The Stolen Throne

Prologus

Prologus

Howling wind and the dead raced among the naked, black trees of a distant forest. There was fear among those shades that lingered there on that moonless night. They cowered behind trunk and boulder, their liquid eyes watching for her, that goddess of death, the dread queen of night.

Dull brown leaves crackled, and the cawing of ravens followed, heralding her arrival. Bare feet, pale as death, trod the forest floor, trailed by a torn black cloak.

She had arrived, and the dead knew it, but so did the living, for unbeknownst to them, the nightmares they had that night were the seedlings of her passing, the fears they felt, the horrors they imagined. All of them were hers.

She walked toward a green firelight in a clearing, and there she found her hunter, sitting erect before the flames, sharpening a long, black sword that had seen more than its fair share of blood on the hunt.

“You prepare for the Wild Hunt then?” her voice was icy, but did not bother him, for he knew her and she him, and so it had been for ages.

“Yes. Samhain approaches, and the hordes of the dead must ride through the world with havoc and fear.”

“And so it is,” she said, staring at him so intensely that his head turned quickly to meet her gaze. “You prey on the weak and vulnerable.”

“Yes. As always,” the hunter said.

“I have a prey for you that needs killing,” she said.

“Oh?” he said, standing up, taller than her but radiating nowhere near the menace she had. He bowed to her. “What prey?”

“A dragon.”

“I’ve slain dragons before, and tamed them.”

“Not such as this,” she said, her eyes looking up to the sharp, dark clouds in the night sky above. “I want him to suffer…I want him dead.”

“When?”

“In time.”

“Where?” he asked.

“I will let you know,” she answered, her gaze insisting on silence.

The hunter felt a chill run the length of his strong body. “As you command, Morrigan.”

“Yes.”

In the treetops above, the silhouettes of a hundred ravens showed against the pale sky, as if already gathered for the gorging.

“Get to Dumnonia, and wait. There will you hunt,” she said, her eyes closed as if seeing something from afar. “Go now!”

The hunter bowed to her and moved backward from the green flames of his fire to find his shadow horse. He leapt up and looked down at the dark goddess.

“I’ll await your messengers,” he said, before raising a hunting horn to his mouth and blowing. The sound shook the trees about them and sent the ravens to flight, and a moment later the hunter was riding away through the darkness of the woods, followed by three monstrous, black hounds.

The Morrigan watched him leave and smiled to herself, glad of the darkness wrapped about her.

“The time of death is near…”