Last Flight of the Eagle

The Last Flight of the Eagle

Scatha stood alone under the moonlight, it's silver picking out glittering highlights in her glossy black hair. Dressed, as always, in her soft black buckskin shirt and leather trousers, with gleaming panels of the lightest steel, enamelled black and patterned with an outspread kestrels wings across her chest. Her scabbard-less sword flashed as she paced a few steps to lean with her arms crossed under one of the tall white birch. A hawks plumed head on the panel of her wristguard flared briefly in the soft silver light.

He appeared a few moments later, dressed in a white that shimmered as he moved, with his cloak of deep moss green thrown open, but hanging still in the breezeless night. His soft, silver hair shone brightly in the moons light. She stood up straighter, putting her hand on her sword hilt, inclining her head to greet him. Between them many things were silently said by subtle glances, then Iolair broke the silence.

"A nest of banshee is close to our borders, in the town of Strathether. We cannot suffer them to remain, but take caution Scatha, for their vicious magic is mighty and foul,"

"I know this Iolair, I am prepared," Scatha replied calmly.

They gazed then at each other, searching the others eyes to know fully the strength of their hearts. Then they parted as Darkfire and Starlight came upon them, saddled and ready for travel. Mounting up lightly, they rode silently away together.

Hazel watched them from the branches of a tree, and heard the beginning of a bitter lament form in her mind.

"Though I would not wish it, the Banshee could draw from me that you are here. This is very dangerous my Lord and Lady, they are three of the foulest sisters of their kind, their voices freeze my heart!" The innkeeper told them as he let them in by the back door of Strathether's biggest inn. The man could not refuse them, for the Danann of Glaen a Cridhe, though few of those who did not live there knew exactly where it was, were revered in the surrounding area, and gave healing and aid to any who needed it. The Danann are blessed, even though the Wild Hunt pursues them, and the free Danann are more blessed still, for they give men the courage to fight for their freedom against the Wild Hunt and it's minions.

"We shall not trouble you long, goodman. Our business here is with the Beansidhe. We must first hear what we can of them from you," Iolair explained to the obviously frightened man.

The innkeeper lead them then to a quiet room with a raring fire and bade them rest while he fetched some food for them.

"I feel their taint, it hangs in the air like a fog all round this town," Scatha said softly when they were alone. She stood before the fireplace, gazing into the flames as she spoke. Iolair sat in a high backed chair, his fingers steepled below his chin, deep in his thoughts.

"There is little hope that they will not sense our presence," she continued, " We should not delay long here, or they will come down upon us in the midst of all these people,"

Iolair halted then in his speech, for a young serving maid entered the room carrying a tray. She laid the tray by the hearth and curtseyed to them. She turned to leave, but then stayed hovering in the doorway.

"We do not need anything further my dear," Iolair said with a smile, " You may go,"

"Begging your pardon sir, but I am sorry if I might stare at you. I never thought I would see Danann, so when I heard you were hear I begged Master Tomlins to let me serve you," she said, in what seemed to be an embarrassed rush.

Scatha felt a light prickle on her skin, and she could hear an edge to the girls voice that made her feel uneasy. She glanced at Iolair from inside her hood, and caught his green eyes, he felt as she did for she could see that in them.

Scatha walked calmly round behind the girl and closed the door, quietly but firmly. Even as it clicked shut, she could sense that Iolair had begun to chant a charm though he spoke so quietly that he could not be heard and a soft glow grew about him. The girl looked from Iolair to Scatha, but her face was calm, and her smile did not drop at all. Scatha saw her illusion waver briefly as Iolairs chanting disturbed it, and felt her heart clench as the crooked and hooked profile of the banshee passed over the girls briefly.

"You are the Lord Silvermage and Lady Scatha, I have heard much told of you," she paused, and again Scatha saw the banshees glamour flicker, "But I shall not fear either of you, neither shall my kin, for it is you who we are here to hunt. You are come to tell us of your secret Glean, however you may not wish to!" and her voice was rising now, hinting ever more at her true nature. Her visage of the girl fell away, and she was revealed, a filthy wretched crone of sallow skin and lank hair.

