the Morrigan Rises

the Rise of the Morrigan

A scattering of arrows dropped lazily into the Wallander's armored ranks. Scota raised her shield and charged toward a detachment of Fomorian archers trying to set their lines on a hill . "Archers on the hill!" she shouted, bursting from among the royal party's house troops and charging up the hill.

"The hill, the hill," shouted god-king Teutates, sword pointed to the hill Scota climbed. "Charge!" he commanded his Wallanders as he rushed after his wife.

Scota closed with skirmishers screening the archers on the hill. A man in tatters leapt at her from the right. Her sword snaked out and past his buckler, seeking his vitals beneath the rags. Her blade skittered over mail hidden beneath. She caught his eye and his rotten toothed grin, watched his confidence waver as her shield caught the nasty steel he'd thought to take off her arm. Scota's sword slid down scales to slice through the bare flesh of his legs. He yowled his pain, but Scota was spinning past him. She sent him headlong down the hill with a great buffet of her shield.

Raven hair streaming, Scota gutted the next man foolish enough to test her. Quicker than thought she chopped the legs out from under a third. The poor man fell screaming while the man she'd disembowled rolled pell mell down the hill, wrapping himself in his glistening entrails.

This deadly dance is what I was made for, Scota thought. Her breath rasped, her legs ached, her hands and arms screamed with the abuse of battle, but her blood sang in her veins. Scota traded blows with two more fighters. A raggedy axe-man swung wildly at her head. Scota slipped inside the man's guard and shoved her sword, between ribs, and into the man's heart. Tearing the sword free she shifted violently to the right, pulverizing another warrior's face with the rim of her shield. Her return cut rang off a third attacker's sword before sliding into his belly.

Behind her a man screamed curses, "You bitch, you bitch. . ." Scota casually struck off his head and the gurgling corpse cursed no more. An arrow thudded into her shield and another clanged off her silvered helm. Enraged, Scota remembered her errand and charged toward the archers running low behind her shield.

Then she was among milling archers who could do little but throw up their arms and die before her murderous charge. Scota recklessly laid about her with sword and shield. Almost as one, the slave archers threw down their weapons and fled. She had piles of dead and dying around her by the time Teutates found her breathing hard, chest heaving from her exertion. She flashed him a wild grin as Teutates and the guard reached her.

Teutates scooped up the first strung bow he found and began firing arrow after arrow at the retreating rabble. "Give 'em what they meant for us, lads. We best break as many as we can while we can." Guardsmen followed his lead.

Scota found a wounded man at her feet squirming in pain from the gash that had spilled his bowels in the dirt. He looked up at her fearfully. As if what I will give you is anything but a kindness, she thought as she pressed her blade between the mans ribs and into his heart. She watched the fear, the shock, and then the sweet emptiness of death glaze the man's eyes. See now? No more pain ever again.

The forces of god-king Teutates had driven Balor's raiders away from the towns and villages in the disputed lands near the Gaellic wall. A few had reached beyond it to take captives of the Wallander city of Edenbrau. Any attack was shocking enough to his Wallanders. No incursion had occured since the great curtain wall was completed. It stood as truth, undoubted, that the South Clans were proof against assault from the land.

No more, thought Scota, I warned this would happen, through the generations my voice warned, "do not trust in walls, only swords can defend a people." I will be given no credit for being correct in my assessment, in my warning. People resented me for spoiling their peace when they should have heeded my warning and saved themselves from death or worse.

The cities along the wall grew fat and prosperous and even threw off the authority of the mountain clans that had built their silly wall in the first place. Scota had only contempt for Teutates' peace loving Wallanders. I prefer the honest bloodthirstyness of the mountain clans, but Teutates, enjoys the prosperity and peace of the kingdom of Wallanland along the wall. How the Wallanders love their god-king, enough even to tolerate his brooding wife. She glanced over at Teutates as he passed orders to man after man who obediantly ran off to do as he was big. As long as my husband holds their strings they fight well enough, she thought.

At least they had roused themselves at this incursion to fight for their freedom, and too, try to gain back their enslaved kin. That goal seems unlikely, calculated Scota, still, it got them to arms.

Three days ago, on the trail of Balor's hoard, they had begun to find citizens of the wall empaled along the way. Scota laughed to herself to see captains who would have long since given up the chase howl for more slave blood when they saw their fellow Wallanders drawing flies on poles. Whatever makes them fight, thought Scota. They'd caught the stragglers of the host first and then a formal rearguard, pathetic though it was, and at last the blood had begun to flow.

