Chapter 7
S unset turned the Berserker knights and their Viking comrades into dark silhouettes against the flaming sky. Loch Fyne glimmered like a lake of fire as it buffeted against the western side of the castle. Thirteen men, including Bael and Niall, stood bravely in front of the fence of wooden stakes, angled to impale an advancing enemy. Across the expanse of the Moray Valley, a vast army crested the rough Highland peaks and began a syncopated march down toward Dun Moray and the village.
Ingmar—a general of Niall’s who would have been a jester but for his voracious bloodlust—turned to address Malcolm and his small garrison of kilted countrymen as they approached the Vikings from behind. “You should stay behind your wards, King Malcolm, and let us battle your enemies,” he said smugly. “You’ve marched to the front lines with no armor, flanked by women and mostly naked men, which, in my opinion, should be the other way around.” He hit his leather jerkin with his shield. “Leave us the glory of plunging into battle and bloodying our armor.”
“I believe we shall,” Malcolm replied absently, as he scanned the approaching army for the Wyrd Sisters. They were yet too far away to make out distinct features, but Malcolm knew they were out there. The distinct stench of evil flowed on the Highland breezes, and demoralizing threats whispered on the chill winds.
“Who are they, Colm?” Morgana touched his elbow and squinted into the gathering shadows that seemed to follow the endless swarm of the advancing enemy. “They wear no colors.”
“I think it’s an army of the damned,” Kenna drew up to his other side. “Badb said that she had countless souls at her disposal. I think she’s unleashed them all upon us at once.”
Souls like Vían. Some innocent. Some malevolent. All desperate to do whatever it took for the promise of redemption. Or maybe just for the release of death.
“Do you think she’s out there?” Morgana whispered, the compassion in her eyes cutting Malcolm to the quick.
He knew to whom his sister was referring.
“Nay. The Wyrd Sisters know Vían wouldna march against me. ‘Tis why they took her from me.” Malcolm fought to keep his composure, and reminded himself that a village full of women and children relied on his protection.
The future of humanity, itself, relied on the strength of his principle and power.
How would they feel if they knew he was tempted to sacrifice it all for her ?
“I expect the village bard will be writing lyrics to our valor and ingenuity,” Ingmar was still taunting them.
“I told ye not to touch my castle grounds weeks ago. Not to cut down trees to make yer fences,” Malcolm said slowly.
Niall turned, ignoring the warning look from Kenna. “What would your people have done without our fortifications?”
“What if the army breaks through the line?” Ingmar asked smugly. “Not that it’s likely,” he added. “But Dun Moray would have been defenseless if not for us.”
Malcolm made a slight gesture to his men, and the forty archers spread out, making enough space between them to reach the edge of the loch.
With a whispered spell, Malcolm stretched his arms out, palms up, and lifted them from his sides. As he did, the earth trembled beneath them, and then separated, lifting him, Morgana, Kenna, and the entire line of archers above the slack-jawed Vikings, and their wooden fortifications, on an impenetrable rock wall thrice as high as Bael, the tallest Berserker.
Standing on the corner of the wall, he wrapped the structure of stone around the village, using the edge of his wards for a guide.
As preoccupied as he was with Vían, with revenge, and with the inevitable battle, Malcolm enjoyed a victorious moment over the Viking’s rare, awe-struck silence. “You see.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Your fortifications were not needed. And I would never leave my people unprotected.”
“I’d like it to be noted that I never doubted you.” Bael twirled his axe and winked at Morgana, his dark eyes glittering with anticipation of bloodshed.
The army of souls began to run forward as they reached the edge of the loch, their weapons raised. The Vikings drew their own weapons and clustered into a shield formation. Bael and Niall growled their pleasure as Berserkergang overtook their bodies, their eyes turning into black voids, promising a quick death to their enemies.
If they were lucky.
“I can feel the Grimoire,” Malcolm told the Druids on either side of him.
“It’s close,” Kenna agreed. “They’re close, but I can’t see them.”
“Do you think they can die?” Morgana worried. “This army of souls?”
Malcolm watched them advance, his hand clenched around the staff made from the sacred Ash, a relic of the de Moray Earth Druids that transcended written history. He drew strength from it, the strength of patience, and the strength of survival. “We’re about to find out.”
Kenna called for a torch that was handed to her by an awaiting warrior. With a flare of her powers, the flame rippled across the line of archers, igniting their arrows. “We are they who repelled the Romans,” she said in their Gaelic tongue. “Protect the Viking army with your arrows, and slay our enemies.” Upon her order, they let loose their first barrage, dropping the first line of the Army of Souls and igniting the flames of war.
