“None of the Six Schools of magic can manipulate flesh. White mages may heal wounds and cure ailments, but the flesh itself is never manipulated directly. If the troll’s flesh has been petrified, then it cannot be moved. However, if the troll has turned into stone—normal stone—then it could be done.”

The mage was rambling, but Morrígan was enthralled by his words. The first soldier, who had been nodding away as Berrían spoke, added his own pair of coppers.

“We certainly won’t be able to carry it away,” he said, “but we might be able to throw it off the cliff, if we’re near enough. I wouldn’t be surprised if Eodadh let us give it a shot. We’ve little else to be doing here anyway.”

Berrían scolded the first mage, and then assured Morrígan that the entire battalion was busy protecting the village from harm.

“We’ll ask Colonel Eodadh if we can spare some mages to take care of the troll for you.”

“Thank you, sirs,” said Morrígan. “Your kindness is beyond measure. If you’ll excuse me.”

She crossed the Square again, weaving between the dancing men and women, and eyeing those sitting along the cobblestone curb, drowning out the band’s music with their own slurred verses.

Morrígan tried to picture her mother dancing with the others, but she was having trouble conjuring the image. Sometimes she forgot that her mother was dead and had to remind herself that she was never coming back. But on rarer days, she found it hard to imagine what her mother even looked like, as if she were trying to recall a vivid dream fading from memory as morning turned to noon.

Nothing had really been said about her father on the day he left them for dead, but Morrígan couldn’t bring herself to care. “The king is planning on raising taxes,” he had said the morning they had set out to work on the farm before dawn. “We’ll need to open the stall before the greengrocers do.”

That morning, Morrígan’s mother had another black eye.

She would always start an argument whenever Father came home drunk, but he’d always be the one to finish it.

She turned towards the High Road, away from the festivities, and the band played on.

One month… one month and they’ve already forgotten.

She made her way up the dark, barren path towards the chapel.

I haven’t forgotten, Mother. I’ll never forget.

The rusted iron gate to Roseán’s graveyard was left slightly ajar. Morrígan had been visiting her mother’s grave every night, but she rarely saw anyone else pay their own respects.

They make such a big deal out of it all, the funeral, the burial, but afterwards, they leave their grief with the dead.

The path twisted through rows of weathered tombstones. One had a statue of St. Moira—the patron saint of hunting—at its head. Her features had been completely worn down to the vague shape of a Human face, and a layer of moss had wrapped itself around the inside of her longbow. The words on the stone were far from legible. The Reilighs were a family of hunters who lived just outside the village, but Morrígan doubted the grave could belong to one of them; stone statues were awfully expensive.

Some gravestones were better kept than others, but some looked as if they never had anything written on them at all. Many were overgrown with grey, twisting weeds, and Morrígan had troubling imagining that once they would have been surrounded by flowers.

Eventually, she came to her mother’s resting place. Unlike the others, this one faced away from the graveyard, out over the High Road and festivities in the Square. Morrígan could still hear the faint sounds of singing and laughter.

She knelt before the grave. Still relatively new, Morrígan had been making sure it wouldn’t fall to neglect like the others. And she was proud of it. The flowers had been handpicked and arranged by Morrígan herself, and Mrs. Natháin the mason had advised her on the best stones and rocks to use. Tiny white pebbles were spread out along the surface, with blue and white flower petals dotted around the edges.

The tombstone itself was inscribed with words far clearer than the others:

“Aoife Ní Branna. Beloved mother, wife, and friend. She lived and died in the Light of the Lady, AC 360-403, and shall now live forever in the plains of Tierna Meal.”

The Light of the Lady…. If she lived and died by the fate weaved by Lady Meadhbh, that’s hardly worth celebrating. Why would her path lead to death? Why would we be destined for nothing but sorrow?

She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. What’s the point? What’s the point in living if the Gods can just send a troll from the Glenn to take it all away?

The Pyromancer’s face flashed before her, his eyes laced with something between fear and sorrow as it had been earlier that day. For a moment, Morrígan hated him. After leading the beast that killed her mother to the village, the least he could do was explain why he did it.

