by James Hunter
She deflected the blow with embarrassing ease—hell, James didn’t even come close to scoring a hit, and only some fancy footwork kept the Morrigan’s counterattack from skewering him like a luau pig.
“The man was nothing to me,” the Morrigan replied to Ailia’s question, not even breathing hard. “Though, I think we both know he was no simple ambassador.” She danced around James, raining a flurry of blows down like a barrage of merciless hailstones: slash, pivot, twist, thrust, reset. James was a damn fine swordsman, a fencer by trade, which was the only reason he was keeping his head above water. I knew him well enough to know he was giving it his all, and even with that he was barely managing to parry each stroke.
He never even came close to offering a counterattack—she was too damn fast and seemed to be everywhere at once.
I mean I knew she only had two arms and a single weapon, but the way she moved left me doubting what my eyes saw. She flowed from stance to stance, attack to attack, the motions so quick, graceful, and fluid they looked choreographed. I’ve been a longtime fan of cheesy old kung fu flicks—The Jade Bow and The Buddha’s Palm series were great, and Enter the Dragon was outta this world—and she moved like Bruce Lee kicking the holy living crap out of a room of underpaid extras.
“He was a spy and a nuisance. Perhaps not in an official capacity, but a spy all the same,” she said, staff and blade whirling like a cyclone, cutting through the room with a steady whoosh of displaced air. “A scuttling cockroach always poking his head into affairs that were none of his concern. I didn’t take him, but his disappearance doesn’t surprise me, and it does please me a great deal.” She paused at the last, then launched into a ruthless series of jabs, thrusts, and slashes. Weaving here, spinning there.
Lashing out low, she caught James’s knee with the shaft of her weapon, before twisting her upper body and batting James’s sword away, leaving his guard wide open and his torso exposed.
She could’ve drawn first blood, then, but didn’t. At the last possible second, she halted the attack, which would’ve carved through his neck like a butcher’s cleaver. She was toying with him. With us. Demonstrating just how far out of our depth we were.
Instead of coldly murdering him on the spot, she lashed out with a foot, which slammed into his thigh with a crack and left him reeling.
“Could use some help here!” James wheezed, chest heaving, his breathing labored as he backtracked on wobbly legs, trying to gain some maneuvering room.
“On it,” I hollered, pushing myself upright. I pulled in one more deep lungful of air and shot in, sword at waist level, elbows slightly bent, blade canted to the right of my body. It took me all of two seconds to close the distance, and with a heave, I sent the blade sailing through the air in a horizontal arc—yoko-giri—an attack meant to disembowel an opponent, to spill ropy guts and gore onto the floor. If landed, it’d be a killing blow against any mortal.
Against someone like the Morrigan, though? Well, she’d shrug that shit off without a thought. Such was the advantage of being a nigh-immortal deity.
She laughed as my blade whistled through the air.
Strangely, her laugh wasn’t one of menace. It was one of fierce joy. I’d heard plenty of women laugh just like that, mostly when they were out on the dance floor bumping and grinding to some gritty ol’ blues number. It was the sound of a woman having herself one helluva good time.
James, seeing the brief opening, pressed his advantage, parring her scythe, riposting, then dipping in, sword cane outthrust. She moved with the sinuous elegance of a serpent, sliding sideways, avoiding James’s thrust by millimeters, then turning toward me at the last possible moment, pirouetting like a ballerina on center stage.
She never stopped laughing.
She followed up the smart pivot with a mule-kick, her heel catching James in the groin and tossing him gracelessly to his ass.
His sword cane clattered to the floor nearby as the poor schmuck clutched his nether bits, a string of colorful, 1920s flavored profanity filling the air.
In the same instant, her weapon artfully diverted my slash, stopping my sword with a shriek and a brilliant flash of blue light. I scrambled left and hooked my blade down, jabbing low with my sword tip, hoping to angle past her guard and land a hit on her ankle. A nick was all I needed. Just enough to draw blood. Instead, the shaft of her scythe swept out, catching my ankle and sweeping one foot from beneath me.
