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

by James Hunter

  My urge to string him up from his heels and slowly lower him into a vat of acid was increasing exponentially by the moment. I even found my hand inching toward the garrote in my pocket, my mind playing through all the ways I might choke the life from Lord Lugh’s smarmy, assholeish, know-it-all body.

  “In truth, though,” Lugh continued, “all of this talk is neither here nor there. The fact is an army of Fomorians—led by a murderous, vindictive war goddess—is about to invade this room, and we’re all stuck in here together for better or worse. It seems like we would all mutually benefit from pooling our resources and working together. Should we win the day, I will personally open one of these way-portals”—he waved a hand toward the gray stone archways, currently looking into empty black space—“and see all of you free from this place.”

  Instead of the garrote, I drew my hand cannon, hefted the bad boy, and leveled the barrel at Lugh’s head. “If you can wave your hand and open us a portal, then do it now.”

  Lugh crossed his ankles, folded his hands primly, and frowned. “I have no incentive whatsoever to do that. I want you stranded here, one way or the other, until the bitter end. And, on a positive note, I think if we work together, we have a real chance of winning this thing. You see, Oghma is currently shoring up our defenses to buy us a little time, while Dagda is fetching a secret weapon—”

  A crack of power ripped through the room, followed by a flash of emerald light and the crisp sent of ozone, as the gigantic king strode through an opalescent portal hanging in the center of the room. He held a small dark wood chest, bound with simple brass fittings, in one oversized hand. His half-ton club was in the other.

  “Ah, speak of the devil and he appears, no?” Lugh offered with a smile.

  “Have they agreed to give battle with us?” Dagda asked as he marched forward, the portal snapping shut behind him with a sizzle of raw power.

  James stood, face hard, eyebrows—well, what was left of ’em—furrowed, gaze seething with barely restrained anger, arms folded across his broad chest. “As the acting commander for this mission, I have decided we will fight with you under the terms offered by your man, there”—he canted his head at Lugh—“but I swear to God above you’re going to pay for this treachery.”

  “That is something I’m prepared to live with,” Lugh said, lazily climbing to his feet before ushering us toward Dagda, who sprawled in his ginormous throne. “Now let’s get you three prepped for battle.”

  James nodded as he stalked forward, planting himself a few feet away from the sprawling chair of tree roots and stone.

  “I would apologize for the guile we have used against you,” Dagda said, tone grave and heavy, “but I wouldn’t mean it, nor do we have the time for empty regret and hand wringing. The Morrigan is close and her army is … formidable. Oghma, capable as he is, will not delay them for long.”

  “And you expect the three of us to make a difference against an army?” James asked, voice dripping venom.

  “We will have an army of our own, as you shall soon see,” Dagda replied. “But even so, it will not be enough. With you three, however, I believe we can prevail.” He carefully unhinged the top of the chest and flipped back the lid, revealing the contents within: an underwhelming assortment of ol’ timey junk that even Goodwill would probably toss in the shitcan. A dented, beat-to-shit chalice. A tarnished silver necklace—a braided ring with a couple of stylized ravens on the ends, called a torc. And a wood-handled hand scythe, like a farmer might use to harvest a crop of wheat.

  “Holy shit,” I said, face flat as an airport tarmac, “how can we possibly lose with that worthless pile of crap in our corner? We’ll have the edge on them for sure.”

  King Dagda said nothing, but offered me a long, unamused stare, the corners of his uneven mouth drooping. “Once, long and long ago, we didn’t rule these lands—they belonged to the Fomorians. Evil tyrants who governed with an iron fist and demanded the darkest of dark sacrifices. Once we, the Tuatha De Danann, served under their heel like peasants … Until we didn’t. Until we said we would live as slaves of despotism no longer and threw back the Fomorians, forcing their ilk into the dimmest corners of creation where they belong.”

