”
Morrígan turned. “You never asked me that, you know, when we first struck our bargain all those years ago.”
Cullen snorted. “I was young. All I could think of was the glory to be found in battle . . . and you. But I am asking now.”
Morrígan nodded. “Faerie is not the only world that exists beyond the mortal realm,” she explained. “It is simply the one where the Veil is the thinnest. There are others, dark places filled with things far more terrifying than the gods or the sidhe. We call them the Demon Horde. Occasionally, the Horde attempts to break through the barrier between worlds. As of yet they cannot physically cross the Veil, but their evil can. The Horde has sent plague, famine, disasters of nature – all in an effort to weaken us. The pantheon believes that any death caused by their influence makes the Horde stronger, and that one day they will become powerful enough to cross the Veil. If they do, it will be the end of us all, Cullen. The inhabitants of Faerie are not strong enough to defeat them and the humans will be nothing more than lambs to the slaughter.”
He looked at her dubiously. “I am good
, Morrígan, but I am not that good. What is it you expect me to do?”
“You are now a creature unique in this world, Cullen. I expect you to make more like you. And they will make more and so on until I have an army of darkness at my disposal. Perhaps then we can defeat the Horde when they come.”
Cullen nodded. “All right,” he said gravely. “I will do it, not for you, but for all those innocents who will die if I don’t.”
Morrígan’s gaze raked across his naked chest. She licked her lips, feeling a tiny thrill as he shifted his legs to hide his body’s response to her.
“No,” she agreed, “not for me. I have never been innocent.”
Twelve
Castle Tara
Connemara, Ireland – 1260
Cullen leaned back against the wall and let out a ragged breath. Unable to stop himself, he glanced up at the north tower and watched as candlelight illuminated its windows. As surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning, he knew that before this night had passed he would climb the stairs to her room. It was as inevitable as the tide.
Cullen was a liar and he knew it. But then again, so was she. He loved her and she loved him. It had always been and would always be. But too much distrust and betrayal had passed between them for either to ever utter those tender words again. And perhaps that was for the best. He was a soldier who had made a name for himself on the battlefields of Eire. She was a death deity, a goddess of war. What did such as they know of love?
In the years after his death he had firmly believed that he’d been no more than a means to an end for her – the perfect warrior to beget her legion of vampires, the perfect king to lead her dark army. But time has a way of breaking down even the thickest walls and time was something he’d had plenty of. Finally, he had seen the truth. It was in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t watching her, in her touch when the passion of their lovemaking overcame her. She had chosen him. She was as old as time and yet she had bargained with a young man for his soul. She had sworn him to a covenant whose ramifications a beardless youth could not possibly have understood. He could not help but hate her for that. But on those rare occasions when he was brutally honest with himself, he had to admit that he could not help but love her for it as well. She had tricked him, coerced him, seduced him. Of all the men who had ever been, or would ever be, under her dominion, she had chosen him.