I staggered, teetered, arms pinwheeling, desperate to regain my balance. Knowing she had me dead to rights and I couldn’t stop her.
“Besides,” the Morrigan said to Ailia as I swayed like a drunk about to take a tumble, “you would know if I killed this ambassador of yours. Unlike most of the members of this court, I don’t much care for subtlety. If I’d done the deed, I would’ve paraded his head around on a pike for the world to see. A display of my power and absolute disregard for your Guild. I don’t apologize for what I am, nor do I hide it.” She cocked her head—an oddly crow-like gesture—and promptly slammed an ebony-plated fist into my face, which ended any hope I had of staying upright.
I dropped, legs giving way, back slamming into the ground with a thud.
I didn’t stay there, though, waiting for her to leap through the air like some badass Irish ninja and slice me into fish bait. Instead I used my momentum and the force of the blow to carry me into a backward roll, which brought me to my feet, blade up and at the ready, chudan.
Or as ready as I could be, considering. My face was slick with perspiration, my shoulders tight with fatigue and tension, my hands trembled, the sword blade quivering minutely. On top of all that, I was gonna have one helluva black eye from that blow, and since I already had a black eye from tangling with the minotaur, there was a damn good chance I was gonna wind up with raccoon eyes.
Just my luck. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get people to take you seriously when you look like an adorable backyard rodent?
That was assuming, of course, the Morrigan didn’t decide to murder me outright and stick my head on a pole, which wasn’t out of the question at this point. Sure, this fight was hypothetically to first blood, but that didn’t preclude the possibility of her lopping the head from my shoulders. And the longer we played this little game, the less sure of survival I became.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fair hand with a sword—I’d spent a lot of time practicing back in my Marine Corps days when I’d been stationed on Okinawa, and I’d learned a metric crap-ton since then. But this lady fought as naturally, as intuitively, as other people eat or breathe or sleep. If I could’ve used my powers, well that might’ve been a different story—though might is the operative word—but as things stood, I didn’t have a ghost of a chance. Not against her and certainly not by myself.
A Twinkie at a fat-kids’ camp had better odds of coming out in one piece.
I circled right, not eager to engage her one-on-one, but wanting to keep her attention long enough for James to get his shit together.
“If you had to guess,” Ailia said, her tone neutral, though I could see the worry creasing her forehead, “who would you say does have a motive?”
“Who doesn’t have a motive?” the Morrigan replied. “That secretive little mouse could’ve stumbled into any number of dangerous plots. Perhaps he found out that Aengus”—she motioned toward a golden-haired man who looked like he belonged at the Playboy mansion—“is sneaking around with Fand.” This time she swept an arm toward the bird-feathered woman. “Who is married to our dear Manannan.”
There was a brief round of shocked gasps, and the weirdo with the sea-water-tinged skin tensed, hands edging toward a sleek silver sword at his hip.
“Oh please,” the Morrigan said, “like anyone here didn’t already know. The point is we all have our secrets and none of us are overly fond of some outsider digging into our dirt. Being a spy is a dangerous business. A business where accidents can happen very easily.”
James was finally back on his feet, sword o
nce more in hand as he repositioned himself, sandwiching the Morrigan between us. Generally, if you’re stuck fighting two enemies simultaneously it’s important to prevent them from flanking your sides or getting behind you, for obvious reasons. Hypothetically, James and I had the upper hand here—not that it really mattered, since the Morrigan was as fast and slippery as a greased up king cobra.
“And what about your secrets, Lady Morrigan?” Ailia said, buying James and me some time. “What secret might our ambassador have stumbled upon that you wouldn’t want getting out? Maybe it was the secret that you still have feelings for King Dagda. Feelings he doesn’t share.”
The Morrigan paused, eyes narrowing, porcelain face screwing up in a grimace of rage. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I have nothing but utter disdain for the oaf who pretends to rule us.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Ailia said with an indifferent shrug, before running one hand absently through her hair. “I did some reading on the way over—some of the ambassador’s old reports. Isn’t it true Dagda once courted you? This was before he was king, of course. Just another peasant then. Courted you until you divulged plans to defeat the Fomorians at Cath Maighe Tuireadh. The battle where the Tuatha De Danann overthrew the Fomorians, and Dagda became king.”
