Page 47 of Rise of the Morrigan

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It was supposedto be a joyous occasion, and for the most part, it was. The marriage of Cú Chulainn and Emer, the daughter of Ulster's fallen hero.

Forgall had simply fallen from his fortress walls while trying to clean a bird's nest from one of the turrets. A tragic accident...

That's what Emer had told everyone, anyway. If she told them the truth that someone with the ríastrad had done it, and they believed her that it was not Cú Chulainn, the people would expect him to avenge her father's death. And since Aife was the mother of his child such calls for vengeance would put him in an impossible predicament. Cú Chulainn appreciated that Emer understood him so well she did not demand vengeance against Aife... she was a better woman than Aife ever was.

Cú Chulainn didn't want revenge. What had happened to Forgall was a greater punishment than Forgall's sin demanded. And Cú Chulainn still blamed himself for it... after all, he'd agreed with Aife, he knew her temperament. Why had he been so foolish to trust she could exercise restraint?

"That damn raven," Cú Chulainn whispered. The bird hadn't stopped cawing since the ceremony began.

"Just ignore it," Emer said.

He wanted to. If it were any old bird he might have been able to. But Cú Chulainn had seen this raven before. At least he'd seen one that looked exactly like it. It had perched itself on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear before it vanished into thin air. And now, to show up to interrupt his wedding to Emer? A coincidence? The appearance of a raven was something of a trope in many of the tales Cú Chulainn had learned during his training. Almost always an ill-omen, not the sort of thing one wishes to appear at his wedding. Especially not after the last time he'd seen a raven...

"The marriage of a man and a woman," one of the local druids who'd been brought in for the ceremony began... Cú Chulainn had heard this sort of speech before. How the cycle of death to life is reflected in all things. How as the seasons turn the earth itself testifies to the pattern of our own lives. How if we embrace the cycle we'll find ourselves attuned to the earth, contented in life, and in harmony with one another. It was all true enough. But Cú Chulainn struggled to hear the druid speak on account of the damned raven.

"Focus, my love," Emer urged.

Cú Chulainn nodded. This was supposed to be a solemn occasion. A cause to celebrate. His bride should have arrested his attention. She was beautiful. He'd longed for her ever since the moment he first saw her. Did he love her? He thought he did. What was love supposed to be, anyway? It wasn't at all like what he'd found in the tales he'd learned as a bard. Such tales, as noble as they might be, are meant to inspire and encourage. The conformity of a tale to facts, to real life, is secondary. For a tale isn't told for the sake of the past. A tale is told that those who hear it might be enriched by it.

No sooner did the druid finish her speech and with the branch of a mighty oak consecrate the marriage did a shout come from the city walls.

"An army approaches from the south!"

Cú Chulainn squeezed his bride's hands as he held them. "The other warrior can handle this. This is our day."

Emer shook her head. "No, husband. You are Ulster's greatest and noblest warrior. The lives that will be lost if you do not fight... I do not want our wedding night to be stained with blood!"

Cú Chulainn sighed. "Very well. I will make short order of this army... and I will return that we might consummate our marriage before the sun rises on the morrow."

"Promise?" Emer asked, smiling at her husband.

"With all that I am."

Cú Chulainn gave Emer a quick, but passionate kiss, as he shed his robes and mounted a horse that had been readied for him only seconds after the lookout had sited the approaching army. The armorer tossed Cú Chulainn his spear and he grabbed it in his hand before charging out the city gates.

How long had it been before anyone daredattackUlster? Sure, King Conchobar had led armies against foes all across the isles but never had an enemy been so bold as to march upon Ulster itself.

No matter, Cú Chulainn gave his horse a quick kick sending it into a gallop. If he got there ahead of the rest of the Ulster's warriors he hoped his presence might thwart a clash of arms. The best way to achieve a victory is to prevent bloodshed from the start... at least that's what he'd always been told.

Cú Chulainn crashed through the front lines—this wasn't an experienced army, what made them so bold as to wage a war on Ulster? Reaching deep into his will Cú Chulainn called upon the ríastrad. The wolf responded obediently and came to the fore.

With the ríastrad invigorating his frame, Cú Chulainn leaped from his horse and with a single swipe from the blunt end of his spear took out a row of five soldiers.

He hadn't killed them.

Probably knocked them out.

He didn't want any more soldiers to die than was necessary. Frighten them enough so they will retreat in horror... war is a dreadful thing, it leaves children without fathers and, sometimes, without mothers, too. He wouldn't wish such a fate on his worst enemies.

Indeed, many brutes conquered armies by the sharp end of their spears or the sharp edge of their blades. But if Cú Chulainn was destined to be a warrior he intended to be a hero. What if he could conquer an army without shedding blood?

Cú Chulainn twirled his staff overhead as the soldiers, jaws dropped, stepped back away from him.

A shock struck Cú Chulainn's body. He went into convulsions...

A man in a black robe and hood appeared—he was channeling lightning from the end of his staff, which he gripped tightly with both hands.

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