He had a bit of straw in his hair and she reached up to pull it free. Before she could touch him, his hand clamped around her wrist and his expression grew cold and hard. She sighed. That she remembered all too well.

«Why are you here, Morrígan?» he demanded.

«It is time,» she replied simply.

«Time for what?»

«For you to fulfil your end of our bargain.»

He stared at her blankly for a moment, not comprehending her words. And then a look of understanding crossed his face, followed closely by fear and anger.

«How dare you?» he railed. «How dared you abandon me and then come here and tell me this? You promised»—

«I promised to make you into the greatest warrior not only of your time but of any time. And in return you promised yourself to me at the end of your life. You never asked when the end would come, Cullen.»

«That is unfair, Morrígan,» he accused. «How could I have expected it would be when I was merely thirty-five?»

She looked closely at him. «Thirty-five? Truly? You look so much younger.»

It must be the immortal blood in his veins, she thought. Interesting.

«What has that to do with anything?» he snapped, dragging her thoughts back to the issue at hand.

«It has everything to do with everything,» Morrígan replied. «I need a warrior in his prime, Cullen. If you were to live to be a wizened old man, you would be of no use to me. I do not have the power to turn back time.»

«I would be young again when I enter the Summerlands,» he pointed out.

«Yes, but once you are there I can never bring you back to the human world. I must take you quickly between your death and the afterlife, Cullen. I must turn you into something dead but living, something more than human but not yet a god, something that will confuse the magic that pulls a soul into the Summerlands. It is the only way for you to remain here.»

He scowled at her. «You would make me a monster.»

«No, Cullen. I will make you into something glorious,» Morrígan said vehemently. «I will give you a portion of my godhood, a small bit of my power. I will make you young and strong and beautiful forever, just as I promised. But it must happen soon. I did not mean to spring this on you so suddenly, Cullen. When I saw you. well, the years sometimes pass more quickly than I expect them to. I will give you time to say your goodbyes and get your affairs in order, but you must fulfil your promise by Samhain.»

He looked at her and Morrígan could hardly bear the resentment shining in his eyes. This was not how she had imagined it all those years ago. She had been so certain that, when the time came, he would love her enough to come with her willingly.

«You said you did not come here to take me. Then why are you here?» he asked.

«I came to warn you not to ride out against Medb’s army tomorrow. The sons of Calatin, whom you slayed, have finally sought their vengeance. They have used the darkest of magics to forge an enchanted spear. If you are pierced by it, it will kill you, Cullen. I will gladly grant you more time, but I cannot save you if you go into battle tomorrow.»

He threw back his head and laughed. «I am Cúchulainn. I do not need a woman to save me.»

Morrígan narrowed her eyes. «You arrogant bastard. You are only alive because I wish it! If it weren’t for me you would be nothing more than a common soldier. I made you everything you are and I can take it away just as easily.»

«Then do your worst, Morrígan,» he said fiercely, «for I will not run from this battle or any other.»

Morrígan sighed. She had set out to create a great warrior and she had succeeded. Unfortunately, he also had the ego of one. Well, on the morrow he would learn not to believe all the stories the bards told of him. He was not immortal. Yet.

Ten

The following morning, Emer — and indeed every man, woman, and child Cullen encountered on his way from his chamber to the stables — begged him not to ride against Queen Medb’s army. Obviously Morrígan had been whispering portents of doom in their ears as they slept. His irritation turned to fury when his horse, his faithful Liath who had pulled his chariot in countless battles, would not allow Cullen to harness him.

«Damn her,» Cullen cursed. «Is not even a man’s horse sacred?»

He was in a fine rage by the time he finally got Liath harnessed and drove out to join Conchobar’s army. That is, until he reached the river. What he saw there tempered his anger with fear. It was a sight every warrior dreaded — the Washer at the Ford. The old woman was said to appear to soldiers who were meant to die in battle. The doomed would see her washing their armour in the river. and today she was washing his.

«I know I told you to do your worst, Morrígan,» Cullen called out. «But this is simply petty. It’s worse than causing Emer to be barren.»