“Malcolm, look!” Morgana pointed east, to the crest of the hill opposite the loch.
Four silhouettes appeared as statues atop their magnificent horses. The rise was far off, but the figures were unmistakable. They neither advanced nor retreated, but stood as sentinels, witnesses to the most important battle humanity had faced thus far.
The Four Horseman. Conquest, War, Pestilence, and Death.
They’d come to watch him battle for the salvation of the world.
Malcolm sent a silent prayer to the heavens. It was a heavy thing to think that the fate of the eternities rested on the outcome of the day.
Malcolm found himself wondering which side The Horsemen were on. Did they want to bring about the Apocalypse? Were they expecting him to fail?
If so, they would be sorely disappointed.
Now was not the time. Not like this, by dark measures and blood Magick. The prophecy said that four de Morays would wield behind one gate and the Seals would be broken. Malcolm had always interpreted that to mean that four de Moray’s would be born to one generation. He could not let the Wyrd sisters force the End of Days for their personal gain. There was still so much life left to be lived. So much progress and enlightenment and invention to discover. How could it end now when, it seemed, that the world was still so young?
A prickling of the fine hairs of his body heralded the notice of the Four honing in on him, even as the Army of Souls broke upon the Viking frontlines, and the fighting began in earnest.
Though the souls were neither alive nor dead, but some macabre version of in between , they still bled when Bael’s axe culled a dozen down in one mighty sweep. They still screamed, and writhed when Niall’s sword cut them navel to throat before kicking them off into the red-stained field. Their flesh sizzled and stunk as flaming arrows and bolts of Kenna’s magickal fire decimated and illuminated the carnage.
Malcolm mourned for his lush valley, and for the souls of those he claimed as he used his magick to pull the black, sharp boulders from the earth and roll them through the advancing horde. The crunch was sickening, but the tactic effective, cutting neat swaths of blood and bone.
And still foes spilled from the gathering shadows of the night as new waves of enemies broke upon his walls.
“I cannot see the Wyrd Sisters, Malcolm.” Morgana grasped his elbow. “Something’s not right. Where are they?”
Turning to search, Malcolm noticed the Four Horsemen had begun a slow and steady advance down into his valley until they stood at the edge of the battle.
Apart from it, and yet an inevitable part of it.
Conquest, with his white stallion and silver armor looked like an arc angel sent by a vengeful god. Whereas War, with his horse almost the same color as his blood-red breastplate resembled some kind of Hell spawn.
Next to them, Pestilence, his visage hidden in dark robes, perched atop his nightmare steed more regally than Malcolm would have imagined. And Death, his horse pale and dappled, his armor dark and antiquated, surveyed the carnage with a relentless power that could only belong to an immortal such as him.
“Ye will not have this day,” Malcolm vowed at them, in a voice too low for anyone but him to hear.
Death’s head turned slowly toward him, far enough away that Malcolm barely marked the movement.
The question is, will you?
The words were not spoken, and yet Malcolm heard them clear as day.
Death lifted a finger, and pointed to the edge of Malcolm’s land, where Dun Moray’s keep was buffeted by craggy Highland peaks. At first Malcolm saw nothing. Then a shimmer of disturbance in the air around his wards caught his eye the moment before lightning flashed, and two women straddling broomsticks flew through the air and pierced the protection of his magick.
“Nay,” he growled. “How is this possible?”
“The Grimoire!” Morgana pointed. “They have it.”
That had to be how they got through the wards. Cradled under Badb’s left arm was the book filled with all the secrets of his Druid family since the beginning of time.
We’re after you both now… Badb’s eerie voice brushed past his ear on a chilling breeze. Even as he watched her hag’s robes draping below her as she circled his keep on her broomstick, it was as though she whispered right next to him.
Fear sliced through him, followed quickly by a cold fury the likes of which he’d never before felt. Moray Village, full of innocent souls, separated the space between his walls and the castle. Could he get to them in time?
A sister for a sister… Badb’s cruel winds hissed. With a deafening crash, she called down a silver fork of lightning. It struck his parapets and half the roof of Dun Moray gave a great shudder, and then collapsed.
With a harsh sound of strain and rage, Malcolm did all he could to keep the stones from crushing any of the inhabitants of the castle, but knew that from this distance, he had to have failed.
Come to us and we’ll let the wee Moray babes and their mothers live...