  He paused, blunt, ugly face pensive as he stared at the knickknacks in the wooden chest. “But we didn’t do it alone. Though the Morrigan may not think highly of the magi, our kind has reason both to fear and respect your people. Our people were not the only ones to suffer under the Fomorians—humans, little more than chattel, bore the brunt of their cruelty. Working the land only to turn their crops over to corrupt masters. Children stolen away from parents and offered in profane rites. Young women taken to warm Fomorian beds against their will. The Druids came to us, three of them. Mathgen Earth-shaker, Figol mac Mamois, the Firebrand, Dían Cécht, the healer.

  “On behalf of humanity, they pledged themselves to us in an alliance to overthrow the Fomorians. These”—he nodded toward the items in the box—“are their boons. Ancient instruments which dramatically amplify the abilities of the wielders. Immensely powerful tokens. And dangerous. The boons are linked—each artifact balancing out the others—and should one of you fall, the other two may well perish in turn. Such was the fate of Mathgen, Figol, and Dían Cécht, though their boons were collected and held in trust, should the need for their use ever come again.”

  “And it just so happens you have a super-secret weapon of mass destruction that needs three magi, just, you know, lying around in the ol’ junk drawer,” I said. “What a lucky break.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” the king replied with a ponderous shake of his head. “Luck is for amateurs and coincidence a fluke. My brothers and I have ruled the Danann for three thousand years. Three thousand years of pretenders to the throne. Three thousand years of political intrigue. Three thousand years of changing times and shifting sands. We make our own luck.”

  “We were picked,” Ailia said, edging forward, staring at the items in the chest. “Every part of this mission was one big magic trick. Everything we found, every interaction and conversation, every sight and sound were all just slight of hand and misdirection. You specifically summoned the three of us, knowing things would turn out this way.”

  “Just so.” The king dipped his chin in gracious acknowledgment.

  “Now,” Lugh said, taking a position next to Dagda, “the question is, will you three bear the boons? Have we deceived you all terribly? Obviously. But will you take your justifiable indignation to the grave or will you choose life?”

  “You leave us little choice,” Ailia said, strutting forward and fishing the dented chalice from the chest. “There is a Russian proverb: Beda nikogda ne prihodit odna—trouble never comes alone.” A shimmering ruby haze exploded from the chalice as Ailia embraced the Vis. “You have forced our hand in this, but it may bite you in the end.” She smiled, the look hard and anything but friendly. “Trouble never comes alone, and I think this is but the beginning of your troubles. Of all our troubles.”

  THIRTEEN:

  Death Stroke

  The throne room had undergone some radical renovations as we’d prepared to give battle to the Morrigan and her Fomorian horde. All of the stone archways—interdimensional gateways tied to sites all over Inworld and Out—had been barricaded: temporarily cut off from the ley lines which powered them, and further sealed shut by impenetrable walls of gnarled vines and thorn-covered vegetation. Though Lugh assured us an emergency exit could be conjured if the need arose, to me it looked like we were boxed in good and solid.

  Apart from extraordinary measures, the only way in or out was through the massive double doors, which served as the primary entryway to the room.

  Still—despite being backed into a corner like wild animals—I felt uncharacteristically optimistic about our chances. I mean, sure, there was a tight knot of fear churning in my guts, swelling and growing with every passing second, morphing into a creeping dread with teeth and claws that gnawed and scratched at
my insides. But I worked to beat that ugly, snarling fear-beast into submission because we did have some damned-good reasons for optimism.

  First, we had one helluva good defense perimeter set up. We’d created a pair of impressive bulwark barriers, which protected our flanks while also creating a tight bottleneck in the middle of the throne room. Breaching the walls would be damned near impossible, so the invading ground element would have little choice but to fight their way through the narrow funnel, which would turn into a friggin’ slaughterhouse. All those gibbering Fomorian, attempting to push and shove their way through an eight-foot opening, would make for easy pickings.

  I paced to and fro on the right-hand berm—an earthen monstrosity of black, pitted volcanic magma, called from the deep places of the earth and cooled with huge geysers of water. Mostly, I looked down on the green grass below, waiting for the arrival of the Morrigan, doing my damnedest to ignore the boon in my palm: the ol’ timey hand scythe. The boon of Figol mac Mamois, the Firebrand. All of our fancy, Vis-wrought barriers had been painstakingly crafted without the use of the boons. James, Ailia, and I knew we were gonna have to use the boons eventually, but we were reluctant.