For Teutates this ground was unfortunate, a broken land of hills and copses impossible to order his forces or to properly protect each other's flanks. For Scota it brought the fighting close. No ordered battalions nor command tents on a hill and her, stuck with the reserve. There was battle around every corner, over every rise, from front or rear or flank they came to die at her hand. Scota was always at the front of the fighting.

How many have I killed? Ah but the killing is sweet, the very act of taking the life, imposing death despite their pathetic attempts to survive. I love seeing the fear, the pain, and then nothing ever again. She glanced at Teutates afraid that her elation showed on her face. Scota tried to hide her love of killing from Teutates, to keep a shell of civility, but killing was sweeter even than her husband's love. At least it is in the field with blood on my sword and the sweet smell of death all around.

Scota gazed at her god-king husband, Oh, but he is beautiful too. He takes no pleasure in the butchery he meats out, but i love him for it. Scota loved war with passion, but her beautiful husband executed war with the precision of a surgeon, no wasted movement, just violence trained to perfect and devastating purpose. It was strange to think it, but while I have long since forgotten how many men I've killed, even today, somehow I'm sure that Teutates remembers every life he has ever been forced to extinguish. It is a pity he is so gentle. This will haunt him.

Scota looked away. Why does he care? They die so quickly whether you kill them or just let them grow old and expire on their own.

With a jolt Scota saw a great black and red banner begin to rise over a nearby hill. Around the huge banner, warriors crested the hill. A smile split her mouth, Ah Lyr, so good of you to bring me so many more toys.

The banner bore the leering eye sigil of her oldest brother. My mad mother tried to give me to him as wife after that mess with Brigid. If for no other reason, I love Teutates for taking me away from the vile Lyr. Scota looked to her husband, his eyes found her's, "On the hill!" Scota called to him, "Balor himself has come to heel!"

Teutates quickly surveyed the gathering hoard. "Trumpeter," Teutates ordered. In a widening ripple around the king, warriors called for a signalman. Teutates surveyed the men around him and began to give out quick orders to one after another. The men scurried off to carry out the king's orders.

A young man charged up, war-horn in hand. Teutates smiled encouragingly as he ordered the call, "Sound assemble, join lines." The boy made to blow the call right then and there, but Teutates stopped him before he could start. "Sound it back a ways, on the back of the hill and keep sounding it until you hear the other trumpeters pick up the call. The boy would have made off again, but Teutates had another word for him, "Good man, when you've finished that, come back here, you'll be my personal trumpeter for the battle."

"Yes sir!", the young man gushed and dashed off with a big smile on his face. Moments later the call went out, assemble, join lines.

How easily he makes them love him, thought Scota as she turned back to watch, with anticipation, the storm forming around the red eye upon the great black banner. What Teutates achieves through love, Balor achieves through fear. It is a fearful horde that gathers below that battle standard. Scota watched with growing excitement as masses of Fomorians marched past the banner and moved toward the Wallander's lines. I won't have to wait much longer for fresh blood.

The trumpeter had returned, and with him, Teutates' royal banner. With irritation Scota saw that her pennant stood next to the royal banner. A raven outlined silver on a black pennant, a bird flapping, next to the crowned stag of Teutates picked out in green and also gold and sable. It is an honor for the man who holds the king's banner, Scota angrily thought, but it is a job for the lowest of the low to carry my ridiculous flag. I can't be angry with Teutates for what seems a slight, unintended as it is, but it can drive me as I vent my rage in blood.

"Trumpeter, sound Advance to Throwing Range," Shouted Teutates. The young trumpter immediately complied and they were off. A rank of heavy infantry led out with another bearing spears and throwing javelins. They would stop near the bottom of the hill or as soon as the Fomor reached range so that the second rank could hurl their missles into the massed Fomorians below. Scota pressed forward to be in the first rank and did not look to her husband lest Teutates order her back.


* * *


Teutates' Wallanders had fought their way to the top of the last hill between them and Balor's command group, driving Balor's slave soldiers from their strong defensive position. Men still died on the flanks where the loosers of this scirmish had not yet realized that their leaders had fled the field. But this wasteland was full of such hills, drumlins and ridges cut away from each other with deep gorges between.

