By Mair Riley-Jones

I hate Kol Kathrac

Morgan thought she might never think anything else again. The heat, the dust, the gods-forsaken undead, the bloody Drunes. It was like the powers-that-be had thrown a dart at a map and gone “That, that place is the arsehole of the world now”. 

“I need a corporeal weapon over here now!”

‘Of course you do.’ Morgan thought. The undead she’d been fighting crumpled to the ground. Nothing else but the spiritual and corporeal weapons on the field seemed to be cutting through these fucking zombies. 

At least most of the family should be okay.

But she hadn’t seen any of them for a while now. Everyone around her seemed to be a Lion or an Algaian, all screaming for imbued weapons or healing.

A spear caught her in the cheek. ‘Focus up, Morgan. You’re not dying here. There’s a glorious hunt out there waiting for you somewhere. You and that beast you’ve been trailing for days will take each other down, and you’ll take your eternal place at Cernunnos’ side. Don’t die here.’

The ground trembled. 

Shit. Lorcan joked about burning the city to the ground after they left, but she didn’t think the place would literally fall apart around them. People looked fearfully up at the tall, stone buildings and structures. Fissures appeared in the stonework. Small pieces of rock chipped and rained down on people as they fought off the waves of undead bearing down on them.

Her shoulder was bumped, three people ran past carrying an Algaian. Instinctively she reached out, feeling the warmth of the lesser healing spell gathering in her palm. “What can I do?” Then she looked, actually looked at the poor Algaian. One of the Spears. Quite new to the warhost. Face smeared with blood, the warmth gone from her skin. Dead. Morgan dropped her hand, the spell dissipating, palm cooling. They lay the body down in the shade of a tree and ran back into the crowd. 

A flash of red. The sound of rotting bones crunching and a familiar roar. Garruk. Morgan followed her cousin back into the fray. A towering creature looked over them both. Someone had strapped armour to the walking corpse, the thing stank, bits of pale flesh were torn and hanging off its body. There was malice in its eyes. ‘How can a dead thing feel hate?’ Then she realised. It wasn’t look at her or Garruk. The blown out pupils were fixed in the spear and the axe. ‘At least we can hurt it.’ Cernunnos’ spear seemed to hum in her hand. Return it to the cycle.

Garruk lunged. Axe cracking the plate on the things chest. It lunged back. Missed. Morgan thrust the spear into its ribs. Pus and rot oozed out of the cut. It swung at her. She jumped back and the sword hit someone else. It cut through their armour like butter and they screamed. Garruk hit again, Morgan stabbed at its other side. Like the dances they did on the hunt. ‘Don’t let it hit you, it moves you move.’ The thing fell. A strangled gasp leaving a dry, chapped mouth. Garruk nodded to her, then he was gone again.

Morgan turned again, listening for shouts in need of corporeal weapons. She locked eyes with one of the Lions. A short scream. The cracking of bones and gurgling of blood. And then they were gone. 

Another rock fell onto some of the undead nearby. Arms still weakly moved from underneath it, waving the weapons they clung to, scratching at the ground. 

People moved to the trees. Shields were raised. People snatched and scampered for places beneath them. Morgan couldn’t move. The city was going to collapse on top of them. She was never going to see Irial again. The Spear would be lost with her under all this rock. Driscol, Lorcan, Aggy, Maddock, Rabalyan, Mason, all of them. 

She was throwing leaves at Malcolm McFergus outside the ritual circle. Using her powers of hiding in plain sight to jump out at Driscol and almost get shivved. She was holding Auntie Drew for the first and last time and crying into her shoulder. Hugging Rhiannon before the battle and ordering her not to die. She saw Eric’s pale face as he lay cold and dead in Lugh’s gaze, less than a month ago.

Fuck this city.

A Shade appeared in front of her. No eyes but it seemed to be looking at her. The blast of cold, spiritual magic seared through her. It felt like and icy hand grasping her heart and squeezing. She wanted to drop but held her footing, and ran further into the crowd. Stab that zombie. You can help kill this big thing. Dodge that rock. They’re gone, you can’t save them. You can’t save any of them.

“The doors are open!” 

“We can go!”

“Lets get the fuck out of here!”

Like a wave the battlefield turned. Moths to the flame that was the way out of this hideous place. Rocks continued to rain down on the warhost. People screamed and fell. Some were picked up, some were left behind. The walls collapsed onto each other, chasing them out of Kol Kathrac for the last time. 

She crested the hill, saw the baggage train and the desert. Through the gate. Sun beating down on her skin. Fell to her knees. The acrid taste of vomit coated her mouth as she emptied her stomach onto the ground. Hands on her shoulders. “Morgan, Morgan! Come on look at me! Are you okay?” Cad MacCormacc was kneeling in front of her. Searching her face for signs of injury.

“We left people behind, Cad.” 

He looked resigned, he couldn’t save them all either. 

Mason was next to her then, helping lift her up off her knees, putting the spear back in her hand. The black eye painted in woad on his forehead was running with sweat. It looked like it was crying.

The city was still collapsing in on itself. Stone crashed like thunder. The groans of the undead, that horrible swirling sky above the city. People poured out of the gates. 

“Oh gods, Lorcan, the Moon Sword.”

She couldn’t see it over the crowd, the familiar silhouette gleaming in the sun. Where was he?

She grasped Cad and Mason. “We have to wait for him, we can go back for him if we have to.” They nodded. 

More of the family trickled past. All variously bloodied. All staying to watch out for their cousin. She tried to summon her corporeal magics but felt only exhaustion. Driscol looked down at her, seeing the effort, he put a hand on her shoulder, he wasn’t magically exhausted just yet. 

The wreckage moved closer. People were being carried away from the falling city. Then she saw him. The last man in Kol Kathrac, her stupid, brave cousin, Lorcan.

His breastplate was completely concave from a falling stone. Blood staining his mouth and face. Woad smeared and ruined and the Moon Sword clenched weakly in his grip. Maddock had his arms under his back, Keane holding his legs, two more helping and trying to heal him. They threw him onto a cart and she heard his ribs snap back into place with a sickening crack. He’d be okay. 

She looked round. Sweat dripped down her face in the Siberian desert sun. She’d made it.

All the Maccormacs had made it.

Her eyes fell on a hand sticking out from under the rubble. So close. She felt sick again.

‘Gods I hate Kol Kathrac.’