  Screwin’ around with ancient artifacts and weaponry you didn’t understand was always dangerous business and a good way to kill or maim yourself in a terribly gruesome fashion.

  Opposite me, loomed a massive wall of blue ice—ten feet high, five feet thick, and imposing as all hell—conjured from the bubbling brook that ran the length of the throne room.

  Ailia was there, sitting atop the glacier-barricade, knees crossed Indian style, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in deep, rhythmic breaths. Meditating. Preparing. She held the dented chalice—the boon of Dían Cécht, the healer—in both hands, the base of the cup resting in her lap. Her face was utterly serene, smooth and natural and beautiful. She looked like she was sleeping, though, in reality, I knew she was as sharp and focused as a surgeon headed into the operating room.

  The second reason for optimism? We had James Sullivan, the lieutenant commander of the Fist of the Staff, calling our plays, and there was no one better in the business. That flapper asshole was hovering—yeah, hovering—twenty or so feet above us, suspended in the air on one of the huge gray slabs of stone, which had to weigh a couple of tons easy. He’d tapped into the ley lines—metaphysical aquifers of raw Vis—beneath the throne room, and had leveraged that sustainable energy to magnetically charge the ginormous hunk of rock. Turned the slab of stone into a flying platform repelled from the earth’s magnetic field and held steady by massive flows of air.

  Badass to the max.

  Guy had an eagle-eye view of the battlefield; from up there, he’d be able to direct Ailia and I while simultaneously raining down death on anything unlucky enough to be below. I glanced up at him, just for a moment, then let out a long sigh. I was optimistic, true, but if things went sideways here—and in a brawl like this, things could go to nine kinds of hell in a blink—this might be the last time I ever saw that douche-waffle. He wore the tarnished silver torc around his neck, the boon of Mathgen Earth-shaker, and absently twirled his sword cane in one hand, the blade sailing through graceful arcs. His eyes were hazy, out of focus, and I knew he was going through a slew of battle scenarios:

  What if the enemy flanks us on the right? On the left? What if they have aerial units? How should we respond? Should we need to fall back, where should we go?

  Yeah, if anyone could get us outta this shit-storm, it was him.

  And third, we had an army.

  Yeah, did I forget to mention that? ’Cause that was a big plus. I mean it wasn’t a huge army, only a hundred strong, but an army is still a friggin’ army. On that point, at least, Dagda hadn’t been completely full of shit. The fighters were spectral creatures, their flesh emerald green and semi-translucent, with bits of yellowed bone peeking through in places. The Warriors of Renown: heroic Irish spirits bound to the throne of the Tuatha De Danann and summoned from Tír Tairngiri—the Land of Promise—to wage battle.

  Some were short and squat, others tall and lean, many were beefy, and a spattering were fat as hell. A handful of women dotted the ranks as well. The weapons they bore were as thoroughly diverse as the warriors themselves—great-swords, battle-axes, spears, pole-arms, bows, slings—but, uniformly, they held their assorted weapons with an unnerving confidence. Each also had neon-green glyphs and sigils running over their ghostly bodies in elaborate swirls, and despite their differences, one and all were fierce as machete-wielding, armor-clad grizzly bears.

  I wouldn’t want to tangle with ’em, that’s for damn sure.

  They loitered before the door, forever-silent snarls marring undead faces, ethereal muscles tense as they waited for battle.

  Lugh waited among their number, standing at the front of the formation, ready to engage the Morrigan when she came charging through those doors. The conniving, shitheel trickster god had donned leather armor—supple and worked in gold—over his customary green robes. He didn’t look worried, not in the least. If anything, he looked bored, like a schmuck stuck in line at the DMV just waiting for someone to call his number so he could handle his business, head home, and find something better to do with his afternoon: like watch the golf channel.

