The Tattooed Woman Pt. 43

Heart thumping in sheer terror, she gave in to utter madness and moved to interpose herself between these two terrible women, with her hands outstretched, as if she somehow hoped to hold them apart like a pair of brawling recruits, "Woah! Ladies, ladies... Please, we just fought one battle today. Poor Varoona lies dead at our feet. Is now really the best time to be starting another?"

Adair blinked, and at least had the grace to look ashamed as she stepped back. Pushing against The Morrigan was not unlike pushing an iceberg; very cold, and beyond useless.

That dark gaze flicked down to where Ashunara's hand was touching her, and then back up to meet the eyes of the dark elf, and her lips might, just might, have twitched.

Ashunara swallowed and snatched her hand back quicker than she would have if it was on fire, "Oh fuck."

Thankfully, Adair came to her rescue, as she grounded her spear and dropped to one knee, "Mother, please..."

The dark entity sighed and shook her head as she placed a pale hand upon the woman's shoulder, "Och lass, you must think me cruel to the bone, and in truth I do not blame you for I am, but that is not a strength I possess."

Blinking, Adair looked up, "But... You are The Morrigan."

"I am that, but The Morrigan is many things, child; Phantom Queen, Battle Crow, War Goddess, wife, mother, and more besides. It is my role to guide the spirits of fallen upon the roads of the dead, not to rescue them from it. I am... unworthy of such a power."

"Unworthy?"

Gathering her shadows about her like a shroud, The Morrigan turned away, looking towards the distant snow-capped peaks, and her voice was a whisper, "How many?"

"Mother?"

"How many, Adair? In the long, endless years of my life, how many do you think it is that I have seen walk that lonely road, all the while wishing with all my heart that I could restore them to my side?"

Adair bit her lip, "I..."

"No child, you know my temperament, my appetites and my passions. If I had such a power, I would abuse it beyond reckoning. 'Tis best that I do not."

Turning, the dark goddess knelt by the body of Varoona, and, reaching out, she gently stroked her silver hair, "This one fought for what she cared for, and she died well. Her place beyond is assured. Would you take that from her?"

Head bowed; Adair's voice was sodden with weary regret "No."

"I shall see to it that she has fair company and an escort upon the road, even if I must attend to the task myself. She will reach her destination in peace, I promise, and no sluagh or dread spirit shall hazard barring her way, or survive my anger if they do. Now, as her boon companions you should say your goodbyes and send her on her way as she deserves."

It was no small feat for Ashunara to crush down her fear and step forward. Raising her chin, she met the gaze of a God, and if there was some small quiver to her voice when she spoke, none deigned to hear it, "Thank you. She... she was a brave soldier and gave good service. I..."

The Morrigan held up a hand, "You have courage, Dark Elf, and wisdom," she smiled, "two of my favourite things in all the world. For my part I do not think noble Varoona has any complaint regarding her Captain, and I doubt you will be troubled by her disgruntled shade. She is content."

Looking about, the creature cast an eye at Adair and then glanced slyly back at the dark elf, "You have been kind to my daughter, Captain. Some... might say that as a mother I... owe you. Tell me, do you care to offer opinion?"

Ashunara's eyes went wide in horror at the idea, "Hades' teeth no! The last thing I need is a mischievous deity interfering in my Company. We're in enough trouble as it is without borrowing more."

The Morrigan's laugh was a strange thing, not musical like the laughter of Elves, or vile like the giggling of demons. It held the sound of dark forests stirring in the breeze, or of moonlight playing upon the waves far out at sea, and the creatures' eyes twinkled with timeless mirth as she nodded, "As I say, you are wise for a mortal, Ashunara of the Dark Elves. Now best leave me to my thoughts, I would walk a while."

Ashunara watched the back of the tall figure, shadows wrapped about her like a shawl, as she turned and silently moved away.

...

It was a cold day, and the early morning frost had lingered long. The air was crisp, and the light breeze carried upon it that sweet scent of pine and heather from the nearby woods. The sky had been clear of clouds for the most part, save for the queer squall that had occurred not so long ago, but Nyx had no mind for the weather this day.