Stubbornly refusing to push back her cowl, Scatha growled and took a pace toward the Banshee, her hand tight on the hilt of her sword, ready to draw.

"Where are your other sisters?" she snarled, " You are alone with us here, hag,"

Even as she spoke she was gathering all her strength to strike, and she could sense the power gathering in Iolair. They had to press home their advantage while they had it, take this one while they could.

"If I were truly alone, Danann, would I have walked in here knowing what you both were ?" She spoke in a rasping hiss, her voice dripping scorn.

Then sudden pain had seared it's way through her, as the Banshee lifted her voice in a howl. Another shriek came from the window, and one from the hallway outside the door, piling on pain that twisted her body and threw black specks into her vision. Almost convulsively she clutched at her sword, but staggered as she drew it. In the corner of her vision she saw Iolair slide from the chair to the ground, his eyes rolling to the top of his head and his face slack with unconsciousness. Rage gave her some balance back and she leapt at the banshee with her sword, roaring, but another scream tore at her senses. She tried to stagger to her feet, but the banshee was drawing breath again and yet another sickening wave of pain gnawed at every part of her, as if the howl was no longer sound but a spell that covered her in pain. She collapsed to her knees and fought with every ounce of her remaining strength to stay conscious. Another banshee walked into her field of vision then, then a third, each carrying a foul stench and resembling each other so closely as to be inseparable. She saw with her eyes them scream a fourth time. As blackness reached out to claim her, Scatha saw Iolair's face a short way from her own, contorted and twisted in agony. She howled, fighting unconsciousness until the very second that the blackness claimed her entirely.

"Scatha!" the scream pulled at the edge of darkness, opening it to fragments of scattered light.

"Scaaaaathaaa!" The fragments of light burned, and she tried as best as she could to get away from them, but the screaming voice burned her even more. It tore at her in fact, and she found herself reaching for it, fending the darkness off.

"Scatha!" With dread and shock, she realised it was Iolair who was screaming. Screaming her name. She thrust herself into the light, accepting the pain as it assailed her She found that she was tied, her hands behind her back, tied to something. It seemed mostly immaterial, but she concentrated herself on remaining motionless. They must not know she had wakened.

"What can she do for you, Danann boy? The more you fight us like this, the more life force you give us," there was something akin to approval in that voice.

Iolair ignored it and screamed again.

"Scatha!!"

Focus came to her, and her eyes sought him in the dingy little room. He was tied across a bed, naked and spreadeagled with each wrist and ankle bound to a different post. He was just a few feet away from her, with all three of the Banshee around him. One of the hags held a knife, which she had already used liberally on him. His chest was slashed many times, and slick with blood, his thighs too. Blood pooled under him which told her his back had been given similar treatment. His hair was slicked to his scalp with sweat.

The other two women held cups in their left hands. The cups were filled to the brim with Iolairs blood, glowing slightly with the light of the Tuatha De Danann. They were bottling up his blood for some dark magic purpose.

Fury boiled in her veins, yet she lay still as she could. In her mind she was running through all the curses and spells that she could think of, searching for the flow of her Art. She realised that somehow a hex had been laid on her to keep her from casting a spell herself. Helpless, she felt terror tear at her heart.

"Scatha!" He screamed again as the woman with the knife made another slash across his chest.

Blinding pain exploded in her head as she tried to push away the hex. Darkness began to well again at the corners of her vision, but still she fought to have some way to reach her Art. Then suddenly the pain came back so powerful that she could not prevent herself from jerking. Yet, luckily, the hags were concentrating on Iolair, and had not noticed her moving. She reached for her Art again, and the pain seared through her again. It was all she could do not to scream her frustration.

There was a loud sob from Iolair then, and Scatha felt panic rising through her.

"He's weakening, finally. The Dark Lady will be very pleased with this haul," one of them women said.