  Dagda, on the other hand, was behind me, sitting atop his throne, well behind our formidable defensive perimeter. Like Lugh, the Danann King had opted for a wardrobe change, exchanging his flowing white robes for battle armor which resembled the bastard progeny of an M1A1 Abrams tank and a Mad Max flick: all thick heavy steel and protruding spikes. The armor was mostly for show, however, since Dagda wouldn’t actually do any fighting—at least not in the physical sense of the word. Hell, the guy couldn’t defend himself even if he wanted to since he was literally rooted to his seat: green vines and dry brown tree roots grew into his arms and legs like thick cables of IV tubing.

  No, Dagda wouldn’t be fighting. Instead, he’d be commanding the ghostly soldiers through the vegetation growing into him from the throne itself. From what I had gathered, the Warriors of Renown were inescapably bound to serve Tír na nÓg, and Tír na nÓg was, in kind, inescapably bound to the will of the throne. So, instead of hooking and jabbing up close and personal, Dagda would wage war through the spectral fighters—seeing through their eyes and manipulating each being as an extension of himself. Instead of one powerful warrior, Dagda was a hundred peerless fighters. Pretty neat trick when it gets right down to it.

  A rumbling boom jarred me from my thoughts as the doors rattled in their frame, bowing inward from the force of whatever had hit ’em.

  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

  My fingers clenched tight around the scythe in my sweaty hand. I’d waited as long as I could, but there was no more time to stall.

  This was it.

  BOOM-CRACK. The doors flexed appreciably, the wood straining against the brass bands and rivets holding them together, groaning from the sudden pressure.

  It was now or never.

  A third and final BOOM-CRACK reverberated throughout the room as the doors ruptured; splinters, bits of metal, huge chunks of wood, and a blinding cloud of dust exploded inward. A deadly shower of debris and shrapnel, which brought with it the sound of music: The shrill cry of bagpipes marched through the doors; an army of bass drums hammered out a thunderous cadence, which vibrated the ground beneath me; and the sing-song trill of flutes weaved and drifted along the other melodies. Celtic battle music at its finest.

  I guess if we had to do this, at least we could have some tunes.

  I pushed the air from my lungs in a steady exhale, held for a heartbeat, then inhaled life and power, not directly drawing from the source, but rather siphoning a torrent of Vis through the scythe, using the tool as a buffer. Then, the innocuous scythe burst to life with a flash of white-hot light so epic it momentarily blinded me.

  Time seemed to lurch and grind to a herky-jerky halt—stealing a deep breath all its own—as p
ower flooded into my veins: a cascade of magma, a lightning blast, a force of nature looking to burn me up and strike me down and drag me kicking and screaming into the heart of a raging sea storm. So. Much. Power. More power then I’d ever handled before. And as that power washed through my fragile body, a new sense bloomed inside me, unfurling in the back of my mind like the petals of a flower.

  An awareness of James and Ailia: for better or worse, we were bound together in that moment, bound by purpose and by the driving, primal force undergirding all Creation.

  Bound by the boons.

  I could sense Ailia, could feel her fear and worry, but above that, her fierce love for me shone like a golden sun, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

  And I could feel James, a writhing ball of mixed emotions. Boiling rage. Anxious anticipation. A hunger for the killing to come. All tied together by an unshakable determination to see the three of us home safe.

  As I watched a plank of wooden shrapnel cruise toward me in slow motion, I realized the three boons where simply filters. Empty vessels that worked together to draw and hold an overflow of Vis while tying the wielders of the boons together as one, spreading around the gigantic force so no one drew too much. Really it wasn’t so different from the binding I’d done with James when we’d made our daring getaway. Just bigger. I’d been the vessel then, a battery filled with juice to be channeled. These boons were ginormous, supercharged batteries of awesomeness.

  I smiled as the lazily cartwheeling chunk of wood drew closer to my face, then casually conjured a shimmering dome of blue light, which stopped that pesky piece of shrapnel dead in its tracks. More bits of wood and brass slammed into the shield with a flare of blue-white light, then dropped to the ground as, all at once, time resumed its normal flow.