Malcolm hesitated, though his heart bled. Of course it was a trap. One that if sprung, could seal the fate of the entire world. And yet, what of his people? How could they make him choose between those whom he loved most dear, and—everyone who was or would ever be?
Bring Morgana, and we’ll give you what you want, or should I say who you want …
Vían.
The thought of her locked away in their hellish void nearly drove him to his knees. The sounds of the battle receded into the background. Though Vían had been the one imprisoned all these decades, Malcolm felt as though it was him that had found deliverance in her presence. He’d felt more wealthy in that hovel in the forest than he ever had in the halls of his own castle. A chance to be who he truly was. No pretenses, no expectations, and no barriers. He wanted nothing more from this life then to be given the chance to show her the same kind of freedom.
A love that never bound, but liberated.
Cursing the prophecy, the Fates, the Wyrd Sisters and the fucking gods, he turned to his beloved sister, a void of his own opening inside his heart.
“Keep me strong,” he ground out a command and a plea in one breath.
She met his gaze with her soft blue eyes, clarity and determination sparking in their depths. “Nay,” she murmured.
Malcolm flinched, and then glared a warning at her. “What are ye saying?”
Grasping his elbow, Morgana turned them both toward his keep, where Badb and Nemain touched down on the flagstones of his home. Lightning sheeted across the Highland sky, warning that their time was running out.
“We take the fight to them, Malcolm,” Morgana said, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against his shoulder as though gathering strength.
Gritting his teeth, Malcolm nodded, lowering them to the ground on his piece of earth. “It’s time we end this,” he agreed. “One way or another.”
“I’m going with you,” Kenna announced, taking a moment to break from the line of archers. “Lower me down.”
“Nay,” Malcolm held his hand out to her. “Ye stay where ye are and help the Berserkers fend off the attack. They need yer fire.”
Kenna stood upon the wall, her amber skirts flapping against her legs in the increasingly violent winds. “I know you could have loved her.” Her eyes glowed with the fire of prophecy. “I’m sorry that you could not keep Vían and also your word as a Druid. But your decisions today will echo for millennia, one way or the other.”
Her words affected Malcolm more than he could ever have expected. So much so that all he could summon for her was a nod before he turned with his sister toward Dun Moray. It wasn’t sadness that welled up inside him as he stalked the thoroughfare of Moray Village toward where Badb stood, clutching her broom in one hand and the book in the other.
Rage. A helpless, impotent fury Malcolm had never had to grapple with in his entire life. He was a de Moray. The King of the Highland people. His family had held off the Vikings, the Romans, and the English with their might and magick.
How was it that this one crone and her coven were more dangerous than all the sword-wielding warriors who’d been after this isle since the beginning? How could it be possible that no matter which side won the day, the ultimate loss would be his? He’d always done everything required of him. Respected the earth. Studied his craft. Learned herbs, potions, incantations, leadership, justice, and mercy. Some of those lessons had been hard-won. Others had come easily.
But after decades of sacrifice for his people and his Goddess, he was denied the only thing that truly mattered in this world. The one thing that would strengthen and solidify his power and allow him to become the man, the King , he was meant to be.
Love.
It was love that saved the souls of the mated Berserkers who now cherished and protected his kinswomen. Malcolm craved such love. The love of a woman willing to sacrifice her eternal soul for his sake. The rare emotion that filled in the cracks of one’s being and fortified the weaknesses with a power greater than any other.
Hatred boiled in the absence of that love, filling him with a dark power that surged dangerously just beneath the surface.
“Keep Nemain busy,” he instructed Morgana. “Her fire is useless against your water. Draw from the Loch and drown her if need be.”
“What are you going to do?” Morgana asked.
“Whatever is necessary.”
The sky darkened as they stopped at the bottom of the stone steps to Dun Moray. The spires of his home now seemed sinister against the backdrop of the roiling clouds, occasionally illuminated with flashes of lightning.
Energy crackled in the very air between them. The ground was alive with it, and it sparked from the Crone’s silver eyes as he approached.
“I’ve never understood you, King Malcolm,” Badb spoke down at him from the top of the stairs, where she and the vicious girl/child, Nemain, blocked the entrance to the keep. “For a man of such power, you certainly lack vision.”
“I’m envisioning ye in yer grave,” Malcolm growled.
Badb’s cackle sounded like the crunch of gravel beneath a boot. “To say such things to your family,” she tisked.
“You’re no kin of ours,” Morgana said, her fingers twitching as she drew power into her hands and connected with the waters of the loch.
