The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 25

Cullen fell unconscious and Morrigan watched as the warrior Lugaid and his men approached. Lugaid had been the one to throw the spears that mortally wounded Cullen and his horse. Morrigan a.s.sumed that the gathering crowd of soldiers meant to pay tribute to the defeat of a worthy adversary, but instead Lugaid raised his sword.

"The head of Cuchulainn is mine!" he announced.

As his blade swung towards her lover's neck, Morrigan revealed her true form. Her mighty sword took Lugaid's hand off at the wrist before he could complete his gruesome task. Amid his screams of pain Morrigan smiled, taking grim pleasure in her vengeance.

"Cuchulainn is mine," she hissed to the cowards. "You are not worthy of him."

Then the G.o.ddess wrapped one arm around her warrior and they both disappeared.

Eleven.

Morrigan brought Cullen across the Veil to her great castle of Tara. Gently, she removed his clothes and armour and laid him on her bed. He had lost so much blood that his heart was barely beating. It was time. Quickly she raked one fingernail across her wrist, slicing deeply.

"Cullen, listen to me," she said. "You must drink."

He opened his mouth and Morrigan's blood spilled across his lips. Before he could turn away in disgust she forced her wrist between his lips.

"You must take my blood into your body, Cullen," she repeated urgently. "It is the only way you can live. Please, stay with me."

He drank and, when he could hold no more, he slept. For three days he lay cold and pale as a corpse in her bed. Morrigan had never attempted such a transformation before and she stayed by his side, hoping that she would not lose him to the Summerlands forever. On the third night he took a gasping breath and sat up, blinking at her in surprise and confusion.

"Liath?" he asked groggily.

Morrigan threw back her head and laughed. Only a man would return from the dead and ask for his horse!

"Liath is here, in my stables," Morrigan informed him. "I had to beg a favour of my cousin Epona in order to save him. It is not a debt I look forward to repaying."

"Thank you," he said grimly.

Morrigan's heart fell. She had hoped that things would be different once he was at Tara with her. At the very least she hadn't expected him to behave like . . . well, like she had killed his favourite horse and allowed him to be slain, not by a stronger foe but by the deceitful use of sorcery. Morrigan rose from the bed and walked to the window. But that was exactly what she had done. She supposed his lack of enthusiasm for her company should not surprise her.

"My heart does not beat," he said.

"No," she replied absently. "It does not."

"You should have let me go to the Summerlands."

"Perhaps I should have," she agreed. "But I could not."

He was quiet for a moment and then he shook his head and asked, "Why, Morrigan? You do not love me. If you did, you would have come to me when I called you, when I needed you, over the years. What purpose does all this serve?"

Morrigan turned. "You never asked me that, you know, when we first struck our bargain all those years ago."

Cullen snorted. "I was young. All I could think of was the glory to be found in battle . . . and you. But I am asking now."

Morrigan nodded. "Faerie is not the only world that exists beyond the mortal realm," she explained. "It is simply the one where the Veil is the thinnest. There are others, dark places filled with things far more terrifying than the G.o.ds or the sidhe. We call them the Demon Horde. Occasionally, the Horde attempts to break through the barrier between worlds. As of yet they cannot physically cross the Veil, but their evil can. The Horde has sent plague, famine, disasters of nature all in an effort to weaken us. The pantheon believes that any death caused by their influence makes the Horde stronger, and that one day they will become powerful enough to cross the Veil. If they do, it will be the end of us all, Cullen. The inhabitants of Faerie are not strong enough to defeat them and the humans will be nothing more than lambs to the slaughter."

He looked at her dubiously. "I am good, Morrigan, but I am not that good. What is it you expect me to do?"

"You are now a creature unique in this world, Cullen. I expect you to make more like you. And they will make more and so on until I have an army of darkness at my disposal. Perhaps then we can defeat the Horde when they come."

Cullen nodded. "All right," he said gravely. "I will do it, not for you, but for all those innocents who will die if I don't."

Morrigan's gaze raked across his naked chest. She licked her lips, feeling a tiny thrill as he shifted his legs to hide his body's response to her.

"No," she agreed, "not for me. I have never been innocent."

Twelve.

Castle Tara Connemara, Ireland 1260 Cullen leaned back against the wall and let out a ragged breath. Unable to stop himself, he glanced up at the north tower and watched as candlelight illuminated its windows. As surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning, he knew that before this night had pa.s.sed he would climb the stairs to her room. It was as inevitable as the tide.

Cullen was a liar and he knew it. But then again, so was she. He loved her and she loved him. It had always been and would always be. But too much distrust and betrayal had pa.s.sed between them for either to ever utter those tender words again. And perhaps that was for the best. He was a soldier who had made a name for himself on the battlefields of Eire. She was a death deity, a G.o.ddess of war. What did such as they know of love?

