Flashback: The Morrigan: A Yancy Lazarus Novella (Yancy Lazarus Series)

by James Hunter

  The remaining members—some regarding us with open looks of hostility while others eyed us with a mix of curiosity and trepidation—all nodded and politely bowed their way from the stone-encircled clearing. As each guest moved between the stone archways there was a brief flash of opalescent light and then they were gone, disappearing to wherever they’d come from to begin with. Eventually, only the king, Lugh, and Oghma remained, all three sharing uneasy looks.

  Then the king nodded to some unheard request. Oghma offered a brief bow in response and immediately spun on his heel, stalking off toward the same portal the Morrigan had disappeared through. Meanwhile Lugh—the cocky little shit—swaggered toward us, his green tunic swishing as he moved, his golden spear thumping on the ground with every step.

  He grinned, a shifty smile full of mischief, as he planted himself before us, hip cocked out, hands intertwined around his spear. “I was right about you all—vastly more entertaining than I ever could’ve dared for. Openly fighting the Morrigan in single combat, inside the throne room of Tír na nÓg. And to win no less? Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” He shook his head in wonder, still smiling like a loon. “The three of you must need a trio of wheelbarrows to carry your balls around in—no offense intended to the lady, of course.

  “The absurdity of it all has me giddy,” he continued. “I mean this is the kind of thing bards pen epic ballads about. And since I”—he hook a thumb at his chest—“happen to be a bard, I can assure you this one is going down in the history books. She will be so peeved, our Morrigan. Absolutely distraught, I’d wager. I’ll have to take a little poetic license of course”—this he said more to himself than to us—“the battle really needs to last ten or twelve hours. That’s the proper length for an epic.”

  He looked at me and rubbed his chin, bottom lip thrust out in thought. “And I’ll probably have to embellish things a bit where you’re concerned. You’re just so damned ordinary looking. A great epic really needs a hero of great stature—a man like Beowulf, say. Though I suppose I could go in the other direction: homely, hunchbacked, inarticulate. The epitome of the antihero.” He eyed me, taking in the leather jacket, travel-worn jeans, and scuffed boots. “The antihero definitely suits you better. Besides, that tack would be far more embarrassing for our hotheaded war goddess. To lose a battle, which she instigated, against some travel-worn mortal lackey. She’ll never live it down.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, the sound of a man who maybe wasn’t playing with a full deck of cards.

  I grumbled and withdrew my Vis-imbued K-Bar from the leather sheath at my hip. I frowned at Lugh as he rambled and began to clean my fingernails with the knife’s tip. “Keep talking, jackass,” I mumbled.

  Ailia wheeled around on me and punched me right in the gut, expertly aiming for my bruised ribs. I pricked my finger with the K-Bar as her blow landed, and a fat bead of blood welled up on the pad of my index finger. I swore and stuck the digit into my mouth.

  “That’s enough, Yancy,” she said. “I’m running this operation, not you. I understand you’re use to solving problems with your fists, but this isn’t that kind of job. Not yet.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps what happened with the Morrigan was unavoidable, but I will not have you picking fights with every noble in Tír na nÓg. We need to work with these people, do you understand that? They have information and answers that we need. If you insist on pissing off everyone that might be inclined to help us, we’ll be dead in the water.”

  “The hell you talking about?” I countered, pulling my bleeding finger from my mouth. “I’m not picking fights with anyone. First off, this clown”—I waved at Lugh, who only grinned good-naturedly at my insult—“has been takin’ pokes at me since we got here. And second, that lady challenged us to a duel, then slapped you in the face. You can’t expect me to put up with that kinda garbage. And third, James and I were sent here to watch your back, and that’s all I’m doing.” I glanced at James. “Come on and back me up on this one, man.”

  He cleared his throat, shrugged, then went about adjusting and straightening his dinner jacket, which had been mussed in the scuffle. “She’s got a point, pally,” he replied. “You’re a damned-fine battle-mage, Yancy—not as good as me, obviously, but passable. Your bedside manner, on the other hand, is like bathing in a vat of acid. We’re friends, old boy, and I still have to fight the urge to punch you in the face ninety percent of the time I’m with you.”

