Day 18 of Midwinter, Sunrise

Mag Mór, Tir Tairngire

Annwn

I knew immediately that something had gone wrong behind the line of my people. From the corner of my eye, I saw the changelings of the kingdom armies turning upon one another. For a heartbeat, I wanted to look longer, to understand, but the moment passed. There was no time for hesitation. The shrieking tide of Bánánach continued to bear down upon us.

The cold-forged iron of our Fomorian blades was all that stood between us and the death of every living soul on this field. We had sharpened our weapons for war against the Tuatha, yet now they cut down the spirits that plagued the Tuatha and Fomorian alike. I was proud that despite all the near-wars and betrayals of the past, I heard no grumbling in my kinsmen’s ranks. Not one voice questioned our place. We knew the truth: step forward, or all was lost.

Danu hovered above the battle, her dark form weaving between torrents of Brigid’s fire. The Gorias Ellyllon clustered tightly around her, shields raised, the glow of their weapons flashing as they turned aside every arrow, every spearpoint aimed at their queen.

At my side, Bren raised walls of shimmering energy, his barriers locking Bánánach in place long enough for our warriors to strike them down. Behind him, the Stone warped and shifted, reshaping itself under his will. He fought with the relic like it was an extension of his body, and I couldn’t help but feel pride at how far he had come in such a short time.

Monty had begged to remain near Bren, but his former master had ordered otherwise. The oilliphéist had lumbered off with Fern on his back, heading toward the rear lines. I suspected they would meet with Fíadan soon, if they hadn’t already.

As for me, I fought with both hands. In my left hand, I held Orna, Tethra’s gleaming silver blade. In my right, I bore the Spear of Victory. It was not a natural pairing. Orna begged to be swung and cut, while the Spear longed to be hurled. Yet I had managed to find a rhythm: hurl, slice, stab, recall. Again and again, I threw the Spear far into the mass of spirits, fighting with Tethra’s blade while it recalled. It would forever be Tethra’s blade, I thought grimly. Even now, as I struck with it, I feared what might happen if I saw her form appear among the Bánánach. Would I have the will to cut her down?

The Bánánach came in countless shapes: hulking forms with twisted jaws, gaunt women with hollowed eyes, children whose mouths stretched too wide to show jagged teeth as they screamed their eternal pain. Each was unique, each was someone who had once lived and died. Ériu, Annwn—death knew no borders. As I cut them down, I found myself wondering whether this was truly the end of them. Would these souls simply rise again in some darker place, ready to be unleashed upon us once more? I slashed again and turned to shout down the line to my Fomorians.

“Take the heads of your fallen comrades! Don’t leave them whole!” The abhartach would rise if we faltered, and then our battle would become truly unwinnable.

The clash went on and on. Our relics, our magic, and the bitter iron of our blades kept the tide at bay, but at a grave cost. Even the smallest of wounds on the soldiers appeared to fester almost instantly, the skin greying around the edges. That was the true curse of the Bánánach. Even as we seemed to gain ground, our victory poisoned us.

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I staggered, seeing a familiar pair of amber eyes burning like embers. A massive Bánánach loomed above me, and even before my mind formed the name, I knew who it was. His form was larger, heavier, more solid than the others, as though his hatred alone held him together.

Corb.

I had just hurled the Spear of Victory deep into the horde, its light trailing like a falling star. My left arm swung Orna wide, carving a path clear, as I felt the pull of the relic returning to me.

But Corb moved faster. His misty hands shot forward, seizing the shaft of the Spear as it streaked back toward my palm. The relic jolted mid-flight, caught between us, my right hand gripping the shaft at last.

Corb’s grip remained locked on the Spear, the weapon vibrating violently as though it could not decide which master to heed. The force of it rattled my bones, dragging me half off my feet. The spirits around us wailed and howled, but their cries seemed to fall away as we silently struggled.

The pull of him was immense. It was not only his strength, but also his will. My muscles burned, my vision blurred, my heart stuttered. Orna trembled in my left hand, eager to strike, but fell finally as I dropped the sword to yank at the spear with both hands.

The shrieks around us grew sharper. Corb leaned close, his face a hollow mask of fury. He pulled harder, trying to tear the Spear from my grip, and despite my efforts, my feet slid in the dirt, taking me closer to his maw as it opened wider than it ever had in life. I felt myself weakening and staggered, knees buckling. I poured the last of my strength into holding the Spear, even as I knew it was a lost cause. I could not stand up to the strength he’d found in death, not even with my own increased abilities.

“Corb!” Morvra’s voice cut through the sounds of battle around me. The small human woman darted out of the line of Fomorian warriors, deftly snatching Orna from where it had fallen. She sprinted toward us, moving like the war-queen she had always been, shoulders squared, every step fueled by rage and sorrow.

The blade flashed against the pale light of the spirits, rising in a vicious arc, then smashing down through the tendrils of Corb’s spirit that bound the Spear. The Bánánach that had been Corb shrieked, a sound that pierced marrow. The Spear lurched fully into my hand at last.

I lunged to my feet, intending to re-engage, only to stare at Morvra’s continued assault. She held Orna with both hands and savagely swung again and again, battering into Corb’s spirit form with ruinous precision. The cold iron tore jagged rents, each strike cutting deeper into the smoky body. He twisted and reeled under the weight of her onslaught.

Her face twisted as she struck at him. Not in triumph or fury, but grief. Grief for the daughter that Corb had taken from her. Corb clawed at her, his formless hands raking her arms and shoulders, but still she pressed on, her teeth bared in a snarl. She drove her blade home again and again, ravaging his huge form.

Seeing her begin to tire, I surged forward. The Spear blazed hot in my hands as I thrust it through Corb’s chest, pinning his fractured spirit against the earth. The impact shook through my bones, the relic burning with a light that cut through the smoke and shadow of his form.

I held him, pinned to the ground with the spear, as Morvra’s blade continued to tear through what was left of his form. Finally, his body convulsed violently, fractures spidering across it like glass ready to shatter. With a final crack, his spirit burst apart, scattering into a cloud of ash and fading light.

Morvra stood trembling, her blade trailing with black mist. Slowly, she dropped to one knee, her weapon digging into the ground to hold her up. Her head bowed in grief, and a low keening wail came from her. Around us, the Fomorians continued fighting, protecting her as she grieved again for her lost daughter. I stood above her, unable to speak.

When at last Morvra lifted her head, her eyes were bloodshot, and tears had cut clean lines through the dirt and blood that covered her cheeks. Her voice was soft, but carried clearly across the din.

“Cai,” she rasped, extending the hilt of Orna. “Finish this.”

I reached to grasp the sword tightly. In my other hand, the spear pulsed hot, alive with renewed fire, as though the sacrifice had seared new strength into it.

I nodded once to her, the only promise I could give. Then I turned, raised the Spear high, and hurled myself back into the tide of death.