Sitting upon a treestump, she nursed the flask that Elsadore had pushed into her hands. She had known the big woman for many a long year and snorted at the memory of when they first met. They had just joined the Free Companies and served rival Houses. Both had somehow ended up drinking in some nefarious den or other and were well into their cups when the brawl had started. She couldn't remember what the occasion had been, but Elsadore had been singing for sure, and that was usually enough. Of course, one thing had led to another, and the place had been most thoroughly trashed by the time the last body slumped to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Laughing, she had tossed aside the broken remains of the stool she was holding and was wiping the blood leaking from her nose as she turned to the big woman, only to find herself hoisted up by the seat of her trews and the scruff of the neck and hurled bodily through the window like the contents of an overfilled chamberpot.

She had crashed through the mullions and muntins in a shower of broken glass and thoroughly demolished a pie stand outside, before landing in a heap on the wet cobblestones. Dazed, half stunned, and still more than a little inebriated, she was still wondering what the hell had just happened when a big hand had grabbed her. Unceremoniously, she was hauled more or less upright, and a drunken voice had slurred, "Quick! Run! Before they fetch us the bill for damages or call the guard."

That was Elsadore; a happier, more cheerfully homicidal drunkard you could never hope to meet. Over the centuries that followed, they had plied their bloody trade in numerous Companies. Sometimes the Fates put them on opposing sides, but for the most part they had fought side by side. The woman was a hellion in a fight and had dragged her into more brawls than she could count. She couldn't sing for shit, and her cooking was as terrible as her choice in men, but she never turned her back on a mate, no matter the odds; not once.

She had watched as the big veteran had gone to say goodbye to Varoona. She had seen her place a kiss on the girl's forehead and tuck a wee flask into her cloak before standing. She had stood there a long time looking down at the girl before turning away, but there had been no tears. For she was Dökkálfar, and dark elves do not weep.

Sighing, Nyx brought her thoughts back to the here and now as she looked to the wounded man lying in the nearby cot. His wounds were many, his pallor appalling, his breathing shallow, and she knew he was not long for this world.

She had combed his hair and braided his forked beard, "Such a vain man. Why couldn't he grow a proper beard?" straightened his cloak and pressed the hilt of his sword back into his hand. For no warrior should go to the fire untended and unarmed.

Done, she raised her flask in salute and took a swig, "There ye go lad, you have your sword back at last," she grinned, "I still say I'm the better blade, but I'd not see you walk the long road unarmed."

A shadow fell across her, and a voice spoke, "I'd say the two of you were well matched Anyxia Mal, but Kilgannon of the Drow is the better blade."

The Dark Lady stepped into view, casting her gaze at the fallen warrior, "This one lingers. He does not wish to leave it seems. Doubtless, he feels he has left something unsaid, or undone," she shook her head, "he has a strong will, for a mortal child."

Nyx took a swig and offered up the flask, "Aye, he's a stubborn bastard for sure."

Long, cold fingers touched her hand as The Morrigan accepted the drink. Taking a draught, she glanced at the flask and raised an arched brow in appreciation, "Queimada? A fine brew, and hard to come by these days, for the Huldufólk are not well known for sharing their treasures," she chuckled, "I once tricked Clurichaun into getting quite sozzled on such a beverage. I still wear his shoes."

Nyx grunted, "A wench that knows her libations cannot be all bad."

There was a laugh, "Can I not? There are many who would disagree, swordmaiden," she sniffed, "Tell me, why do you think he lingers so? What has he to be so stubborn about?"

"A bet."

"Oh? Well, in that case, I understand. Welching on a wager is no small thing."

Nyx was on her feet in an instant, her voice angry as she squared up to the woman, "I did not say such a thing! The bet is... unresolved is all. The man is no welcher."

The Morrigan's smile would have put a tiger to shame, but a careful observer might not have mistaken the mischievous gleam in her eyes, and she nodded, "Apologies. Tell me, Anyxia..."

"It's just Nyx."

"Then tell me, Nyx, do you think an unfulfilled wager is the man's only reason for wishing to stay. Or might he perhaps have some other... motive."

The angry words tasted bitter in her mouth, but Nyx spoke them anyway, "It doesn't matter. He'll be gone soon enough, and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

The Morrigan blinked, and her smile widened, "Now, that sounds a lot like a challenge, my girl. Would you care to wager upon it?"