As good a place as any to fight, but Teutates worries about commanding his forces thought Scota. Her silver chased armor glittered, metal and new splattered blood both caught the light of the yellow sun. Back and forth she paced next to her husband, Teutates, who's armor glittered in much the same way as did Scota's. Scota's black satin hair formed a sort of cloak that flowed from her silver winged helmet. Red rubies filled the sockets of the silver raven that crested her helm.

They were a matched set of expert killers, beautiful as they fought side by side. Wave after wave of Lyr’s raiders broke against their shields and were thrown back. There were always more who came, pounding relentlessly like the sea. “Too many,” panted Teutates, “They are like the endless coils of a snake.”

“We can beat him.” Scota cried, dancing forward to take a warriors sword and with it his the hand at the wrist and then another man's head “Shut up and just keep fighting.” She danced back as Teutates lunged and struck in turn.

Teutates casually blocked a blow and clove a man's helm in two. “No, these endless slave soldiers do Lyr’s bidding, but kill them all and that would not stop him,” Teutates cursed as he caught a heavy blow with his shield and casually stabbed the frenzied fighter in the unprotected thigh. The man howled in pain and rage, rearing back for another savage blow.

Scota ducked past the man and drove her sword through the man’s back and into his heart, she ripped it free using the inertia to hamstring another warrior, “So we run?” The bitter contempt in Scota’s voice made Teutates shiver.

“Not that,” Teutates stabbed his sword into the ground, pulled a spear from a nearby corpse, and hurled it through a skinny raider with a ridiculous horned helmet, “We waste our strength on Lyr’s coils,” Teutates yanked his bloody sword from the earth and pointed toward the cluster of shields and spears on a small rise around the huge battle standard of their brother, Lyr, the lord Balor to his raiders, “There is the head! Cut it off and the serpent dies. The bloody head is the thing.”

Nodding Scota, gathered like a storm cloud, beautiful in her rage. Teutates whispered, “I love you Ota,” but those words were lost in the battle noise. Louder he commanded Scota, “Organize our guard into the kind of spear-point that can reach that standard," Teutates stabbed his bloody sword at the leering red eye of Balor's battle standard, "I’ll get with our commanders to thin our way.”

With a start Scota realized that Teutates had delegated some authority to her. He did not look to see if she would do her part, he knew her. Why only now, she thought? But there were orders to give and so she saw her commands obeyed whether the man did it happy or not.

The forces opposing Balor were hard pressed, but a new line was formed and a broad push launched at Balor’s spear bristled hill. A thin line of reserves was withheld along with Teutates, Scota, and their guard, prepared to exploit their enemies lack of discipline from a tight packed wedge formed up behind the screening reserve.

The broad push seemed close to reaching Lyr himself before it was thrown back. "Sound Retreat," said Teutates. The young trumpeter sounded the call and the assault seemed to dissolve in disarray.

Teutates watched with satisfaction as the rabble around Balor’s command group began to pursue what seemed to be the Wallander's collapse. "For good or ill, your work is done today, young man. Stay with captain Fitz," Teutates said to the trumpeter who would have disagreed if he were given the chance, but Teutates turned away and to the wedge formation of Wallander elite cried, "Charge!"

Beside him Scota screamed, “Crush the Head!” and as one they drove toward their brother Lyr’s battle standard, the bloody flag of Balor of the Fomor, with black murder in their hearts. Their hand picked warriors surged after.

It was a hero’s charge, enemies fell to the left and right. Their narrow wedge thrust into the confused Fomor ranks, bringing destruction. Teutates’ powerful sword arm wrought death on the right while Scota’s brilliant sword work killed foes to the left. Hundreds fell. Nothing survived between them and Lyr’s shield wall, nor did it stand before the two gods of the Gael. Yet their guards were but men, heroic though they might be on that day, they were slaughtered behind the two gods at the point of the spear.

It only took a moment to see their success was a trap. Spears pressed them on all sides. They fought on, grimly taking wound after wound until Teutates fell unconscious and Scota’s sword slipped from her bloody hand. She collapsed to the ground next to her husband and expected quick death. It did not come for her.

“Good,” boomed a commanding voice, “I want to have a word with you, sister.” Scota looked up to see a hulking shape that seemed to squat on a sort of mobile dais. With a wave from lord Balor, who was her brother Lyr, the press of soldiery stepped back, “You’re looking lovely Scota.”

