The Tattooed Woman Pt. 54

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 54

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 54: Magic and Stone.

The Broch of Kouni was an ancient stone edifice built oh, so many centuries ago; back in the days of Queen Medb some said. And for long years, it had squatted upon its bleak island fastness, lonely and all but forgotten, defying storm and wave alike. A last outpost of the Dark Eldar, protecting the great bay of Bá Dhún and the coastal villages of Elsinore from any sea raider with courage enough to brave those tenebrous waters.

Now it was rubble.

For the enemy had come, and they had come in great number, looking to burn and pillage and kill, as was their wont.

The tiny garrison of the broch, outcasts and misfits all, had looked out at the approaching host and they knew that for them there was no hope of rescue, no real chance of victory, only battle and death.

But, instead of surrender and despair, they picked up their swords and spears and fought, and they fought hard.

Unable to take the keep by storm, the enemy had finally called a Dragon down upon them. Its name was Lady Atropa, a fat, bloated creature, possessed of voracious hunger and gluttonous appetite. It was nevertheless a mountain of scale, with claws that could cleave a longship in two and fiery breath that could melt stone.

Its arrival upon the field was a thunderstorm of beating wings, and its landing shook the very ground like an earthquake. It lumbered forth towards the broch, confident that it would soon be feasting upon the roasted flesh of those within.

Instead, it feasted upon a poisoned spear, hurled down its throat as it made to engulf the tower in dragonfire.

The wyrm had howled and shrieked as the envenomed barb tore at its gullet, writhing and rolling upon the ground in searing agony. Great gouts of blood splashed hissing and sizzling on the rocks as the beast clawed at its own throat, desperate to dislodge the tormenting skewer embedded there, and as it did it rolled over the keep, its great armoured bulk crushing and demolishing it utterly.

Later, with the clamour of battle diminished and the muffled cries and moans of the wounded ruthlessly silenced by club or spear thrust, a hush descended upon the field, broken only by the whispering of the cold winds and the colder laments of the hungry sirens as they prowled the bloodied waters like sharks.

The stillness did not linger however, and it was soon displaced by sounds of hammering and industry. Corpses and severed limbs were carelessly thrown into the sea or left for the crabs as the enemy host began their work.

Under the cruel whips of taskmasters and overseers, they laboured to build their own earthworks and bastions, digging in the hard stone as they emplaced scorpion and ballistae to deny the bay to any longship or galley intent on bringing succor or relief by sea to the nearby besieged city of Miosgan Meadhba.

The forges burned continually as smiths forged the links of the great chain boom that would seal the bay completely. Picks and mattocks endlessly hammered at the hard ground, as drystone walls were thrown up and boulders gathered and shaped for the catapults.

But not today.

Today, all was quiet. There was a dreadful stillness, as Firbolg and goblin hid cowering within their hide tents, and even the undead ceased their endless murmuring and averted their sightless eyes.

For today a mist had come, and it had not come alone.

She moved among them, the end of her shillelagh; blackwood, and as gnarled as she was, striking upon the stone as she made her way to the shore, and all who heard that sound shivered as it passed them by.

One of the Firbolg, perhaps younger, or braver, or perhaps simply foolhardier than his kin, risked peering from his tent at the dark figure as it walked.

It stopped.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled abominably as, unable to look away, his eyes were inexorably drawn to hers. He felt himself taking a shallow whimpering breath, and as he did, that tiny part of his mind not frozen in terror wondered if it would be his last.

Turning to regard him, he saw a flash of white skin and a brief gleam of eyes darker than pitch, and harder than flint. The fog, a sea haar, wreathed it, coiling about the creature with a strange and alien intimacy, slinking about her limbs, not like a lover, but more like some cat, or other half-tamed thing, seeking favour from its master.

He swallowed...

Fetching him a toothsome grin, she winked, and her shadow passed him by as she turned away.

From the shore, she looked out at the bay, casually waving away the sirens who had come to sing to her, and cast her eyes towards the strand - that treacherous and shifting sandbar that sometimes connected the tiny isle to the mainland. It was a perilous path at the best of times, a shifting trail of quicksand oft hidden by high tides or swamped by waves, and one that would have been nigh impossible for the unwary to navigate, were the path, such as it was, not marked by a line of standing stones.

