The Phantom Queen Awakes (24 page)

Fionn’s laugh was scornful and it stirred
Indech’s fury as little else had. His resistance broke and he hit
her. Fionn tumbled to the ground, mouth gaping in shock, eyes wide.
Blood dripped from her split lip.

“You will never speak to me again,” Indech
snarled. “From this day, you will be as dead to me as you think I
am. If you try to leave this tent, you will be killed.”

Indech left before he could do anything worse.
He ordered ten warriors to watch her tent and had them swear to
strike his daughter down should she try to leave.

With a few harsh commands, he gathered Bres
and Balor in his tent.

“This situation is preposterous. Our enemy is
laughing at us. Balor, you must take to the field and end this
thing.”

Balor rumbled something that might have been
amusement. “I thought we needed no more than your warriors to win
this war, Indech.”

“That was without the benefit of Bres’
honest
assessment of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
.” Indech
cast a baleful look on Bres as he circled the deposed
king.

“I told you the truth,” Bres
snarled.

“No. You told me ridiculous stories of
champions that had never been defeated, of strange magical feats by
druids, and spears and swords with fantastical
properties.”

“And is this not what you have found?” Balor
crossed his arms, his tone betraying the smug expression the lid
concealed.

Hands curled into fists, Indech said, “What I
have found is that the
Tuatha Dé Danann
have a mysterious
means of refreshing their force each night. There must be caches of
hidden warriors and weapons that we have not discovered. Had Bres
not filled his own head with lies of―”

“They are not lies, you fool!” Bres shouted.
“You heard Ruadan’s testimony of what he saw while in their camp.
It was your refusal to see what is directly before your eyes that
killed my son.”

The words, so close to those Fionn had spoken
to him, made Indech’s blood seethe.

“And your gullibility has seen thousands of my
warriors killed. I say we end this on the morrow. I say we do not
give them the time to replenish their ranks again. Balor claims
that he can sweep their army from the field with one look from his
eye. I say we let him try.”

The great iron lid turned to Indech. “You do
not believe in the skills of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
but you
are willing to trust the
power
of my eye?”

Indech forced himself to speak calmly. “Aye.
Perhaps it is time to fight fire with fire.”

And while Balor of the Evil Eye took to the
field, a giant in black armor with a glowing eye, sure to draw the
might of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
, Indech would strike the
distracted enemy and finish this madness once and for
all.

****

“
This will be the final day of
battle,” Morrigan said.

Lug asked, “You have foreseen
this?”

“No. Today is the day Indech mac De Domnann
finally realizes that he is dead.”

“Aye,” Dagda rumbled. “The man will not stand
by the end of the day.”

“And what of Balor?” Lug looked between
them.

Morrigan shook her head. “His life I have not
touched. Balor of the Evil Eye is your fate, Lug.”

The young leader of the
Tuatha Dé
Danann
squared his shoulders. “He is my origin and my fate. I
will meet him today.” He smiled. “Though I would like my greatest
champions by my side when I do so.”

Dagda pounded his fist to his heart. “It will
be so.”

With a single nod, Morrigan pledged the
same.

Drawing his sword and thrusting it high, Lug
turned to the massed warriors of Ireland. “Today we are victorious!
Today we reclaim what is fated to be ours!”

The great host cheered and Morrigan leapt to
the sky, carried high by the fervor of Lug’s warriors. They were
glorious in their passion. She wheeled overhead, drinking in the
heady rush of their ferocity. Today would be a day of heroic battle
and devastating defeat. Yet it would not be the
Tuatha Dé
Danann
who retreated from the field.

Beneath her, the Plain of Pillars was a
treacherous tangle of ploughed earth, drying blood-mud and the
littered remains of Fomor dead. So different to what she had flown
above mere days ago. A lush, green plain slowly giving way to the
touch of frost. Winter was coming, a time of death and cold, but
always, ever always, summer would return and death would give way
to blossoming potential and sweet life. Yet all she saw then was
now in ruins.

Was this what the world was to become?
Something beautiful and precious made ugly by the wars of men and
gods? Were they all destined to drown in blood? Would every plain
become a battlefield sowed with the hearts of the young, only to be
harvested in hate?

Morrigan cried out her pain and the armies
below roared back. Glittering with deadly light, swords and spears
rose in challenge and once more, the
Tuatha Dé Danann
and
the Fomor clashed.

Lug was a shimmering beacon amongst the men of
Ireland. Released from his promise to not take to the field, the
greatest of champions fought at the head of his warriors at last.
They rallied to him, they battled more valiantly, they died to
protect him and they lived to give him everything they could. The
front line of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
swept aside the Fomor and
drove a spear-point into their enemy’s heart.

Then, from the back of the Fomor, came a
massive black shape.

Morrigan flung herself down for a closer
look.

Balor.

The giant waded through his own warriors with
no regard for who he knocked over, who he stood on in his drive
toward the front. The heat of his concealed eye reached up to
Morrigan, caught her in a crushing grip. She battled free and
climbed back to dizzying heights. From here she saw his
destination.

Wings beating hard, she raced him back to
Lug.

“Balor of the Evil Eye,” she shrieked down to
him and Dagda. “He means to meet you now.”

Dagda laughed and swung his huge club. Lug
grew grim and determined. He sent his faithful warriors back,
determined to keep them safe from Balor’s power.

“Come, my sweet winter,” Dagda called. “We
will destroy this enemy together.”

His words burned away the despair of what she
had seen from on high.

Something caught the corner of her sharp,
raven eye.

Flaring her wings, Morrigan twisted and faced
the disturbance.