She paused, thoughtfully tapping her bottom lip with one finger. “But, I seem to recall reading that he left you after that. Tossed you in the garbage like a used-up candy wrapper. He abandoned you for another woman, isn’t that right? A beautiful, nubile river goddess who bore him a son.” She casually cast a glance toward the playboy, Aengus—the dude who was apparently screwing around with the feather-armed freak show. “Or maybe I just read wrong.”
“Bitseach!” the Morrigan swore, voice low and icy as a winter wind sweeping over a graveyard. She spun away from me, focusing on Ailia, which was exactly the kind of misstep I could exploit. “I will gut you, you wretched striapach. I will cut the conniving, lying, slanderous tongue from your mouth and feed it to the crows. Pluck the eyeballs from your face and slice the lips from your head. Rip your arms and legs from your body, until you are but a torso hanging on to a wretched imitation of life.”
James and I shared a brief look as the Morrigan spoke, a glance between partners who’d fought a thousand fights together, and then he was moving, bolting in, sword high—a bold, obvious, flashy attack that’d be easy for the Morrigan to counter. He didn’t have a prayer of hitting her with that kind of play, but boy was it attention grabbing as all hell.
The Morrigan effortlessly parried the strike, but between blocking the attack and her laser-like focus on Ailia, she didn’t notice as I positioned myself to her rear and stole forward on silent feet, padding in a foot at a time while my heart pounded in my chest. I reached into my coat pocket as I moved, hands shaking minutely as I pulled free my Vis-imbued garrote, then wrapped the wire twice around my fist.
This was it.
A handful of feet out, I lunged, lashing out with my blade, timing my attack so James and I struck simultaneously.
Somehow, impossibly, she repelled James’s blow a split second before swinging her scythe around and catching my blade as I made to run her through the back. But now we were damned close, she and I—our bodies mere inches apart, only separated by the tension of our weapons. With a screw-you grin breaking across my face, I dismissed my sword-construct with a whisper of will. The azure katana fizzled and died in an instant, and suddenly, the pressure separating me from the Morrigan was gone, disappeared in a puff of air.
Before she could stop me, I threw my weight forward, chest slamming into her back, momentarily knocking her off balance.
From there, it took only an eyeblink to get my hands up and string the choke wire across her throat. I did it with a practiced ease that came from years of muscle memory. Smooth. Quick. Efficient. Completely automated.
I’d done this same thing often enough to be good at it even if I hated myself a little for it.
Let’s face it: there’s no honor in sneaking up behind someone and strangling them to death. But here’s a pro tip: there’s really no honor in killing. Period. I am and always have been a pragmatist, and a quick, quiet hit-job is nothing if not pragmatic.
I jerked the wire tight and heard the strangled gasp as warded silver and cold iron bit into her skin. The Tuatha De Danann were not fae—though closely related—so the cold iron didn’t burn her the way it would a High Lord of Winter, say, but I’m sure it hurt plenty all the same.
She flailed about with her scythe, but she no longer had a target to strike at. James had retreated well out of reach the second I moved, and she couldn’t hit me, not pressed against her back the way I was.
I could feel the panic mount in her and take hold, her limbs flapping and flailing like a drowning woman fighting to break the surface of the water. In a way she was drowning. The Tuatha De Danann were godlings with a wide array of powers, and though they didn’t use the Vis the way magi did, that didn’t mean their power wasn’t derived from the Vis. It was a part of them, flowing through their veins the way blood flows through humans. They lived off the stuff. With the garrote wrapped around her windpipe, all of her supernatural abilities would slowly drain away.
Not permanently, but for long enough to suit my purposes.
In a last-ditch effort, she dismissed the scythe in a puff of sooty smoke and bucked back—a bull fighting to throw its rider—slamming into me with the force of a car crash. I held, if barely, and I cranked down tighter, biceps bulging as her fists and elbows hammered at me, digging into my hands and arms and ribs. The blows hurt, but not enough to dislodge me, especially when I was so close to victory.