They were tall, worn smooth and sea-slick by the elements. But despite the unending pounding of the waves and the eternal biting of wind and rain, they stood still, defiant to the last.

She knew the legend; she knew it well, for the fisher folk in their huts would whisper it to their children, and in time, from them to their grandchildren and so on and so forth, down through the ages. Warning them never to climb those forbidding cromlechs or to cast their nets anywhere near them. For the tales said they were not simple stone pillars, but the last of a tribe of Fomorian giants, ancient and evil, that had offended the Danu and then paid dearly for their impudence by being encased in stone forever.

Of course, she also knew the legend was wrong... well, mostly.

Out at sea, lurking between horizon and shore, ponderous rainclouds began to marshal. There was a flicker of lightning followed by the rumble of distant thunder as the storm began to gather itself.

Her lips curled in a wry chuckle, "Taranis would have liked this place."

Rain began to fall around her; biting, icy and chill - but she paid it no mind. She did not feel the cold, and though the bitter wind tugged at her worn garb it caused her no discomfort.

She stared at that line of bleak columns for a long time, eyes unblinking, like one that was more than half statue herself.

A great peal of thunder finally roused her, and with a sniff, she tapped the end of her cudgel upon the stone at her feet, and looking out at the pillars, she spoke but a single word, "Awaken."

The sirens scattered as the skies darkened, and the moaning of the wind turned instantly into a howling shriek. Waves, each one a mountain, crashed as sea-spray and rain battered the coast, and from deep in the earth there came a grinding subterranean rumble.

Raising her chin, she drew a breath and tapped her walking stick upon the ground once more, her voice and her will hardening, "Awaken, I say!"

The immense crack of thunder that followed was beyond deafening, shaking even the distant summits, and the furious violence of the thunderbolts that forked down from the boiling tempest above was staggering. They lit the coast for miles in every direction and turned whatever they touched instantly to seared glass.

Brilliant forks of radiant fire flashed from the heavens, touching each of the pillars, instantly blasting them apart in thunderous explosions of shrapnel. Jagged shards of smoking ruin rained all about, like some demented shower of smouldering meteors. Fragments whipped past, bouncing and clattering off the granite surface of the island in a vicious hail, several narrowly missing her. One all but tugged at her hair, and she chuckled, before waving her hand again, "Enough."

The storm reluctantly abated, grumbling and intemperate, and she wiped the salt and spray from her eyes as she looked out to see what her efforts had revealed.

They were giants. That much was true enough. But they were not Fomorians.

The tallest of them stood more than forty feet high and they wore hauberks of leather and bronze that left their limbs bare. Their legs were like mighty tree-trunks and their arms corded with muscle. Long and flaxen was their hair, wild and windswept; while their beards were plaited in the ancient way of warriors. The mighty claymores they bore were as long as the giants were tall, engraved with fel runes running their length, and with blades that looked both deadly, and well used.

Tall and proud they were, many with tattoos of woad that spoke of their courage and martial prowess.

But it was their eyes that marked them.

They burned like gleaming chips of blue ice, cold and clear, and even now that last bit of lightning flickered and crackled over them, running down their swords and causing the edges of razor-sharp steel to gleam. No, these were not Fomorians.

They were Storm Giants.

The tallest among them lifted his face to the heavens, taking a great shuddering breath as the rain whipped around him. Thrusting his blade aloft he gave a great bellow, and the tempest gave answer. Then he turned his wintry gaze upon the Crone and his eyes flashed like frozen gemstones.

"You!"

...

She remembered. She remembered like it was yesterday, which, given the long measure of her years, was more depressingly true than she cared to admit. For ten years, or ten thousand was all the same to her. Such was the curse of immortality...

When the Danu first had come to this realm, they did what they always did; they meddled.

That the land was already occupied did not dissuade them, for the Danu were a haughty and willful folk, both prideful and arrogant almost beyond measure. Not for them was thoughts of walking softly, or concern for the sensibilities of their neighbours. The Danu were, as they always had been, a law unto themselves, and it was for others to give way. That or be trampled underfoot, for they were not a forgiving people.