“Yes? I’ve looked better,” murmured Scota, “But you, Lyr, look like a hideous bloated toad.” There were gasps all around. Scota wiped the sweat from her face, replacing it with a smear of blood from her arm.

Lyr chuckled, unconcerned, “You see? This is how we gods converse, one big happy family.”

Scota laughed without humor but made no more comment.

“I always admired you Scota. . .” said Lyr.

This she could not let pass, “I’d rather die than let you touch me.”

“I do what I like,” said Balor without heat.

“Not to me . . .”

Balor shrugged his thick shoulders and chided, “I think you know better than that. I can do to you whatever I wish. Question is, do you want to live sister dearest?”

“I told you, I would rather die than sleep with you Lyr.”

Lyr laughed derisively, “You flatter yourself. It’s not your sex I want. I like your violence.” Lyr rose and stepped off his dais. He was at least seven feet tall, thickly muscled and massive. Only a bloated paunch hanging at his waist spoiled the martial effect. He hefted a huge double bitted battle-axe one handed, and with ease. “Choose Scota. Life or death. It’s up to you, sister.”

Lyr is a far larger man than I remembered. He hasn't stopped growing in his over 300 years, or perhaps the whispers of dark alchemy and witchcraft were true, Scota thought. But this is my one chance to free this world of him. Scota lowered her eyes to search the ground for a weapon.

“Killing you both just leaves me with two less headaches.” Lyr stepped closer, menacing, swinging his great axe. Scota glanced around her feet, desperate to find her sword. She looked up to see Lyr smirking, obviously reading her, but not caring.

Their eyes locked, but Lyr’s smirk didn’t change. What am I missing? thought Scota, Will he kill me himself?

Lyr’s eyes flicked away and he nodded. A soldier with a spear, standing out from the general press, raised his spear and drove it into Teutates’ chest. It must have killed him instantly or perhaps he was already dead, because even the man twisting and wrenching the spear free of her husband’s body didn’t illicit any response from Teutates.

“No!” Scota heard herself scream. Lyr’s laughter lent everything a nightmarish quality. Scota threw herself across Teutates body. His eyes were staring sightless and his jaw was slack. Dead beyond saving, he is dead.

Scota’s hand closed around the hilt of a sword. There is time yet for revenge at least. As quick as thought, and before the spear-man could bring his bloody spear to bear, Scota lunged and shoved the sword into the man’s guts. She leaned against the man, taking pleasure in watching the light go out of his eyes as she twisted the blade in his vitals. She shoving his corpse back and off her sword.

Lyr seemed to find this extra measure of death a cause for great amusement. Scota faced her hated brother, but made no move to attack. Balor, god of the Fomor, stood casually with his axe resting on his shoulder, “I never liked him,” said Lyr.

For a moment, Scota thought he meant the spear-man she had just killed, but Balor was looking at Teutates' body. “Why kill him?” Scota asked.

“Because I do what I like,” Lyr stared at her a moment, daring her perhaps, “It seems to me you’ve chosen life. That is wise.” Lyr nodded to the other body on the ground, “The man you just killed was the captain of one of my elite battalions.”

“Do you expect . . .”

Lyr's mouth twisted in a cruel sneer, “Shut-up Scota, I am the lord Balor and not even a goddess may interrupt me.” after shouting her down, Lyr spoke loud enough for all to hear. “See? There is always a price for raising your hand against a god, even if you are obeying the orders of another. In this case death.” Then to Scota he said, “You killed my captain, so I’m making you captain. His battalion is now yours.” Without another word Balor turned and walked to his dais.

“You are mad!” Scota gasped, baffled.

Balor sat his seat, and with a wave was raised onto the shoulders of his bearers. “Use them wisely, dear sister.” The heavy platform turned slowly away so Balor had plenty of time to call back over his shoulder to where Scota stood stunned. “Your second is one of my sons. I got him on some whore. What was your mother’s name, boy?”

“The lady Angelata Morel my lord.” called a handsome young man.

“Meet your second, Andalyr. Andy, my sister, Scota, goddess of the Gael,” Balor chuckled to himself, amused by his wit or simply mad, “He’s half a god himself, so don’t kill him. He’ll be of use to you.” With blaring trumpets and shouted orders, Balor left the field.

Scota stood on the little hill with two dead bodies and her five hundred. In turmoil Scota tried to sort out the tatters of her life. Spark, the blue sun, set in a greenish glow and the yellow light of Sol na Nua fell toward the horizon, turning the world crimson.