“I am a de Moray.” Badb lifted the Grimoire, the wind flipping the pages of the ancient tome until it fell open. “There are four de Moray’s behind one gate. The Prophecy of Four has foretold that we will be the ones to open the Seven Seals and bring about the Apocalypse.”
“Ye know I’d never do that,” Malcolm vowed. “I’d die before I succumbed to yer evil.”
Badb’s eyes flared, and she stepped forward, brandishing the book at him as she descended the stairs with the languor of a victor. “Evil?” she purred. “You men are always so short-sighted. You think there is only good, and only evil. You plant your flag on one side or the other and you fight to the death in service to the light or to the dark.”
“I will always choose the light.” He said this without hesitation, and still the crone laughed at him.
“It is easy for evil to take purchase in the soul of a good man.” Badb stopped three steps above him, bringing them all but face to face. “Bliss can be found in a sin, and bitterness often follows a good deed, is this not so?”
Victorious cries from the wall heralded a triumph over the Army of Souls. Smoke curled into the sky, mixing with the dark clouds and reflecting Kenna’s flames as though they licked skyward from the bowels of the Underworld.
“Your minions are defeated,” Malcolm informed his enemies.
Badb shrugged. “What need have I of them when I have the two of you? Once I help our master rise from the deep and seize what is left after the Apocalypse, the Army of the Damned will be my minions, and I will rule them with unimaginable power.”
“Ye’re delusional,” Malcolm spat.
“I’m a visionary,” she corrected. “And I’m willing to share that power with you, King Malcolm. I’ll give you a piece of my paradise when this is all over. And also, grant you what you desire most in this world, if you and your sister do what I want.”
With a wave of her gnarled finger and a whispered curse, a portal opened up on the steps right in front of them, a window to the Void. There, naked and curled in on herself, was Vían, shivering in a hole of desolation and anguish, whispering his name as though it were a prayer to the gods.
Morgana’s gasp seemed far away as Malcolm lunged for the portal, calling out to the woman on the ground.
Vían’s dark head lifted, sightless amethyst eyes searching blindly for his voice.
“Malcolm?” she choked as desperate tears streaked the grime on her face. Struggling to her feet, she put out her arms as if to reach for him, though it was obvious that she couldn’t see in her pitch-black prison. “Malcolm, are you here? I can hear you.”
Badb clenched her fist and the portal disappeared.
“She’ll think you came for her,” Nemain giggled. “How cruel.”
Morgana lifted both of her hands, making an intricate sign with her fingers and commanded a pillar of water to rise from the loch and douse the small fire witch. “Silence, you vicious harpy, or I’ll forget that I’ve taken a vow never to take a life.”
“Let her go,” Malcolm commanded, the ground beneath them trembling with the force of his rage.
“You know my price,” Badb countered. “Cast with us, and open the First Seal. Help me unleash the Horsemen into this world and wipe out all the useless tribes of people who will only become like a scourge to this earth whom you love so much.”
“We are not a scourge of this earth, we are her children, and I am her protector.” They knew this, but Malcolm wanted them to remember that he had the power of the Goddess behind him.
Badb slammed the book shut, pulling it close into her robes. “Nemain has seen the future of this world. If we don’t end it now, people will multiply until they spread over every continent and every land. They will build machines that belch poison into the sky and taint the rivers with their rubbish. They’ll use everything the earth and the seas have to give and still demand more. You are not saving this world for anyone who matters. You can prevent all that. Join me now.”
“Don’t you dare!” Kenna threatened as she, Bael, and Niall drew up behind them leading none other than the Four Horsemen in their wake like giant, mounted sentinels.
They looked both mortal and inhuman, mounted on horses unlike any Malcolm had seen on this earth, their colors as vivid as the book prophesied, and their potency just as terrifying.
“I’ll not believe your lies.” Malcolm addressed the Crone. “Now hand over the book or I’ll crush you to claim it.”
“I’m not lying!” she screeched. “Ask her!”
Kenna jumped as Badb thrust a finger in her direction.
“Ask your seer if what I say is not the truth.”
Malcolm turned to Kenna, whose eyes were filled with pain. “She’s not lying… I’ve seen this in the flames, as well.”
The image of Vían’s despair flashed in his mind’s eye. Could he carve out a life for them in this new world of darkness and subjugation Badb wanted to cultivate? Would it be any worse than the picture she’d just painted of earth’s own future?
“You would be dooming poor Vían forever, and for what?” Badb pressed. “For a species bent on destroying themselves. They can’t escape the inevitable, King Malcolm. Someday, somehow, the prophecy must be fulfilled. Why not now, when we can seize the outcome and turn it to our favor?”