The Fomorians were a tribe of giants. Where had they come from? None knew; perhaps from deep within the earth, perhaps from under the sea. But they were a mighty folk, possessed of great magics and great cunning, and for an age they had set their mark upon the land. They conjured daemons and elementals as servants and carved the very stones to build their citadels. Worshipped nigh as dark Gods they demanded tribute and slaves from all the tribes around them, and fearing their wrath, the other mortal races paid the tithe, and they paid gladly.

The Danu, of course, simply ignored them.

The Storm Giants responded... otherwise.

Storm Giants were considered fairest among the Jötunn, and they were the strongest and longest lived of all the giant kin, but they were never many. Hardly peaceful, they were a warlike clan who prized valour and strength at arms. They were notoriously stand-offish and proud, but even so, it was not unknown for them to host the skalds and bards of other races. For they also loved stories of battle and bravery, and any with courage enough, and a decent tale to tell, might find themselves well rewarded if they dared travel to the halls of the mountain kings.

Of course, it was also not unknown for those same bards to be hurled from the nearest peak, should they outstay their welcome, or otherwise prove a bore.

Truth be told, in guise of giant or crow, she herself had, at times, ventured to those halls, there to sit by their fires and listen to the sagas; or perhaps even to share a horn of mead should the fancy take her.

But, when the Fomorians demanded wives as tribute, they refused, mounting the heads of the emissaries upon pikes, and sending their tongues back in answer for such insult.

The war that followed was bitter and brutal. With giant pitted against giant in a blood feud that lasted many long winters.

No Fomorian, not even their strongest, could hope to stand against the terrifying might of a storm giant in single combat, but they outnumbered their cousins ten to one and more, and with magical fire they melted the walls of the ice castles and drove their kin ever further into the mountains.

Time and again the storm giants rallied, but for each host they defeated a greater one would appear. Finally, harried and hounded almost to the last by a seemingly endless sea of foes they called upon the Danu for aid.

Of all her kind, only she responded. The others did not care. The giants did not pray to them; they made no offerings and lit no fires in their honour. Besides, the Danu had their own distractions and diversions, and they paid no heed to such things, thinking them for the most part mundane and beneath their concern.

But she had shared mead with them, though they knew it not.

So, in secret, she had offered her protection. But, of course, being who and what she was, she first extorted a price for her aid.

The storm giants may have been proud, but by then they were desperate, and so they agreed, swearing to answer if she called. The pact thus sealed, she had stood upon this very crag as she weaved her spell. The giants, now only a handful, thought she would hide them in the mist.

Instead, she turned them to stone.

Long years passed. The land changed, Dragons took to the skies, the Elves arrived in their ships, and even the great conflict between Danu and Fomorian came and went.

Eventually, the war of giants was all but forgotten, lost, like their once-mighty halls, in the mists of time, and remembered only in legend.

But she did not forget.

Snarling, the storm giants surged through the surf towards her, teeth bared, swords held at the ready, and as they advanced the temperature fell and rain turned to sleet.

She glanced about at the change in weather but otherwise paid it little mind.

The tallest of the creatures stepped onto the isle, sword gripped in his hands as though he had a mind to split her in twain.

With a grin, she glanced up and shook her head, "I wouldn't."

Levelling the blade of his claymore at her, the monster roared, "You tricked us!"

She shrugged, "And?"

Lightning flickered along the steel as the giant's rage mounted, "You betrayed us!"

"How so?"

The creature hissed, "You swore to shield us from our enemies. Instead, you entombed us in living stone. What is that, if not betrayal?"

She nodded, "That I did, and a fine shield it was. For did it not protect and hide you? Did it not do all the things I promised? Are you not now standing before me, living and unharmed?"

"But..."

Shaking her head, she sat herself upon a rock, wrapping her worn garb about her as she looked up at the warrior, "Did you think I would cast you into the mist? It would have driven you mad and would have been your doom. You did not deserve such a fate. This way was better."

The creature slumped, "Did any others of my kin survive?"

With a sigh, the Crone looked back at him, and her voice was not unkind, "A few, a very few, those who fled, those who hid. Your people survive, but they are not as they once were, for time has not been kind to them."