The last of Balor's hoard past from sight and even their dust disappeared. "Andalyr, do these men bury their dead?" asked Scota in the fading light.

"Yes, when there is time to do so," answered Andalyr.

"Would they honor their captain so?"

"Yes."

"What of their new captain's husband?"

"Yes. Of course."

"See to it."

"Will you attend to the burials?"

Scota turned to gaze one last time on the man she had loved, at least as much as she could love. He was gone. The perfection of his fighting skill wasted and cast down. It was ill done by the captain to strike a helpless man, but at least it was quick. Scota shivered unbidden and said, "I will not. . ."

"There is a tent for your convenience, just behind the hill. It was the old captain's. His things are set beside for your use, if you wish or. . ."

"I'm sure it will serve," Scota said turning away for fear she might burst into tears. She did not. Instead she saw that the sword she held was indeed Teutates' and not far away lay her own long sword. She retreived and sheathed it, and continuing over the hill toward the tent. It was not so grand as the one she and Teutates had shared, but it had a cot and some water for washing.

Scota removed her armor and the under tunic, soaked with blood. She took the time to wash her wounds as best she could and, having cleaned as much of the sweat of the long day away along with the blood, she sat upon the cot. She took up her swords. she carefully burnished the nicks out of the steel, and then honed them to razor sharpness. With an unbidden sigh, Scota, once queen of the Gael, lay down and fell into a deep, though troubled, sleep.



* * *


In the inky blackness and swirling mist they were trapped, ringed around with steel tipped spears. Teutates lay on the ground, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Balor laughed, drawing her attention as he climbed down off of his throne.

"Question is, do you want to live or die?" Balor toyed with his giant twin-bladed axe, "Choose, dearest sister." Baylor smirked and nodded.

Next to her an armored spearman drove his spear into Teutates heart. Her husband screamed, "You've killed me."

"Not me," She glanced up. The man who speared Teutates was indistinguishable from the others that ringed her, faceless in leather and steel.

"I never liked him." Balor confessed.

Scota glared at him, "You killed him!"

Balor shrugged. "I do what I like," he said, climbing up onto his great sudan chair. He pointed beside her. "Do you want to live or die?" he asked.

Teutates stood beside her. She turned. This is all wrong, she thought.

A spear head burst out of his chest. Teutates looked stunned. "You've killed me," he said accusing. Scota watched as the life left his eyes, blood poured from his mouth and he crumpled.

"Time to choose," Balor said, smiling.

A blur at the corner of her eye focused her fear and her rage. Scota spun and thrust her sword into the figure. Teutates gasped, looking at her accusingly. The light left his eyes and he slumped, freeing her sword.

"It looks like you've chosen life. Good," said Balor over his shoulder as his slaves bore him away into the mist.

Scota turned with a crawling feeling to face Balor casually toyed with his axe. "You've got to ask yourself, do you want to live?"

Scota sensed the threat behind her and whirled driving her sword into the man.

Teutates eyes were pain hazed, but he smiled and whispered, "I love you 'Ota." What have I done?

"It's your violence I like, sister," Balor said, "The thing about death is it will never leave you."

It is Lyr I should hate, Balor the evil I should destroy. Scota twisted her blade in her husbands guts. She watched the look of surprised hurt. The pain faded with the life light and Teutates, god-king of the Wallendar, was no more.


* * *






Scota woke with Balor's cruel laugh echoing through her mind, the ache of battle, and the realization of what had truly happened, from nightmare into nightmare. She woke alone and in darkness. Teutates is slain and I did nothing to stop it. Her partner of more than three hundred years was gone. At least she thought she remembered that. Fearing to open her eyes and find it true, she lay beneath the covers, wrapped around the hollow ache of her loss. This was not my tent, my bed, my life. Everything is destroyed and there is a hole in my soul where my husband was torn from me.

A rustling at the door made her fear her changed life less than a possible assassin. She found the hilt of her sword and bolted from the bedding into a guard stance facing the tent doorway with un-natural grace. The light streaming in the tent opening overwhelmed her for a moment, but her eyes made sense of the light and she saw Andalyr, eyes wide, half in the tent, looking abashed.

"Pardon my lady, Scota. I did not mean to wake you... ...or intrude."