The echo of Dadga’s battle lust burst into
flame in her chest.

“Indech!” she screamed and flew for him as an
arrow fired from a bow.

Diverted by the appearance of the fabled
Balor, the
Tuatha Dé Danann
host had left its flank exposed.
A small, fast group of Fomor had splintered away and now raced for
this new vulnerability. At their head, Indech mac De
Domnann.

Morrigan dived down over the heads of the
distracted
Tuatha Dé Danann
, crying out for their attention.
They looked up at her and cheered, and swung around to see where
she flew. Made aware, filled with her need for blood, they saw
their enemy and as one, charged.

Shifting into her human form, she touched
ground in front of her magnificent warriors and stood tall before
the Fomor king.

Indech, eyes wide, jaw dropping, skidded to a
clumsy halt. From behind, his warriors swarmed forward. They parted
around him as river waters around a rock. The furious charge of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
similarly swept around Morrigan, their
passage flaring her red cloak around her body. The clash of battle
was deafening and yet, Morrigan did not flinch. She had no sword or
spear but did not fear the long blade gleaming in Indech’s hand.
For it appeared he forgot he held it. The enemy king was struck
dumb and she felt the disbelief, the doubt, the anger, the zeal for
victory, drain from him as the blood was drained from his
warriors.

Morrigan smiled. In his eyes, she saw him know
the truth. He was dead.

“No!” Indech roared the denial and spun. He
fought his way free of the battle and fled back toward the Fomor
host.

“Be victorious, my warriors!” Morrigan sang to
the fighting men and lifted once more from the ground. There was
another promise yet to keep.

Back to Lug and Dagda she went, as fast as she
could. Again, she landed and resumed the shape of a woman. Drawing
her red cloak tight, she took her place beside Dagda, just behind
Lug. Around them, the opposing armies had backed away. This single
combat would define the future for all.

Beyond Lug was Balor of the Evil Eye. He
towered over his men, his lidded face tilted down toward the young
champion. He carried a monstrous sword but it was not his greatest
weapon.

In contrast, Lug had passed off his spear and
sword. He stood before the giant, small and defenseless.

“Balor!” Lug called so all men on the field
could hear him. “Your host is defeated. Ireland belongs to the
Tuatha Dé Danann
and they do not pay tribute to anyone!
Retreat or die.”

The
Tuatha Dé Danann
warriors bellowed
their agreement, chorusing to a cacophony of swords smacked against
shields.

Over the din, Morrigan could just hear Balor
laughing. And beneath the amusement, she heard something
else.

Through the Fomor host came Indech, screaming.
No one but those close to him could make out his words, and they
began to push away from each other, trying to flee the Plain of
Pillars.

“Too late,” Morrigan whispered and Dagda
nodded, his grin wide and gleeful.

“Who is this boy before me?” Balor rumbled as
the noise lessened. “I would like to see this talkative fellow who
converses with me.”

And the great lid began to rise on his
ill-gotten eye.

“Stop!” Indech stumbled from the front line of
Fomor. “It is all true...” His voice died away as the red light of
Balor’s eye shone forth over the
Tuatha Dé
Danann
.

Heat cut across Morrigan in a cruel sweep. It
blasted the air from around her and scorched her skin. Cries rose
from the closest warriors. There was a loud clatter of weapons
dropping from burnt hands.

Lug was a mere blur in the suddenly red world.
He stood tall, his clothes and hair smoking. The leader of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
reached to his belt, bare of weapons of
steel, and pulled forth a simple sling ― a child’s toy, a means of
hunting small game for a meal. Already loaded, he swung the sling
expertly and loosed the stone right into the evil eye.

Balor roared and staggered. His gaze swept up
to the sky, the lid falling back to fully reveal the killing power
of his eye. Morrigan, gasping for cool air, was thankful she was
not on the wing. The giant spun violently, a useless attempt to
regain his balance. The red swath of his eye fell upon his own
ranks. Those closest to him vanished instantly. Those behind,
turned to ash.

Panic rose in the Fomor as their greatest
weapon cut through them. They turned and fled, slashing and
stabbing at their fellows in a desperate attempt to outrun Balor’s
dying act.

Indech, utterly lost, stared as Balor crashed
to his knees. He did not even move when, with a final groan, the
giant toppled over. The very crown of his head struck Indech in the
chest. A great gush of blood spurted over the king’s slack lips. He
collapsed under the weight of Balor’s head and was pushed into the
blood-mud.

Lug, his deadly sling still in hand, went
forward to look down on his fallen enemies. Morrigan and Dagda
followed.

“Declare,” Indech gasped. “Who...who is
the...man?”

“A man who does not fear you,” Lug
said.

Tears streaming from his eyes, Indech found
Morrigan and lifted a hand to her, pleading.

“You are dead, King Indech mac De Domnann,”
she told him.

Stepping away from Indech, Morrigan turned to
the men of Ireland. She flung her arms to the sky, her cloak
billowing out like wings.

“Kings of Ireland,” she cried so all would
hear. “Arise to the battle!”

They answered with a battle cry louder and
more beautiful than anything she had ever heard before. Weapons
rose into the air and the
Tuatha Dé Danann
charged once more
into battle, to drive the last of the Fomor from their precious
green isle.

****

It was at an end. The Fomor were defeated,
sent back to sea forever. Bres was captured and spared ― though his
continued life came at great personal cost. The former king was no
more, instead forced to plough the grain fields and milk
cows.

The Plain of Pillars, with a turning of the
seasons, returned to its splendor. Rich green, nodding
grass-flowers, darting rodents and, overhead, hunting
birds.