"Scatha," Iolair moaned, his screams finished and most of his strength spent.

She could hold her tongue no more. Anger exploded from inside her.

"Iolair, NO!"

Even as she screamed, she became aware of something she had never felt before, power crackling in the air around her, power that drove the movement of air, power that swirled and spun and electrified. An ancient force, a wild magic that was a raw energy like fire.

She drew at it hungrily, pulling it to her, filling the void left by the absence of her Art, but it felt very different, it felt unstable. In fact it seemed to fizz through her veins, volatile and unpredictable as lightening. The air around her condensed and crackled with static, making every hair on her body stand on end. The hags around the bed turned to look at her, their eyes wide. She turned the Magic towards the hex and the hex shattered like glass. Gasping for breath, she tried to use this raw energy to burn away at the ropes that bound her, but instead a sudden gust of wind leaped up from nowhere, spinning the sparks of static as it passed and ruffling the hair of the Banshees.

Somehow, despite feeling full to the brim of Wild Magic, she managed to draw on her Art to burn through the ropes, but the pain of doing it was blinding. Now she struggled to her feet, thinking hard on what she might do with the power she held to her.

"Murderous carlin, " she spluttered as they stared at her. On the bed she could just hear Iolair mumbling in a low constant voice. She tried to focus on it.

"Wild Magic cannot be used as Art, the body is not a vessel for Wild Magic as it is for Art," this time it was her turn for her eyes to widen, and as soon as she had heard it she let go of the wild magic within her, letting it pool around her. Letting go of the sensation of lightning wriggling through her veins was both relieving and oddly disappointing. She had never felt so powerful, or dangerous. Touching it again for a second, the sensation returned, but in a muted way. But now she realised also that she could once again draw from her Art. As if echoing this thought, Iolair continued.

"Your Art should be used to guide and harness the Wild Magic, for it is too potent to direct by sheer will."

She drew deeply, filling her veins with the golden warmth of her Art. Quickly she tested, weaving her Art around the Wild Magic like a yoke, feeling it become more malleable to her will now.

"Take them alive!" she heard Iolair whisper hoarsely, then suddenly as one, all three hags attacked her.

They screamed, drawing daggers and moving to converge on her. She chanted low under her breath now, twisting and shaping the wild magic, bending it to her will so that she had threads of lightning running through her hair and across her skin. The sound of the hags wailing seemed distant beneath this protection of magic.

The Banshee struck at her with their daggers. Arching streaks of lightning hit each hag along their arms, forcing them to drop their weapons as they screeched their pain. Lightning streaked from Scatha, hitting each reeling Banshee full in the chest and casting them down to the ground.

"Let it go now, Scatha my love," she heard Iolair whisper, his voice weaker than ever.

She staggered over to the bed, and picked up her sword, which one of the banshees had discarded there. Then she started to cut Iolairs bonds.

"I'll heal you, just let me get you off this bed first," she told him, trying to avoid looking at what had been done to him.

"Scatha," his voice came as a faint whisper, but the tone she could not ignore. She looked up into his face, into his blue eyes, "I .. I have no .. more .. strength, love. They took it all,"

It was like walking into a wall, the despair struck her so abruptly that she nearly fell backwards. She gripped the side of the blood-soaked bed to steady herself. Her head felt like she was dangling precariously over a long drop into blackness. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to really look at him, to let herself know that what he said was true.

The mattress was soaked thickly with his blood, a lot of which was congealing. Here and there an old, dried stain from some other person, it made her feel sick, but it also turned much of her shock into anger. Anger at the foul evil of the Beansidhe. Keeping her eyes on him, on the multitude of gaping wounds on his body, she went back to cutting him loose. Blood was no longer pouring from him, but seeping sluggishly. She thrust her sword back into the loop in her belt.