Shame burned beneath the temptation, and Malcolm turned to glare up at the Horsemen, searching for answers in their inscrutable eyes. “You want this?” he asked them. “You want me to cast with them? To unleash you to wreak the bloody swath of your destiny on this earth?”
The pale horse stepped away from the line, and Death turned his dark head to survey the gathering Druids and Berserkers, poised on the brink of the End, ready to fight the final battle and finally put to rest the argument of destiny versus free will.
His voice evoked brimstone as he spoke. “If the Apocalypse begins this day, we will fulfill our final duties. And then, what is left for immortals such as us? What purpose will we have but to become agents of chaos and devastation? We will be what we are meant to be, and whatever is left after the End will be an unyielding temptation for the four of us… Think on that, Druid King, before you make your decision.”
Death’s answer chilled Malcolm to the very core of his essence. Badb’s paradise could easily be turned into an unimaginable hell were these Horsemen to challenge her, or each other, for it.
Malcolm reeled as he cast his gaze about, to his family, to his enemies, to the smoke covering the sky, and to the faces of his people, who poked out from behind the village walls, awaiting his word to seal their fates.
A gentle hand touched his arm, and he looked down at Kenna as though she might be a stranger, willing his pounding heart to slow. “Dear Malcolm,” she said quietly, her voice a warm flicker like a candle in the gathering darkness. “I have seen the shadows and suffering in the days to come, as the Wyrd Sisters predicted, but there is a reason I have not succumbed to despair, as you are about to do.”
Despair didn’t seem like a strong enough word for the bleak void inside of him.
“I’ve seen other things, as well,” Kenna continued. “Sparks of transcendence from within the devastation. Marvels of ingenuity. I’ve heard poetry that would make your heart sing, and music that would cause the wounded to dance. There are those whose love will inspire entire generations toward change and hope. There is a limitless potential within us all, and how can we, in this very moment, take that potential away from those who would realize it?”
“Don’t be a fool!” Badb scoffed, the wind blustering through the gathering with an angry hiss. “Humanity will always be ruled by fear like the sheep they are. They will be controlled with rhetoric and lies, and ultimately, their stupidity will be their downfall. Why prolong the inevitable?”
“The future is never certain,” Kenna insisted. “But we owe the world a chance for redemption.”
Malcolm stared down at his cousin with new eyes. She was right, damn her . He was wrong to be tempted by a future at the cost of humanity. How could he have even contemplated it?
Because the part of his heart he usually saved to encompass the entire world had been stolen by a raven-haired beauty, and then broken by their star-crossed fate.
“We’ll not cast.” Malcolm addressed the Wyrd sisters with unyielding certainty.
“Don’t be so certain.” In a confusing flurry of robes, Badb hurled her broomstick on a powerful gust of wind. It impaled Kenna with such force, she was knocked from her feet and propelled backward before crashing to the stones.
Niall was at her side in a moment, his golden hair brushing her face as he gasped her name.
Bael ran for the Crone, but Nemain stopped him with an explosion of her fire, the strength of it knocking him to the ground, as well.
Reflexively, Malcolm lifted a flagstone from the earth and hurled it at Badb. She didn’t counter in enough time to completely avoid it and her legs became crushed beneath its staggering weight, pinning her to the earth. The Grimoire went flying, sliding in a flesh-colored heap toward Nemain.
Badb tried to lift the stone with her powerful gusts of wind, but Malcolm used his magic to keep it in place, locking them in a battle of elements.
Nemain lashed out with her hands and a wall of fire crawled across the courtyard, effectively cutting Kenna, Niall and Bael away from the Four Horsemen and the four Druids.
Malcolm advanced on Badb, his hands out, intensifying the pressure of the stone crushing her legs.
Instead of shrinking in fear, Badb sneered triumphantly up at him, blood beginning to stain a few of her teeth that had been broken in the fall. “That makes three of us casting at once,” she cackled. “Now Morgana must heal your cousin, or she’ll die.”
“Malcolm?” Morgana inched toward the fire. “I can’t just do nothing. Let me heal her.”
“You’re running out of time, Druid King,” Badb taunted. “How much are you willing to lose to save the world?”
The void in Malcolm’s heart suddenly became a cavern, and all the loss, rage, and helpless fury rushed to fill it until his heart did slow, and his breathing stabilized as the answer to everything became startlingly clear. “Nothing,” he answered coolly. “I’m done with sacrificing what is mine for the greater good.”