His voice was like an echo from a tomb, "Then we are doomed..."

She made a wry sound, "Aren't we all?"

The giant raised his eyes, "Even you?"

"Especially me."

Looking out across the sea, he was still for a moment before turning back to her, "I hear your own kin have abandoned you."

"You heard that, did you?"

"Even slumbering and entombed in stone, we are children of the storm, and so the winds still whispered to us."

She shrugged, "Aye, well, we had a bit of a falling out, let's say."

It was his turn to make a wry snort, "I cannot imagine how such a thing could come to pass with you being so sweet and biddable as you are."

Her eyes darkened, "Careful, giant."

"Oh, spare me. What will you do? Turn us back into stone?"

Meeting his gaze, her smile was distinctly ominous, "There are worse things."

He snorted, "Fine, then tell me; why have you awoken us?"

"I have need of you."

"What need?"

She rose from her seat and looked up at him, "Your ancient enemies of old have returned."

There was a hungry murmur from the other giants and his gaze sharpened, "The Fomorians?"

"Aye."

He sniffed, but even as he looked away in feigned disinterest, she could see how he tightened the grip on his sword, and the darkening of the stormclouds overhead gave ample clue as to his mood. Still, "Why do you need us? Turn them to stone and be done with them."

Her lips thinned, and her expression became distinctly bleak, "I don't like them well enough to make such an effort. Besides, methinks there is no enchantment I could cast upon them that my foe could not, in time, eventually undo. So, this needs to be done the old-fashioned way; done with sword, steel and fire. Instead of driving them into the sea as my kind once did, I shall drive them into the barrow, there to stay entombed in death for good and all."

With a flash of teeth, he grinned, "I most readily approve. Kill them all and keep their heads as trophies - 'tis the only way to be sure. But you are The Morrigu; Goddess of War and Fate. What need have you for us?"

Again, she shrugged, "I can be in three places at once, but not four. So, you shall go where I am not and do bloody war to those who would have us as foes."

With a sly smile he gave her a knowing glance, "To the siege?"

"You know of that?"

"Aye, the winds. They whispere..."

She waved his words aside with an impatient sigh, "Indeed. Quite the chatterboxes these talkative zephyrs. But no. There are others who have that matter in hand. I would see you stand elsewhere. What say you?"

The towering creature shook his head, "No."

She blinked and took a step closer. And if the weather was cold before, it was nothing to the chill now radiating from her, "No, you say? No? You would break faith with me ?"

Breath turning to frozen mist, the giant growled as frost formed on his eyebrows and beard, "Not gladly, and not by choice. But I have other oaths I must keep, other duties to attend to. And they come before even my word to you."

Tilting her head slightly, she paused, "What oaths?"

With a gesture, he waved his kin aside and pointed, "Just this."

She stood but half his height, dressed in a woolen kirtle, with a plaid scarf tied around her waist and a heavy fur cloak over her shoulders. Her face showed she was young, but her eyes were watching intently as matters played out. And in her hand she clutched a well-crafted sgian-dubh, that was a dagger to her but would have been as long and deadly as any broadsword in other hands.

The child's eyes were fixed on her, and there was no fear in that look. Instead, her lips curled in an expression of profound disapproval. The Crone grinned at her impudence, "I like her already."

"And who is this?"

The warrior made to answer, but before he could, the girl stepped forward with a furious scowl, "I am Freydis, daughter of Rungir! And if I were a shieldmaiden, I would split you from crown to cunny for what you did to us, witch!"

The Crone's smile widened in delight, "is that so?"

"Aye!"

Mayhap with something of a proud grin of his own, the giant warrior stepped between them, "She has her father's courage, and her mother's temper. But my Jarl bid us shield her to the very end, for she is the last of her line. It was his final command to us as he led what was left of our fyrd to battle, and as his loyal húskarls, we are honourbound to obey."

Nodding, the Crone scratched her chin, her own expression now distinctly furtive, "Fair enough, I can understand your reluctance, for such a charge is no small thing. But your oath to me was fairly made and fairly honoured. Thus, it still stands unfulfilled, for I upheld my side of the bargain. Or would you contest that?"

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