"I won't let you die in this bed," she said with a soft, determined growl. Grimacing, she slid an arm under his neck and one under his knees. He groaned as she lifted him, bringing a fresh round of sweat to his face. She quickly smothered the sharp rise in anger and pity she felt when she discovered how light and frail he felt in her arms. Cradling him close to her chest she headed for the door, which she kicked wide open. Out of the bedroom into the living room, which was small enough for her to cross in a few paces. Finally she thrust open the front door and stepped out into the soft yellow light of a gentle dawn.

Kneeling in the sunlight, she pulled her cloak from her shoulders and draped it over him. Then she held him close, but not tightly, brushing her fingers through his hair, staring into his eyes.

"Scatha, release me," he said only barely moving his lips. His eyes flicked to the sword on her hip.

She knew what he meant, and for the second time in her life, tears sprang into her eyes. But her left hand went to her sword hilt, and she drew it with a shaking hand. As she touched the sword tip to his chest above his heart, her heart almost quailed. She looked down at his face and saw that he was smiling. She bent her head quickly and kissed him, then drew back and stared into his eyes again.

"I love you," she whispered.

He laid his hand lightly on her free hand and mouthed words back at her. I love you, Scatha, always. She gulped convulsively and then caught her breath, biting her lip. Then she drove the sword blade down through the cloth of her cloak and deeply into his heart. The light in his blue eyes went dull and he exhaled in a sigh. Grief threatened to consume her then and there.

It was the thought of how he had clung on to life until she had regained consciousness, the thought of how he had suffered until then, that quickened her to rage. With a sob, she drew her sword out of his body. She carefully laid him out so that the sunlight would cover his face, but then turned back towards the house, dark purpose speeding her steps. Justice could not come quickly enough for the Banshee who had murdered her lover.

Back across the living room in a few angry strides, then she threw the door to the bedroom open again. One of the banshee was struggling to her feet, hauling herself up on the edge of the bed, another was on her side vomiting. The third was still lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with eyes that almost looked dead. For the first time Scatha noticed the stench inside the room, like rotting meat, but now sharpened with the acrid stink of vomit. It almost smelled like a battle field, but in was more clinging in the confines of the small room.

"Come to finish us off, Danann bitch?" the one clinging to the bed spat.

Scatha’s eyes took in the small pile of bottles on the other side of the bed from the one who had spoken, and saw her eyes flick to them hopefully. Scatha smiled at her, bitterly and then lunged across the room, faster than the hag had accounted for. Fear sprang into the hags eyes, and she cowered, moaning. Catching her chin with the swords tip, Scatha looked over the foul crone dispassionately.

"Beg," she said after a moment, coldly. One of the other two sobbed on the floor, but Scatha did not look round. The hag wailed and tottered, falling back against the bed. Tears rolled from her eyes and she spluttered incoherently, but no words came out. Snarling, Scatha spat in her face, then rammed the sword point home. Foul black blood came fountaining out of the hags mouth, mingling with all of Iolairs blood on the bed. Rage boiled higher in Scatha when she saw that and without another glance at the dead hag on the bed, she turned.

The Banshee who had been sick was the one who had attacked the Danann in their room. She looked up at Scatha in wide eyed fear and Scatha curled her top lip up in a sneer.

She took a step towards her and the hag tried desperately to crawl away, but Scatha caught her with the tip of her sword driven into the girls belly. The hag let out blood curdling scream, though in her rage Scatha did not mark it. The scream quickly became a jarring series of shrieks as Scatha began to lift her off the floor by the sword through her gut. Impaled, she slid down the blade of the sword in twisting jerks, blood running along the length of Scatha’s blade and then down along her arm, drenching the Half-Danann. Then Scatha grabbed the hags shoulder and wrenched her sword free, sending the hags body flying across the room. It hit a wall with a crunch and slid down it leaving a trail of blood behind. Her hideous head rolled forward when she came to rest, dead.