Looking into those dark, unblinking eyes the sellsword felt both a chill, and a sudden spark of hope, and licking her lips nervously she heard herself query, "The stakes?"

"Hmm, what do you have, blademistress?"

...

As has been said; in the dark elven city of Emain, there were many great houses, many dark forbidding manses and tall towers. But the tallest and darkest of them all was the Ebon Palace.

It was a citadel of power; its walls were steeped in elven sorcery, its black gates crafted from dwarf-forged adamant and its towers decorated by winged gargoyles carved in the shape of Erinyes. According to legend, these silent sentinels were gifts of the Danu and they were ever watchful.

Cassie had watched wide-eyed as those massive gates swung silently open and she swallowed fearfully when they closed behind her again as they were led past the sentries and into the fortress proper. She had been told that the guards had been drawn from among the Great Houses and, in their day, each had been a mighty champion of one kind or another. Their spearpoints gleamed and each wore armoured carapace and lorica of segmented plate, all beautifully forged and decorated with the runes and sigils of their houses, though their shields and dark cloaks bore the devices of the Grand Matriarch and the Ebon Throne.

The seneschal who had met them at the gate, and who now preceded them, was a dark elf, and probably the first male Dökkálfar Cassie had seen. Despite his saturnine elven features, he somehow conveyed a sense of great age and the girl saw his inhuman eyes looked ancient. The man wore rich robes of woven spidersilk, and his staff was of twisted iron and carved with the many runes of a draoitheach, or Magister. The sound it made when it struck the paving stones as he walked ahead of them echoed about the hall like the ominous tolling of a bell, and for the umpteenth time that day she turned to the woman at her side and whispered, "But why am I here?"

Hildegard sighed. She was no less frightened than Cassie but was doing her utmost to at least put on a brave face and not make things worse. If it was up to her, neither of them would be there, and instead they would both be eating and drinking with the servants in the warm kitchens of House Varro instead of attending a formal supper in some witch's castle with a bunch of bloodthirsty dark elves, and she'd said as much. But when Matriarch Aventine commanded, "You're coming" then that, pretty well, was that.

She shrugged and then nodded up towards the front of the entourage, "Don't blame me, Cassie, 'tis Shalidar's fault. It seems that since the attack we suffered, the woman is reluctant to let you out of her sight."

Garrow was eyeing the guards, doubtless considering escape, and she grunted, "I doubt she has much to worry about on that front, for she certainly made an... impression on the louts that were immediately behind the assault upon us at least. But she's a queer one for all that."

"She's not queer; well, maybe she is a bit, but she's... well not nice as such, but she's... um..." Cassie floundered, "well, she's Ellén's ma. And I like her."

The half-orc snorted, "She's a fucking psychopath is what she is. I mean I'm not exactly well known for half-measures where foes are concerned but there's a smoking crater down in the back alleys of cheapside that speaks volumes about exactly how likeable she is. Hell's teeth lass, she only left one of those bastards alive because she can't be arsed killing the rest of them and she hopes he'll spread the word."

"You're just vexed because she called you a monkey."

"No, I'm fucking terrified because she incinerated a score of heavily armed men in an instant and never so much as batted an eye," she sniffed, "besides, I've been called worse."

Cassie looked down at her hands, "Sorry."

Hildegard grinned, and was about to say something more, when the subject of their discussion, who was at that time walking gracefully up ahead at the side of Lady Aventine, turned to look back, favouring them with a bright smile of mischievous delight, and she swallowed, "She's listening to every fucking word."

Up ahead, Shalidar chuckled, and shook her head.

At her side, Aventine Varro, Matriarch of House Varro, cast a glance at her, "Something amuses you, Lady Shalidar?"

The woman smiled happily, "Many things amuse me."

"Are you not at least marginally concerned by the nature of this summons? There is undoubtably some mischief at hand and there will be knives waiting behind every smile."

The fair-haired woman shrugged, "Oh, no doubt, you scamps have always been rather precocious when it comes to such things."

Aventine couldn't help but snort, "Scamps? Really?"

"Oh, I mean no affront, 'tis all just a matter of perspective I suppose. But if you are so concerned, why come?"

The dark elf grunted, "To refuse a summons by the Grand Matriarch would be seen both as a deadly insult, and,likely, a challenge. And to show fear in the face of our enemies would only make things a thousand times worse," she shook her head, and her voice was cold, "they would fall on us like jackals sensing an easy kill. No, we are obliged to come."