She threw her weight back again, and this time we went to the floor, her on top, me on bottom. Most fights end on the ground anyway, and though it’s not where I prefer to be, I can handle my business on the deck if push comes to shove. I wrapped my legs around her middle and locked my ankles, hands shaking as I ratcheted the garrote tighter, knowing she couldn’t have more than a few seconds of breath remaining in her. Her fingers darted to the wire digging into her neck, clawed nails frantically fighting to find purchase, to break my deadly choke hold.
“Enough!” The king’s voice boomed out. His command rang through the room like a drill instructor hollering through a friggin’ bullhorn. The single word demanded instantaneous obedience.
Because A) I’m not a complete moron and B) the king seemed to be on our side, I let up on the garrote.
The Morrigan broke away in a blur, gaining her feet and recalling her scythe with a flourish. Before I could do much more than wiggle into a sitting position, she was sprinting at me, weapon raised high, absolute murder in her eyes. She held my death warrant and I was way too spent to do a damn thing to stop her. Before she could impale me, however, the colossal meathead with the battle-axe—Oghma, brother to the king and champion of the court—was suddenly looming between us, angular face tense, muscles flexing in anticipation of violence, axe raised in my defense.
How about that? A little help from the home team. Small victories are always worth celebrating.
“Morrigan,” Dagda said, his voice a whip crack. “I said enough. You will dismiss your weapon and abide by the ancient rules of our people or face exile yourself. The fight was to first blood, and you have lost. Accept your shame and apologize to Judge Levchenko for slapping her.”
I was so downright exhausted from the scuffle that it took me a minute to figure out what exactly had happened. But then I saw the wound: a thin line of crimson ran across the Morrigan’s neck, right where my garrote had been. The blood stood out in sharp contrast against her pale skin and was as obvious as a surrender flag. Her weapon vanished in a flash of shadow, but she was shaking with fury, eyeballing James, Ailia, and me in turns.
“As the good king says,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “you have won the duel and so, Judge, you have my apology.”
The way she said “apology” made it abunda
ntly clear that the only thing she was sorry for was not massacring the whole lot of us when she had the chance.
“Now, with my apology rendered, let me also offer a word of advice.” She curled and uncurled her hands, lips stretching into a thin, unpleasant gash in her face. “A battle is not the war. And our war has only just begun. Flee from this place. Run as far as you can because I will see this debt settled. Plá ar do theach.”
Now I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a Gaelic scholar, but that last bit sounded awfully curse-ish to my ears. Had a certain eat-shit-and-die ring to it.
The Morrigan turned, then gave me one more long I’m-going-to-make-you-eat-your-own-heart look over her shoulder, before exploding in a blast of inky smoke, which coalesced into a cloud of ravens. Tar-black wings beat at the air as the mass of birds tore from the throne room, disappearing between a pair of giant standing rock columns and into the arid desert with the stunted trees. Gone.
For now …
EIGHT:
The Lowdown
The room of high nobles was silent as the cloud of ravens dispersed, leaving everyone to stand around, awkwardly shuffling their feet through too-green grass. “I should think that is enough excitement for one day, don’t you all?” King Dagda said after a time, breaking the unnatural quiet. No one dared to reply. “Yes, quite enough excitement,” the king said again. Then he issued a huge sigh, the sound of a very tired man. “Lord Lugh, won’t you please take our guests to the ambassador’s chambers, then see them to their quarters for the evening.”
Dagda stood, towering over everyone else in the clearing, eyes spearing each remaining member of the court in turn. “Everyone else”—he hefted his ginormous club and slung it nonchalantly over his misshapen gray shoulder—“you are to remember what happened here today. One of our number vanquished in a trial of arms by a mortal mage. Despite what some of you may think, I am no fool and know well what real strength is. Some of you have given ear to the Morrigan, but clearly she is on the wrong side. For now, you are all dismissed, but no one is to leave the grounds until Judge Levchenko is done with you. That is all.”