  “You are such a colossal shit-trumpet, you know that?” I said with a glare, eyes narrowing into slits.

  “You’ve perfectly illustrated my point—right this very moment. I literally want to launch you into a low-earth orbit and watch you suffocate,” he replied.

  “Dick,” I muttered under my breath.

  “And, for the record”—Ailia planted hands on hips—“you weren’t sent here to watch my back, you were sent to assist me in my investigation, which means I’m the one calling the shots, not the other way around. So unless you want to be confined to our quarters indefinitely, you’d better shut your mouth and start being a team player, okay?”

  I said nothing.

  “Okay?” she prompted again.

  I adjusted and readjusted my jacket, then stowed my K-Bar in its sheath, all the while refusing to meet her accusing stare.

  Life is so unfair sometimes. Most times. Hell, pretty much every minute of every day. I’d fought a mythical Irish war goddess in a duel and had won. Someone should’ve been giving me a medal for valor, but instead I was surrounded by a trio of jerks and was getting a very public ass chewing. I swear I get less respect than a guy standing on a street corner with a bullhorn and a sandwich board proclaiming “The End is Near.”

  “Fine. Whatever,” I finally consented.

  “This is precisely why I love humans so much,” Lugh said as his laugh-fest finally subsided. “You’re all so … so alive. So in the moment. The Tuatha De Danann, we aren’t like that. My kind is fixed. Unchanging. Self-important with nary a sense of humor in sight. The Morrigan is always the Morrigan: petty, cruel, vindictive. Oghma, bless his stupid soul, will never be more than a walking pair of biceps, while Aengus will never be more than a strutting phallus. I miss being with regular people. So unpredictable and creative. Temporary.” He sighed, his smile fading, dying. “Well, enough of that. Best we get a move on it. Let’s get you to the ambassador’s quarters.”

  He led us to the massive double doors, which silently swung inwards, revealing the elegant hallway we’d first entered from.

  “Please stay close,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at us. “These hallways can be quite confusing to outsiders and I would hate to see one of you”—the bastard thumbed his nose at me—“fall behind and get lost.” With that he stepped out, strolling down the ornate marble hallways filled with priceless treasures and ancient artifacts.

  “Lord Lugh,” Ailia said as we walked, the sound of our footfalls too damn loud and echoing around us, “would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?”

  “Well, if your question is whether or not I’m available, the answer is yes. Very available. Also experienced, if you take my meaning.”

  I grunted and, despite Ailia’s admonishment, my hand instinctively crept toward the monster pistol—think the ill-behaved Frankenstein-spawn of Dirty Harry’s .44 Magnum—stashed away in my shoulder rig. Ailia had accused me of picking fights, but this dude was just asking for it. Everything he did seemed to have the sole aim of pissing me off. James put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Cool it and let her work, the gesture said. I grumbled for a long beat, then rudely shoved both hands into my coat pockets so Lugh couldn’t see me ball my hands into fists, all the better for smashing his friggin’ nose in. Douche-hole.

  “I think we both know that’s not what I’m interested in,” Ailia said, though she offered him a coy smile.

  “A shame,” he replied. “Though I readily admit to being a hopeless flatterer and sycophant, I wasn’t lying when I
said the court has rarely hosted a person with such beauty and talent.” He was quiet for a time, shifting his spear from hand to hand as he ambled. Finally, he puffed out his cheeks in a groan and threaded one hand through his black locks.

  “Fine. Fine,” he said. “If it’s politics you want to talk about then let’s talk politics. Here’s the deal, you can ask whatever you’d like. Whether I’ll answer is an entirely different matter. The court is in a delicate position right now, and some of our inner workings aren’t for outside ears. Even beautiful ones. Still, it certainly can’t hurt to ask. Considering how entertaining you three have been thus far, I might even be inclined to tell you the truth just to see what you’ll do next.”