The crone transformed herself into the beautiful goddess he knew. «I did nothing of the sort,» she assured him. «Not that I couldn’t, but I didn’t. And I am not being petty. I am the Washer at the Ford. This is my duty as a death deity.»

Cullen snorted in disbelief and drove his chariot through the shallow water to the opposite shore, never looking back.

Morrígan had to admit to herself that she was being a little petty. Perhaps she had gone too far, but the man needed a lesson in humility before she made him immortal. But she didn’t realize it would be so hard for her to watch. Taking the form of a raven Morrígan circled the battlefield, flying high over Medb and Conchobar’s armies. She was a war goddess and normally she enjoyed watching two worthy hosts clash on the field of honour. This once, though, she took no joy in it, for today she would have to see Cullen die.

She spied him, driving his chariot deep into the heart of Medb’s army. The first spear flew through the air and its aim was true; it would strike him. Before she realized what she was doing, Morrígan reacted on instinct, using her power to shift the trajectory of the spear away from Cullen. Instead of hitting him, it pierced Liath’s chest, causing the big horse to stumble and fall.

«Oh damn,» Morrígan cursed, «Cullen loved that beast.»

Above the din of the battle she could hear Cullen’s roar of outrage. It was followed swiftly by a cry of pain as the second spear pierced his side. Morrígan had been a death deity through time immemorial but letting that spear hit its mark was the hardest thing she had ever done. She watched helplessly as Cullen drew the weapon from his body and fell from the chariot.

An eerie silence descended over the battlefield as both armies watched the great warrior struggle to his feet. With one hand over his wound Cullen stumbled forwards, cutting one of the reins from the harness of his dying horse. The soldiers watched as he slowly and painfully made his way to the edge of the field. Once there he fell against a standing stone, blood pouring from his side to pool at his feet. With single-minded determination he took the rein and lashed himself to the stone.

«I am Cúchulainn,» he shouted, «and I will not die on the ground. I will take my last breath standing, as a warrior should.»

A cheer of pride went up from Conchobar’s men but they could not reach Cullen, trapped as they were on the other side of Medb’s army. Morrígan flew down, landing lightly on his shoulder. She rested her raven’s head on his cheek to let him know she was there.

«I’m an arrogant ass,» he whispered, the pain now slurring his words. «But I am now yours, if you’ll still have me.»

Cullen fell unconscious and Morrígan watched as the warrior Lugaid and his men approached. Lugaid had been the one to throw the spears that mortally wounded Cullen and his horse. Morrígan assumed that the gathering crowd of soldiers meant to pay tribute to the defeat of a worthy adversary, but instead Lugaid raised his sword.

«The head of Cúchulainn is mine!» he announced.

As his blade swung towards her lover’s neck, Morrígan revealed her true form. Her mighty sword took Lugaid’s hand off at the wrist before he could complete his gruesome task. Amid his screams of pain Morrígan smiled, taking grim pleasure in her vengeance.

«Cúchulainn is mine,» she hissed to the cowards. «You are not worthy of him.»

Then the goddess wrapped one arm around her warrior and they both disappeared.

Eleven

Morrígan brought Cullen across the Veil to her great castle of Tara. Gently, she removed his clothes and armour and laid him on her bed. He had lost so much blood that his heart was barely beating. It was time. Quickly she raked one fingernail across her wrist, slicing deeply.

«Cullen, listen to me,» she said. «You must drink.»

He opened his mouth and Morrígan’s blood spilled across his lips. Before he could turn away in disgust she forced her wrist between his lips.

«You must take my blood into your body, Cullen,» she repeated urgently. «It is the only way you can live. Please, stay with me.»

He drank and, when he could hold no more, he slept. For three days he lay cold and pale as a corpse in her bed. Morrígan had never attempted such a transformation before and she stayed by his side, hoping that she would not lose him to the Summerlands forever. On the third night he took a gasping breath and sat up, blinking at her in surprise and confusion.

«Liath?» he asked groggily.

Morrígan threw back her head and laughed. Only a man would return from the dead and ask for his horse!

«Liath is here, in my stables,» Morrígan informed him. «I had to beg a favour of my cousin Epona in order to save him. It is not a debt I look forward to repaying.»