She shook the image from her head and reached out to touch the words on the stone, leaning on one hand on the surface of the grave. When she shifted her weight, however, she felt something crumble softly underneath. She shrieked and recoiled.

It’s happening again.

Carefully, she crouched down to bring the stones to eye-level. Where she had placed her hand, the ground had sunk slightly, causing some of the pebbles to roll inwards towards the inundation.

A slow terror began to rise in her chest. She remembered how the soil had shifted on the day of her mother’s burial, how it had led her to believe her mother was somehow still alive. Now, her mind turned towards another more realistic, sinister revelation.

Someone was here. Someone has been tampering with—

Before she could finish that thought, a cacophonic chorus of crows tore through the silence. Looking up, she saw a cloud of birds dissipating into the crimson moonlit sky. She scanned the surrounding area, searching for whatever it was that may have startled them.

She slowly walked past the grave, towards the ledge that led down into the village. Both her hands were balled into fists, ready for whomever, or whatever, was beyond.

Then, in the corner of Morrígan’s eye, she saw something shift and vanish along the road below. She squinted through the darkness. A second dark shape darted down the road, every bit as silent as the first. Her eyes followed the winding path as more things made their way towards the Square. One shape caught the light of the moon, illuminating a creature she had seen many times before, on the mural of her local tavern: a long, feathered neck, stubs of wings folded over its back, and a rounded, black beak.

Beadhbhs!

She spun on her heels and darted towards the Square.

As the gravestones and statues rushed past her, Morrígan’s gaze remained fixated on the thin line of smoke spiralling up into the sky. Following the High Road back to the Square would take too long. She could save time by cutting through the hedgerows.

I’ll warn them. The battlemages, they’ll hear my voice before they see the beadhbhs.

She rushed to cross the road but froze as four more beadhbhs came stalking through the darkness, close enough to touch. Their bodies were as black as the night that engulfed them, but the harvest moon gleamed off crimson eyes. None seemed to notice Morrígan, standing in the middle of the path, even as they brushed her cloak.

Once they passed, Morrígan darted to the hedgerows and pushed her way through towards the rising smoke. Some of her footsteps found moist, muddy terrain, but she didn’t slow.

When she emerged, she found herself on a lower part of the High Road, looking right down over the Square. The musicians had taken a break between songs, and most of the revellers had stopped to refill their tankards. Two Pyromancers stood with their backs to Morrígan, facing the open bonfire.

“Beadhbhs!” she screamed. “Coming down the High Road!”

The two mages reacted without turning towards her. One made a complicated gesture towards another group standing guard by the inn.

“Colonel!” called the other. “Beadhbhs!”

At the same time, a dozen black birds charged into the Square. They shrieked and screamed as the villagers tried to flee, but more birds came pouring in from all directions. They moved with startling efficiency in groups of two or three. A pair of beadhbhs struck down one man, and for a full second, all Morrígan could hear was the sound of their talons slicing through his flesh. Terror tore through her body, freezing her limbs and bringing water to her eyes. No matter how hard she tried, she could not run.

But the mages made no move to flee. A proud, strong command tore through the chaos. Amongst the unfolding massacre, eight red mages formed together in a row behind the bonfire. In unison, the mages roared a single, unintelligible word, and the bonfire split into three streams of flames. Each stream found a feathered target. Even as the birds burned, the fires never crackled or swayed. Instead, they rolled smoothly around the black bodies as they fell.

Colonel Eodadh stood before a group of blue-robed mages, who shuffled into position near the well. The colonel called out another strange command in a language Morrígan didn’t understand.

The silent Hydromancers gestured towards a pair of beadhbhs chasing down a young man on the other side of the Square. With a flick of the mages’ wrists, long shards of ice erupted from their hands and shot towards the birds like spears.

Morrígan found her courage and made a break for it. Two more beadhbhs appeared on a roof over her head, but as they jumped, a howling wind cast them off in another direction.

“Run!” yelled a mage dressed in grey. With a sweeping gesture, he sent another pair of beadhbhs flying.