  We moved on in silence for a beat, hanging a left down a short hallway with an arched window—the first window I’d seen—which looked onto rolling hills of green dotted with white trees covered in purple foliage. Even though it was early evening here, the gigantic moon overhead, paired with a host of stars, shed enough silver light to illuminate the landscape for miles. A flock of birds, about the size of large quails, with shockingly blue feathers roosted in the tree branches.

  I’ve been a crap-ton of places, but I’d never seen trees or birds like those.

  “You said the court is in a delicate position,” Ailia said. “Why? The Danann have been around for a very long time and Dagda has been king since the Fomorian War. As you said, your people are not known for readily changing, so why should there be turmoil in the court now, when it has been stable for a thousand years or more?” She paused, letting the question hang in the air like a dark cloud.

  Lugh offered no response as he led us down another connecting hallway, this one nearly identical to the hallway we’d departed from a second ago.

  It had the same arched windows and the same view. Shit, I was pretty sure it was exactly the same landscape—same trees, same weird-ass birds. Every detail, identical. Except for one: now the trees were thirty feet out instead of a hundred, and the birds looked as large as eagles instead of quails. From this close I could see their beady red eyes, like smoldering red coals, and jagged reptilian teeth jutting down around their beaks. They looked hungry. And mean.

  “They say you’re the best Judge the Guild has to offer,” Lugh offered eventually, taking no note of the strange scenery or the freaky-ass birds. “I can see why. Your intuition is spot on.” He nodded his head thoughtfully, and not for the first time, I got the sense that there was much, much more to the easygoing trickster.

  “We are not prone to change, and that in itself is the problem. You see, although we may not change, times do. Though we’ve had alliances with humans in the past, the Morrigan was right: we were worshiped and served, and our partnerships were hardly alliances between equals. But that was before the rise of modern man. There are six billion humans these days—six billion—and that number keeps climbing. Projections show that number will reach seven billion by 2010. A billion new souls in twelve years. And, worse still, humanity has become more technologically advanced than we ever could have dreamed of.

  “Aeroplanes that ferry men through the sky. Medicine that can cure even the most crippling of maladies. All human knowledge, easily accessible through your interweb—every person connected to ever other person through a box on a desk. Humans are amazing creatures in their way. Their mortality, their finiteness, has given them a drive to live, to succeed, unrivaled in Otherworld.” He shook his head at the sheer scope of it all. Strangely thoughtful, even. “And the weapons you’ve managed to make.” A hint of awe coated the words.

  “In bygone days my kin could slaughter an army of sword-wielding humans. Now humans have machine guns and tanks. Aerial fighter planes and antipersonnel mines. They’ve split the atom and can cause devastation on a scale undreamt of by the old godlings. As a whole, humanity is a thousand times more dangerous than we could ever hope to be. The landscape has changed, and humans are now far closer to the top of the food chain than anyone would care to admit.

  “Since the magi represent humanity in the supernatural community, it only stands to reason that we should make you friends instead of enemies. My brother, Dagda, sees the reality of this and realizes our survival depends on doing something we have typically been very bad at doing: changing. Making deals. Being team players. We’re terrible team players. Even worse than your Mr. Lazarus. Unfortunately, many of our esteemed nobles do not feel the same way. They’ve buried their heads in the sand, insulated themselves from reality. Bunch of shortsighted fools. And now they rally around the Morrigan, who is the most vocal opponent to Dagda’s strategy of modernization and integration. Old Guard versus New Guard, and the rest is politics as usual.”

  The conversation lapsed into an uncomfortable lull.

  “I’ve read many of the old stories, the great sagas,” Ailia said, changing tack seemingly at random.

  Except I knew that wasn’t the case. Abruptly switching topics was a common interrogation technique used to catch people in lies by making them react quickly, before they could fabricate a dishonest answer.

  “In many of these tales,” she continued, voice emotionless, almost uninterested, “you are depicted as the King of the Danann, not your brother. Simultaneously—and I truly mean no offense—King Dagda is often depicted as … Well, how can I put this?” She pursed her lips as she thought. “Brutish, I suppose. Strong, powerful, but not particularly bright. You, on the other hand, are a master of every art. A peerless warrior, extraordinarily intelligent. Even your proper court title, Chief Ollam, is far more distinguished than you’re letting on. The ambassador had much to say of you in his reports. According to him, the head Ollam of a province is equal to any provincial king. Perhaps not in power, but certainly in social standing.”