In the years after his death he had firmly believed that he'd been no more than a means to an end for her the perfect warrior to beget her legion of vampires, the perfect king to lead her dark army. But time has a way of breaking down even the thickest walls and time was something he'd had plenty of. Finally, he had seen the truth. It was in her eyes when she thought he wasn't watching her, in her touch when the pa.s.sion of their lovemaking overcame her. She had chosen him. She was as old as time and yet she had bargained with a young man for his soul. She had sworn him to a covenant whose ramifications a beardless youth could not possibly have understood. He could not help but hate her for that. But on those rare occasions when he was brutally honest with himself, he had to admit that he could not help but love her for it as well. She had tricked him, coerced him, seduced him. Of all the men who had ever been, or would ever be, under her dominion, she had chosen him.

He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of hundreds of vampires tromping through his castle. This was not the afterlife he had imagined when he'd been human. It was not what the bards had promised every warrior would enjoy when his last battle was fought. Cullen opened his eyes and looked once again at the tower. No, Morrigan had cheated him of that. But then again, would he really have wanted an afterlife without her in it?

He smiled a wicked little smile and left the parapet, moving swiftly through the castle to the north tower. Climbing the stairs with determined strides, he didn't even bother to knock at her door. Morrigan was standing in front of the window, staring down at the spot he had recently vacated. At his entrance, she turned and he felt a twinge of guilt at the sadness in her eyes.

"If you've come here to fight with me you can turn around and walk right back out of that door," she snapped.

He closed the door and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. "But we are warriors, Morrigan. Fighting is what we do."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't you think you'll get enough of that in the days to come?" she asked.

Cullen shrugged. "There are a couple of them who might give me trouble," he replied as he pushed away from the door and crossed the room. "But I have never drunk from a human. The blood of the great G.o.ddess Morrigan runs undiluted in my veins. Not a one of them has a chance of defeating me. Now," he said, reaching out and wrapping one lock of her black hair around his finger, "about the fighting . . ."

"I don't feel like it tonight," she said petulantly.

"Really?" he murmured, sliding his other hand over her hip. "What do you feel like?"

He pulled her against him and felt the shudder roll through her body. With a word or two whispered in her ear he could bring her to climax without ever taking off her dress. And he loved her for that.

Cullen stifled a grin as he watched her jaw clench.

Morrigan turned her black eyes up to his. "What do I feel? I am a harbinger of death," she said coldly. "I don't feel anything."

"Liar," Cullen whispered as he claimed her mouth, sliding his tongue inside as he pulled her hips against his.

They were almost the same height and a perfect fit. He knew the moment her icy reserve melted for him. She let out a ragged moan, a familiarly frantic sound that usually preceded the tearing of clothing. With a growl of triumph he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Breaking the kiss, he looked down into her beautiful face. She was flush with desire for him. Always for him, only for him. For over one thousand years they had made love and war, and they would do so for the next thousand years.

Cullen cupped her face with one battle-scarred hand. "I hate you," he whispered tenderly.

His G.o.ddess smiled up at him. "I hate you, too."

"Aye," her warrior laughed, "but you will always love me."

Eternal Strife.

Dara England.

Conmaicne Rein, Ireland 800 AD.

Sinead shivered in the early morning cold, tugging her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she peered into the gloomy grey world ahead. Her breath hung in pale clouds on the air and mingled with the wispy mists rolling in off the water. Here along the lakesh.o.r.e the earth was soggy and made wet sucking noises each time she pulled a booted foot free of the clinging mud.

Heart pounding, she held on tightly to the clay pitcher in her hands and searched for the resolve that had seemed so strong when she set out. She thought of her mother lying ill and alone in the draughty little cottage she had left behind. That was enough to bolster her determination.

It didn't matter that Mother would have forbidden this desperate act had she been aware of the plan her daughter had in mind to save her. All that mattered was that Sinead was finally taking action.

Courage temporarily renewed, she walked with confidence, stepping free of the cover of the overhanging willow branches and wading through the waist-high gra.s.ses leading down to the edge of the waters. She refused to think of what might be crouching, slithering or lurking among the weeds, as she knelt to peer into the murky depths below.

Tiny minnows darted away from her shadow. The light was still too dim for her face to look back at her from the mirrored surface but she knew what she would have seen if it had: a thin young girl of eighteen, with hip-length hair as dark as the feathers of the raven. Somewhere amid that ma.s.s of wild, unruly hair would be a plain face, unremarkable but for its pale, tightly drawn features. Her wide green eyes her most predominant feature were doubtless large with apprehension at the moment. Yes, perhaps it was as well she couldn't see.

Reluctantly, she inched further forwards until her toes were near the water and her skirts dragged in the filthy mud, so that she could scoop the pitcher into the deeper water.

She moved gingerly, making certain nothing save the pitcher touched the waters. All knew the folk of the lake guarded their watery home jealously and hated to be disturbed. Moreover, they could move as swiftly and silently as the fog; in one breath a man or woman might think themselves alone, in the next they appeared from nowhere to drag an unsuspecting victim down, screaming, into the icy depths of the lake.