The Dragon looked back at her for a moment, before casting her eyes about, "I remember when they built this place," she pointed at the floor not so far away, "Prince Aodh himself stood just yonder, and he passed words with Queen Maeve, who had come down to greet him. She stood just about where you are now, with wee Findabair at her side. The Prince smiled at her and delighted the child by conjuring a playful little fire spirit that danced and capered about a bit for her amusement," she chuckled, "I always liked Aodh, he was funny. When he left, the fire spirit went quite mad and nearly burned the place to the ground. A cautionary tale methinks, regarding perilous guests."

"You're jesting with me."

Shalidar's smile widened, "Am I?"

Aventine snorted, "Gods; you're going to be a bucket of laughs this evening, aren't you?"

"Almost certainly, for I am endlessly entertaining, and my patience and good humour are surely matched only by my tolerance of fools and insult," she grinned, and for a moment her eyes glittered as they reflected the light from the witchfire torches, "depending upon the mood that takes me, of course. But fear not, I promised Cassie I would be on my very best behaviour."

The dark elf sighed heavily, "That's what I'm afraid of."

"Well, you're the one who brought a Dragon to a knife-fight. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?"

...

Tara of House Tyr sat upon her courser, eyeing the enemy formations and frowned. For the umpteenth time, she wondered why in the Hells anyone with any wit would want command on such a day. She knew that she had been nominated as Warmaiden of this travelling circus because House Tyr trained some of the best mercenaries to be had and was thus useful, while simultaneously being small enough to avoid being seen as a threat to the Great Houses. They took slaves and volunteers both and trained them up into useful troops to be sold and traded to any House with coin enough to pay their indenture. Otherwise, they avoided politics like the plague and were content to be ignored. For her part, she would have been happy raiding the human lands with her own Company, instead of traipsing half-way across Hel's creation at the head of a column of undisciplined, backstabbing bitches, most of whom wouldn't know a battle from a whore's wedding.

She surveyed the field before her again and spat. They were but a few miles from Miosgan Meadhba and the firbolg had drawn up in the valley ahead, barring the passage of her column.

The valley itself was wide and level, with thick woods covering its steep sides and the old road to the city ran along its length, straight and true.

The dark elves and their orcish allies had deployed in good order in preparation for the coming battle, and the enemy had given ground before them, retreating slowly back up the valley. Despite the urging of many in the command tent, who favoured a somewhat bolder approach, she had instead ordered a cautious advance, for something disturbed her.

The enemy Commander, or whatever it was, had clearly deployed much of its strength in the centre of its shield wall, with archers, hounds and hunters on either flank. To the rear, she could see a formation of heavily armoured ogres being held in reserve. They waited, poised like a mailed fist, ready to exploit any weakness in her line. Behind them were the cadaverous Trollwives, with their vile incantations and foul necromancy. It was a fairly predictable arrangement and not unexpected, but...

She sniffed, "Where are the Drow?"

One of her Captains looked to her, "What?"

"The Drow? Where are they? I don't see any of the sneaky bastards down there. And given by all accounts our foes outnumber us ten to one, why are there so few of them?"

The Captain pursed her lips, "Our forward scouts and spies say that an assault has begun on the city, surely it has drawn much of their strength."

Tara frowned, "Maybe..."

"You fear deception? Ambush?"

"I don't know. But if they are sent to bar us from reaching the city, why do they give way so? It's as if they are drawing us on. They retreat, and as we advance, we get further from the baggage train. I don't like it."

The Captain nodded, "Well, as it stands, accounts from the city do not paint a fair picture, and the situation is distinctly more than merely somewhat pressing. They say the main gate is breached, though somehow it still holds. The enemy has gained the walls in several places and the fight is hotly contested. They are in dire need, and so our choices diminish in the face of such necessity."

The warmaiden nodded, "What is it you advise then, Captain?"

"Well, if we are to press forward, and obviously we must or this whole expedition is for naught, we can hold back and continue a measured advance, taking the baggage train along with us as we go. Such a strategy minimises the risk of ambush, but if yonder host before us has been dispatched merely to delay us, then, of course, the city might fall in the meantime. Or..."