The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (33 page)

He threw back his head and laughed. “I am Cúchulainn. I do not need a woman to save me.” Morrígan narrowed her eyes. “You arrogant bastard. You are only alive because I wish it! If it weren’t for me you would be nothing more than a common soldier. I made you everything you are and I can take it away just as easily.”

“Then do your worst, Morrígan,” he said fiercely, “for I wil not run from this battle or any other.” Morrígan sighed. She had set out to create a great warrior and she had succeeded.

Unfortunately, he also had the ego of one. Wel , on the morrow he would learn not to believe al the stories the bards told of him. He was not immortal. Yet.

Ten

The fol owing morning, Emer – and indeed every man, woman, and child Cul en encountered on his way from his chamber to the stables – begged him not to ride against Queen Medb’s army.

Obviously Morrígan had been whispering portents of doom in their ears as they slept. His irritation turned to fury when his horse, his faithful Liath who had pul ed his chariot in countless battles, would not al ow Cul en to harness him.

“Damn her,” Cul en cursed. “Is not even a man’s horse sacred?” He was in a fine rage by the time he final y got Liath harnessed and drove out to join Conchobar’s army. That is, until he reached the river. What he saw there tempered his anger with fear. It was a sight every warrior dreaded – the Washer at the Ford. The old woman was said to appear to soldiers who were meant to die in battle. The doomed would see her washing their armour in the river . . . and today she was washing his.

“I know I told you to do your worst, Morrígan,” Cul en cal ed out. “But this is simply petty. It’s worse than causing Emer to be barren.”

The crone transformed herself into the beautiful goddess he knew. “I did nothing of the sort,” she assured him. “Not that I couldn’t, but I didn’t. And I am not being petty. I am the Washer at the Ford.

This is my duty as a death deity.”

Cul en snorted in disbelief and drove his chariot through the shal ow water to the opposite shore, never looking back.

Morrígan had to admit to herself that she
was
being a little petty. Perhaps she had gone too far, but the man needed a lesson in humility before she made him immortal. But she didn’t realize it would be so hard for her to watch. Taking the form of a raven Morrígan circled the battlefield, flying high over Medb and Conchobar’s armies. She was a war goddess and normal y she enjoyed watching two worthy hosts clash on the field of honour. This once, though, she took no joy in it, for today she would have to see Cul en die.

She spied him, driving his chariot deep into the heart of Medb’s army. The first spear flew through the air and its aim was true; it would strike him. Before she realized what she was doing, Morrígan reacted on instinct, using her power to shift the trajectory of the spear away from Cul en.

Instead of hitting him, it pierced Liath’s chest, causing the big horse to stumble and fal .

“Oh damn,” Morrígan cursed, “Cul en loved that beast.”

Above the din of the battle she could hear Cul en’s roar of outrage. It was fol owed swiftly by a cry of pain as the second spear pierced his side. Morrígan had been a death deity through time immemorial but letting that spear hit its mark was the hardest thing she had ever done. She watched helplessly as Cul en drew the weapon from his body and fel from the chariot.

An eerie silence descended over the battlefield as both armies watched the great warrior struggle to his feet. With one hand over his wound Cul en stumbled forwards, cutting one of the reins from the harness of his dying horse. The soldiers watched as he slowly and painful y made his way to the edge of the field. Once there he fel against a standing stone, blood pouring from his side to pool at his feet. With single-minded determination he took the rein and lashed himself to the stone.

“I am Cúchulainn,” he shouted, “and I wil not die on the ground. I wil take my last breath standing, as a warrior should.”

A cheer of pride went up from Conchobar’s men but they could not reach Cul en, trapped as they were on the other side of Medb’s army. Morrígan flew down, landing lightly on his shoulder.

She rested her raven’s head on his cheek to let him know she was there.

“I’m an arrogant ass,” he whispered, the pain now slurring his words. “But I am now yours, if you’l stil have me.”

Cul en fel unconscious and Morrígan watched as the warrior Lugaid and his men approached.

Lugaid had been the one to throw the spears that mortal y wounded Cul en and his horse.

Morrígan assumed 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 Cúchulainn is mine!” he announced.

As his blade swung towards her lover’s neck, Morrígan 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 Morrígan smiled, taking grim pleasure in her vengeance.

“Cúchulainn is mine,” she hissed to the cowards. “You are not worthy of him.” Then the goddess wrapped one arm around her warrior and they both disappeared.

Eleven

Morrígan brought Cul en 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.

“Cul en, listen to me,” she said. “You must drink.”

He opened his mouth and Morrígan’s blood spil ed 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, Cul en,” 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. Morrígan 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.

Morrígan 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,” Morrígan 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.

Morrígan’s heart fel . 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 . . . wel , like she had kil ed his favourite horse and al owed him to be slain, not by a stronger foe but by the deceitful use of sorcery.

Morrígan 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, Morrígan? You do not love me. If you did, you would have come to me when I cal ed you, when I needed you, over the years. What purpose does al this serve?”

Morrígan turned. “You never asked me that, you know, when we first struck our bargain al those years ago.”

Cul en snorted. “I was young. Al I could think of was the glory to be found in battle . . . and you.

But I am asking now.”

Morrígan 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 fil ed with things far more terrifying than the gods or the sidhe. We cal them the Demon Horde.

Occasional y, the Horde attempts to break through the barrier between worlds. As of yet they cannot physical y cross the Veil, but their evil can. The Horde has sent plague, famine, disasters of nature – al 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 wil become powerful enough to cross the Veil. If they do, it wil be the end of us al , Cul en. The inhabitants of Faerie are not strong enough to defeat them and the humans wil be nothing more than lambs to the slaughter.” He looked at her dubiously. “I am good, Morrígan, but I am not that good. What is it you expect me to do?”

“You are now a creature unique in this world, Cul en. I expect you to make more like you. And they wil 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.”

Cul en nodded. “Al right,” he said gravely. “I wil do it, not for you, but for al those innocents who wil die if I don’t.”

Morrígan’s gaze raked across his naked chest. She licked her lips, feeling a tiny thril 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

Cul en leaned back against the wal and let out a ragged breath. Unable to stop himself, he glanced up at the north tower and watched as candlelight il uminated its windows. As surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning, he knew that before this night had passed he would climb the stairs to her room. It was as inevitable as the tide.

Cul en 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 passed 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 goddess 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 wal s and time was something he’d had plenty of. Final y, he had seen the truth. It was in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t watching her, in her touch when the passion 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 brutal y honest with himself, he had to admit that he could not help but love her for it as wel . She had tricked him, coerced him, seduced him. Of al 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. Cul en opened his eyes and looked once again at the tower. No, Morrígan had cheated him of that. But then again, would he real y 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.

Morrígan 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, Morrígan. Fighting is what we do.”

She rol ed her eyes. “Don’t you think you’l get enough of that in the days to come?” she asked.

Cul en 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 goddess Morrígan 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.

“Real y?” he murmured, sliding his other hand over her hip. “What do you feel like?” He pul ed her against him and felt the shudder rol 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.

Cul en stifled a grin as he watched her jaw clench.

Morrígan 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,” Cul en whispered as he claimed her mouth, sliding his tongue inside as he pul ed 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 usual y 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.