Scatha turned again, but the last of the sisters was no longer lying staring at the ceiling. She was on her feet on the far side of the bed, clutching a bottle of blood. The bottle was glowing with a sickly red light and the hag was chanting in a voice like a choking cat. She reached out to draw on her Art, but stopped as the pain again stabbed at her, she was overspent, and then a breath of a moment later staggered as the Banshee's spell struck her. Recovering in a heartbeat, Scatha leaped up onto the bed, towering like a giant over the small creature on the other side. The hag was chanting again, but she was unsteady on her feet and having difficulty. With a flashing backhand movement of her blade, she knocked the bottle out of the hags hand. The Banshee shrieked in a bone chilling voice and dived after them, while Scatha landed lightly on the other side of the bed right behind her. She slashed at the hags back, tearing open her filthy rags and opening a long gash along it's sallow flesh. The hag threw itself prone over the bottle and began chanting once more. With a swift kick Scatha made the hag double up and roll, her head between her arms. Another kick to the wound on her back made the hag open up again, screaming. Her back was arched above the floorboards, her arms at her sides rigid. Scatha kicked the bottle away again, and stood over the woman with her sword raised.

The Banshee looked up at her, and instead of cowering or shying as her sisters had done, she spat. Scatha looked down at her with a grim smile on her lips and then drove the sword down into the hags exposed chest. Instead of screaming this time, the Banshee looked back up at her and grinned, then she spoke.

"Your time is running short, Danann. Soon like all your other kin, you will be our slaves,"

In fury, Scatha twisted her blade and gutted her.

The Bier of Lord Iolair a Tir-Na-Nog was borne back to the Glen of the heart, Lady Warflame walked behind it with her head down. Darkfire and Starlight drew the bier, though cart horses they certainly were not. Both horses trudged forward, their noble heads hanging.

As they entered the Glen, voices were raised in a keen of loss and grief, and Hazel, alone once more among the boughs of a tree, took up the song that she held in her heart.

Scatha lay alone in the darkness of her chamber, her heart cleft in two. She wept silent tears into the night, within a bed that seemed to swallow her in it’s emptiness. Alone, bereft of the one who should fill the countless span of years that she would yet live. Alone, with only vengeance and grief to fill the aching gap. And the terrifying thrill of wild magic in which she could lose herself easily.

Each way she turned or moved, with eyes open of shut, she could sense that ancient, raw power, that linking thread of all living things, and the sight of it sickened her. For not with all of that power at her disposal could she return her lover to her arms.

Her senses were disturbed, the wild magic tumbled and eddied in the face of someone moving softly in her room. Her fingers clenched suddenly at her sword, but then she saw that it was the girl Hazel that approached her bed. Her hair formed a crackling gold halo about her head, her eyes of radiant blue wide and her whole visage shining with the light of Art, in whose flames the Wild Magic danced and played. Lady Scatha had never seen the child thus, and fell back amazed, dropping her sword to the ground.

“My lady, it is only I, Hazel. I come because I can hear the song of pain your heart sings,”

“Nay child, my heart cannot sing, I lost it this day,” the Lady replied, her voice nigh on to breaking with the words.

“Your heart is not lost, but it grieves of a deadly wound. You will die of this as surely as with any deadly wound of the flesh,” the girl spoke in soft and distant tones, for she was deep in her art.

“Then let me die of it, life means nothing to me now,” Scatha replied, her voice as harsh as the agony of her heart.

“Speak not so my Lady, speak not so for this is a balm for your hearts grievances. Let me give you hope of life beyond this dark day,”

The Lady did not reply, so the girl reached forward and took her hand.

“Your beloved Lord found you among the slaves of the hunt and set you free. He took away the bonds of fear that lay on you and gave you a love of freedom that overcame all fears. You became a warrior and like him would risk all you knew to bring that same gift to others. This is the fight that you shared and you knew that to yield that fight before it’s end would be to take on once again the mantle and bonds of slavery. Your beloved Lord would not have his death be your defeat, your enslavement,”

The girl’s words spoke to her soul and she wept to release the pain that crowded her heart. Hazel came and held her as she cried, then sang her into sleep with a lullaby that soothed all her senses.