He looked guilty, she thought, red in the face and... with a start Scota realized that she was naked, too late to do aught but brass it out with bravado, "What is your problem?" she barked. Planting a hand on her hip, and then with a sneer, "Have you never seen a woman before? Well come in and close the flap. Do we have any rapers in our number? I'd hate to have to kill someone just because he couldn't resist his baser nature."

"I'll come back when..." Andalyr mumbled as he started to back out of her tent.

"Get in here boy. I'll put something on to save your virgin eyes." Scota cast around her for a moment before finding a dressing gown laid across the foot of the bed. She took perverse glee in leaving her legs splayed as she bent over to retrieve it. She shrugged into the robe and turned back to Andalyr, pulled her hair out of the collar, and only then closing and belting it over her naked body.

Andalyr's arms were loaded with black fabric, she noticed. The young man did not meet her gaze, but he did re-enter the tent and even walk to the bed and lay his burden on the foot of the bed where she'd found the dressing gown. "I beg your pardon, my lady, I did not wish to wake you, just return your clothes, cleaned as well as we could. . ."

"Funny, I don't recall my clothes being black."

Andalyr coughed his thoat clear, "Begging your pardon, m'lady, but they were so blood soaked there was no chance we could make them presentable. . ."

"I always thought point of clothing was to make a body presentable." Scota growled, "Is it because of my widowhood that you dress me in black? Do you expect that I must grieve?"

"No, not that." Andalyr looked uncomfortable, "I mean who could blame you if you did, but they, the men, they wanted. . ."

"Why should I care what they want to dress me in Andalyr? Are you mad?

"It's just, well, your armor and clothing mark you, set you apart. . ."

". . .and so? Shouldn't a captain stand out from her men?"

"You do, you are. Oh my lady, we meant no offense, just that your Wallander armor makes you a target among us, and that is what they feared." babbled Andalyr, "And they wanted that we should all be one company, with you as our head."

"What are you saying?"

"Just that to some you are the personafication of their deity. To the rest your skill is revered. I swear, for the ones who believe you are the Morrigan, they would rather die on their swords than bring offense. I think all feel the same, to be your men is the highest honor."

"They want to call themselves the Raven Feeders, or perhaps the Raven's Sons, they want nothing more than to serve you. There are Celts, and Sinoese, and Fomor, and men who don't even know their mother or father, but they would be your men, the company of the war crow."

"Are they children that they must name themselves some heroic name?" Scota mocked. "Balor's revenge is complete, he could not make me his wife and have his babies on me, but instead he has given me five hundred children that I must nursemaid. Surely they've come up with some clever name for their nanny." What do they want to call me, the bitch, the whore, mother?" Scota snorted her derision, "Will they next come begging the breast from me?"

"A name is nothing to scoff at," said Andalyr, "If we are to be a mercenary company then reputation is paramount."

"Who said we are to be mercenaries?"

"What then? Shall we march toward your wall? 'Look, here come the Fomor again,' they will say."

"My wall?" Scota scoffed, "No, not that I suppose. You'd think they would welcome their queen returning with five hundred warriors, but no.

"Then what? Shall we farm these hills? True, they will be fertile enough, watered with blood as they've been, but your men are no farmers. All they know is the sword."

"Truth to tell, all I know is the sword. So have it your way, what we get we will take by the sword, or with the sword as hired soldiers. At least we are in the proper place for it. These disputed lands are full of petty cities ready to take advantage of the next or take them in total."

"Better than that, there are some almost totally torn down by Balor. Likely many more on his way out. There will be no shortage of turmoil, though food and water might be a bit harder to find for the passing of the Fomorian hoard. We may have a lean month, but sooner rather than later we will have our pick of contracts."

"Are we contracted to Balor?"

"Not now, I would say. Our captain was engaged for this campaign and insisted on our rate for a whole year. Balor passing us to you holds force for at least the year, but I think his order ends with this attack. These men are comfortable with each other, they will stay as long as there is gold to pay them. I believe we have wages and money for provender for at least two years. He was hopeful that the campaign would end early, as it seems it has, and that we could make a deal with one of the local cities or raid for slaves among the shattered cities. Perhaps he had other ideas, but he didn't share them with me."

"So he looked to make your way in the disputed lands? It would have been nice to know his plans."

"He did not share them with me. But we have his maps, perhaps there is a clue in them. I left them in here," Andalyr motioned to a chest at the foot of the bed. "Along with the book of accounts and his gold he kept his maps locked." Andalyr offered Scota a brass key on a chain.