Sinead flinched at the thought.

Her pitcher came up filled with cloudy, brown water carrying the stench of the lake. Twigs and bits of decaying leaves floated in the water so that the liquid looked more likely to sicken the person who drank from it than heal them. Nevertheless, a tea made with the special waters of the lake combined with the petals of the joyflower, which grew in the near meadow, and a little fever-wort from the nearby forest, was famed for its healing powers.

Certainly Sinead had tried everything else. Her new-found confidence about as substantial as the shifting fog swirling around her, she hugged her br.i.m.m.i.n.g pitcher to her breast and began backing away from the water's edge.

An instant later, she collided with something solid and damp at her back. With a startled shriek, she dropped the pitcher, its precious contents spilling out across the ground.

She had no thought to spare for it.

Whirling, she found herself confronted with a vision from a nightmare a creature of scale and fin, yet standing upright on human-shaped legs. One of the lake folk.

Sinead trembled, too terrified even to flee as the creature looked down on her. Its form was vaguely akin to that of a woman but not even the quickest of glances could have mistaken this creature for a human being. Long slitted gills ran up either side of her neck, a broad, pale fin covered the length of her spine, and iridescent scales dotted her skin. Intertwined with her fair hair were long strands of green lake weed, which clung damply from the crown of her head down to her waist.

It was her eyes that most horrified Sinead: two orbs of water, clear and colourless, without any hint of feeling or life.

Sinead might have stood forever, paralysed by fright, had she not suddenly become aware of that dreaded icy touch. The lake woman had stretched out a long hand to clasp clammy fingers tightly around Sinead's wrist.

"Come . . . come . . ." The liquid whisper that poured forth from her lips was not a voice, but rather a thin, trickling sound like the dribble of water running downhill.

"Come . . . come with us . . ." Others took up the chanted command and Sinead abruptly became aware of other lake folk creeping in from the water's banks to surround her.

She bit back a squeal as one crept in and wound its slender fingers through her loose hair.

"Join us, join us," the lake folk chanted.

Sinead, cringing, slapped their hands away and tried to back away from the water's edge. She knew it was a futile gesture; few were those who escaped once they had felt the icy grip of these otherworldly beings and looked into their cold, watery eyes.

"No! Leave me alone," she cried. "I don't want to go with you!"

But even as she spoke the words she knew it was no use. Wasn't this what was said always to happen to those unwary enough to allow themselves to be taken captive by the lake folk? They were dragged down into the icy depths never to return; whether their fate was to drown or become one of the folk themselves no one knew.

Sinead did not want to suffer the horror of either fate.

As if reading her thoughts, the first lake woman spoke. "You have taken that which is ours," she hissed, her voice at once as soft as lapping water and as firm as a roaring sea. "Those who partake of the magic, belong to the magic. It is the law of the Sidhe and we abide by it."

Sinead attempted to stumble backwards but found herself hemmed in on every side. The shelter of the willow trees might as well have been miles away.

Desperately, she tried to reason with the folk.

"Please, you don't understand. I didn't mean to offend the Sidhe or you but I have to take the water. My mother is very ill; the healing properties of the lake could save her. I must have the water and I must return alive to nurse my mother back to health. There is no one else to look after her any more, no one but me to sit with her. She lies awake every night, you see, burning with fever and struggling for every breath. There . . . there is no one else."

She could think of nothing more to add to the plea. As simply as this, her whole life had been boiled down to a few sentences, yet what a load of burden and responsibility those few words carried. Truly, there was no one else.

She might have claimed she had a lover she couldn't bear to leave behind. But she hadn't. She might say she had small children who depended upon her or friends who would miss her. But the truth was, she had none of those either.

At her impa.s.sioned plea, the lake woman's eyes had grown even more opaque. "Your mother is not our concern. If you want the water, you must pay the price. It is the law of the Sidhe," she repeated. "We must obey."

Sinead didn't allow herself to despair yet. A terrible inspiration dawning on her, she summoned what courage she could. I have to do this. I am Mother's only hope.

Aloud she said, "Very well. I will pay whatever price you set and willingly. Only let me return to my mother first. Let me brew the needed potion and feed her, so that she may recover. Afterwards, if you still want me . . . I am yours." She had to choke out those final words, so great was the sense of doom that accompanied them.

She did not know what she expected from the lake folk, or why they should care for her bargain when they could easily drag her off right then with or without her permission.

She could only feel surprise and then a vague sense of the inevitable as she watched them hesitate given pause by her brave offer.

Can it be they harbour something akin to human feeling or pity?

The lake woman's face remained as chill and expressionless as ever but Sinead imagined she could see a foaming turmoil within her eyes.

From behind, one of the other creatures whispered, "It is best if she succ.u.mbs willingly."

The lake woman seemed to agree. After a moment of studying Sinead, she said simply, "The bargain is struck. You have until the rising of the morrow's sun before the magic will come for you. Until then, take what you need and go."