  “How thorough of him,” Lugh replied, annoyed. “But, for what it’s worth, this is a conversation I can get behind. I could literally hear you talk about how great I am all day. Several days, even. Or nights, if you ever change your mind.” He looked back and waggled an eyebrow at her.

  “Intelligent and humble,” she replied, straight-faced. “Is it true you led the Danann to victory against the Fomorians? Didn’t you defeat Balor Birugderc, the Demon-Eyed, the Strong-Smiter, the King of the Fomorians?”

  “Aye,” he said, “and what a story it is. Frankly, though, I’m fascinated to know what your interest in the subject is.” His tone was even and oddly neutral.

  She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The sound of our clicking shoes rang in the air, click, clack, click, clack, click, clack. “I suppose I want to know how you fit into the picture,” she offered. “It seems to me you would make a very good king, should you want the job.”

  Lugh stopped, turned, and smiled at her, crow’s feet sprouting at the corners of his eyes. In that moment, he looked much older than thirty-five. For a blink he was ancient, with fine silver hair and twinkling eyes that held far more wisdom than mischief. Then it was gone, and only the old Lugh remained.

  “No need for subterfuge, Judge,” he said. “Just speak your point and be done with it. What you really want to know is whether I have aspirations for the throne. Some secret motive for manipulating the Morrigan in order to depose Dagda so I can usurp his kingship.” He shook his head. “I don’t normally speak so directly, especially not in these halls, but I will let it be known that Dagda’s cause is my own.

  “The truth is I love my brother dearly, and he is a good king. Wise, just, benevolent, progressive. The best, truly. Plus, he looks kingly—given, he’s ugly as the inside of a chamber pot, but it’s in his bearing.” He paused, running a hand over his smooth jawline. “Sadly, he was made to be king in a different age, an age where crushing someone with a club was the way folk resolved their disputes. You will also notice that I never said he’s particularly smart. About that the legends are largely accurate. Which is where I come in.” He bowed his head and swept an arm down his front, a model showing off the latest trends in swimwear. “I’m small, sneaky
, untrustworthy, have little political ambition, and I’m an excellent spy—not unlike your missing ambassador in point of fact.

  “Now, I’m not saying anything openly. But I suppose it could be reasonable to assume that Dagda, Oghma, and I have an unwritten compact of sorts. A Triumvirate. That’s what the Romans called it. The first Roman triumvirate was unofficial—Julius Caesar, Pompey Magnus, and Marcus Crassus. That one didn’t work out so well, but the second one made history. Perhaps even influenced us over here in Britannia—in the long, long bygone days, this was. All of this is hypothetical, but in such a hypothetical situation, I can quite assure you that all three members of the Danann Triumvirate would be wholly committed to the cause. If the Morrigan were to gain power and have her way, all three would have a great deal to lose.” He stopped abruptly, spinning around to face us.

  My hand instantly shot for my gun while I breathed in life and power, forming the weaves for a quick and dirty friction shield.

  “No need for that,” Lugh said, nodding toward my pistol. “We’ve arrived.”

  I stayed my hand, leaving my gun stowed in its holster, but not letting go of the Vis now coursing through me. I turned just a hair, which was more than enough to see the doorway now occupying the hallway I’d walked through a handful of seconds ago. I sighed. Screw this place. So far Tír na nÓg was climbing up my list of locations I never wanted to visit again. Ever.

  All the people here were twisted, two-faced assholes. Not a straight shooter in the bunch—the noticeable exception being the Morrigan, who wanted to grind my bones into dust and use my gelatinous remains as a jump rope. Even the hallways were two-faced sons of bitches that didn’t have the damned decency to stay put. I couldn’t wait until we could put Tír na nÓg in the rearview mirror and get back to life as usual.