She took it from him and glanced his way, "How can I be sure that you've not removed gold or something else of value?" Scota slipped the key into the lock and the well-oiled mechanism clicked.

"Perhaps there is proof in the companies accounts, but I doubt it. You will just have to trust me my lady."

"That I won't do. Pray that I don't learn of any subterfuge."


* * *


The men were drawn up in five companys, about a 100 men to a company. Their armor was varied, seemed personal to each man, but was uniformly blackened. There were captains before each company, hard men scarred and formidable, and a standard bearer at least as fierce. These held long spears now unadorned. Scota walked along the front eyeing each commander and glancing past to their troops, the book of the mercenary bands roll beneath her arm. Andalyr paced just behind her.

The whole assembly was silent as death, no whisper of conversation nor clink of weapon or armor metal. At the end of the line of men, when she had run her eyes across them all, she stopped and directed her eyes away. "Your captain is dead, and Balor has given you to me." She began, distractedly but loud enough to be heard in the back, her voice carrying to every man.

She turned, eyeing the men again, addressing them as she began to travel back along their front, "You've signed the company book." She waved it casually, "And we've gold to pay you for a year. More even." The first Captain, dark eyed and bearded, bore a scar that twisted the left side of his face into a mockery of a smile. "But I wonder, are you Balor's now, or are you mine?" The man gave nothing away as she strode on locking her eyes on a squat, heavy limbed fighter with ice blue eyes. "Will you fight for me or are you but a great crowd of guards still dancing for another master's coin?"

She stared at the man, but his eyes flicked away to look front and his heavy jawed face gave no sign. The next man was tall, his hair sandy blonde and his lower face hid, for the most part, by an extravagant mustache. "I'll tell you true. I want no poison gift from my brother. This fellow is a gael, she thought, this is the sort of man that Andalyr said would worship me for a goddess. And she walked toward him, locking his eyes with hers, "Will you fight for me?" She asked the captain in a voice that carried beyond him.

He looked at her, appalled, tension in all the lines of his face. His eyes bulged and sweat was beading on his brow. Then the great warrior folded, collapsing at her feet he cried, "Yes yes, I would fight for you, I would die for you, Morrigan of death.

Scota's eyes flicked to the standard bearer, but at her turning he was already throwing himself on his face. She turned quickly away raising the book to take eyes away from the men and their possible shame. "Men of this book, will you kill for me?" She shouted above the clammer in the ranks of the big gaellic warrior captain, and spreading like wild fire. "This is the old book, it is passing away!" She cried and with the energy of their adoration she rent it in half along the binding and cast the old part away. "Will you sign my book?"

"YES!" came the roar from every throat.

She held the half book above her head in triumph, taking in the adulation of these hard men, these killers. There were no more words, only actions. Scota pulled her left gauntlet off her hand with her teeth. It dropped in the dirt, forgotten. Teutates short sword rode at her left hip. She tucked the torn book under her left arm, and drew the short sword awkwardly with her right. She drew the razor sharp blade almost lovingly across her palm. You've given me a gift, husband, I am free. She shoved the sword back in its sheath with a clack. She took the book from under her arm so she could show them the blood welling in her left hand. It ran crimson down her arm.

"Yes, yes, YES!" they howled.

Scota took the mangled book and stared at the empty page. With her blood reddened finger she wrote "Scota." She paused, gazing at it. This is a new life, she thought, I write a new chapter now. Below her name she wrote, "The Morrigan of War."

She turned to Andalyr, handing him the half book with its blood marked first page, "Have them sign, pay them, I'll not have men who owe anything to Balor. They will be my men."

"They are," said Andalyr, a smile on his lips, "Never doubt it." He took the book reverently.

Scota turned away and stalked toward her tent, "See to it." She did not turn to look at them, she feared to let them see the mad rapture upon her face. No wonder Teutates loved this worship he received from men, and these men are killers, every one, she thought, exalting.

Her silver lined raven upon its black pennon stood on a pole before her tent. It had always looked ridiculous and pathetic beside Teutates grand blason. Here it was honored and supreme. I know I will miss you, husband, but I was born for this and have sublimated my calling to your will. I will not mourn you, nor will I regret the day you were taken from me. I was Scota, ill fit to be a wife, now I am the Morrigan and men will tremble and women will weep.