The midnight blue walls were awash with the cozy light of the floating candles circling the bed. Shadows thrown by the bedroom's stacks and piles of organized clutter danced across the floor, flickering in time with the lit wicks. The sweet aroma of homemade jaffa cakes lingered in the air. Pyrrha lay wrapped in her blankets, fighting valiantly against the siren call of sleep while she watched her new stuffed dragon fly circles around the room, each flap of its plush wings sending the flames below into a fit of shivers. Her father's voice hummed in her ears.
". . . even more magnificent. She captured the essence of life and remade it within her mind, weaving exquisite new landscapes and creatures born of her imagination. Her tapestries brought the fantastical worlds and people inside her head into reality for all to admire, and they were a sight to behold. Each and every one was like a window into an alien world just out of reach. The beings depicted therein were at once entirely fictional and indicative of true life, able to think and learn and remember and feel. Tesserande's tapestries were far beyond anything this world had ever seen before or since, and the one she displayed now for the crowds to marvel at was no different.
"As the audience cheered to her triumph, Tesserande ridiculed the mentor she had surpassed long ago, for she was no more humble in victory than she'd ever been before. She decried Vefari's weaving as nothing in comparison to her meanest effort. Vefari fell to his knees in tears; in that minute, his life had been ruined, for he had lost their competition by the judgement of the crowds. Held to the terms of the Unbreakable Vow, he would never weave another tapestry.
"As Tesserande basked in adulation, despair and rage overtook Vefari. He stood with a wordless shout and pointed his wand at his former student. The crowds gasped as Tesserande began to shrink and change, attempting to flee by taking on the form of a spider. Vefari's curse struck halfway though the transformation; Tesserande wailed as she was transfigured into a monster, half-woman, half-spider.
"'Who will admire your works now?' Vefari cried. 'Who will withstand the sight of you, now that it mirrors what you are inside?' He waved his wand again, and the crowd screamed as Tesserande swelled to monstrous size for all to see. The masses fled in terror before her visage. Her humanoid head bore eight beady black eyes and a gaping, fanged jaw. Sprouting from her waist downward was the enormous body of a spider, complete with eight spindly legs. Tesserande sobbed and fled into the woods, never to be seen again.
"Vefari disappeared from the public eye shortly after that. Seven years later, he was found dead in his home by his wife, in front of his final tapestry. It was his masterwork; his wife declared it to be the single greatest thing Vefari had ever created, inclusive of their children. In keeping with his written instructions, a select few were permitted to behold the masterpiece before it was hidden away from the unworthy eyes of society. The wizarding world mourned the loss of its two greatest weavers, and their absence was keenly felt for generations to come."
Pyrrha waited with wide eyes for the story to continue, but her father closed the book with a yawn. "Dad . . ." she said. "That story was awful."
He chuckled, leaning back to stretch in his chair. "It's got some important lessons in it, but you might be right. That was a bit heavy for a nine year old." He scratched the back of his head with a rueful smile. "I'd forgotten how it ended. You know, it's markedly similar to—"
"Arachne, you told me," Pyrrha said. "Which one of those stories actually happened?"
He shrugged. "Could be both. Could be neither. Nobody knows. What's important is what you learn from them, even if they're not all the way true."
"I learned that I should pick the bedtime stories."
Her father threw back his head and laughed. "Well, alright then, you brat," he said fondly. "Pick one more, then it's bed for both of us."
"The one you found about our ancestor," Pyrrha said immediately. "Finn McCool!" She grinned at her father's exasperated expression.
"The Nightmare Queen? You want to hear that just before you sleep? And how many times have I told you—"
"—a billion—"
"—name was Fionn McCoul, and he only might be a distant ancestor of ours, based on what little information I could gather from . . ." Her father trailed off as Pyrrha loudly pretended to snore. "Oh, excellent," he said. "Looks like I'm all done here!"
"No, no, no!" Pyrrha snatched her father's arm, but he hadn't moved. "One more, please, you promised!"
"Alright, alright, settle down, you. One more it is." Her father flipped to the proper page from memory and cleared his throat. "The Nightmare Queen," he read aloud. "Truly, I am a paragon of fatherhood," he added under his breath.
Pyrrha giggled, shifting into a more comfortable position under the warm blankets.
"One dark night under a moonless sky, three witches were born. They were called Macha, Badb, and Morrigan, and they were nearly the same to the beholder's eye, each with a tuft of hair as black as the void above, each with golden eyes like lanterns lit against the dusk. As they grew, their power grew with them, until they were renowned across the land for their fantastical feats of magic.
"Their prowess made them ruthless and cruel, for they could not see the people they shared the land with as such; in their eyes, human beings, magical and nonmagical alike, were vacuous and inferior creatures, unworthy of the gift of life. The sisters Macha and Badb slew all who crossed their paths without mercy. Those who encountered the third sister on their travels were even less fortunate, as Morrigan possessed a perverse affinity for the manipulation of the mind. Nothing brought her more pleasure than to slowly break a man's spirit while she broke his body.
"Fortuitously for the populace, the sisters appeared to be content to dwell within the confines of the roving forests they called home. With luck, the citizens of neighboring townships could venture a short way in, gather what was needed and leave again without encountering the Nightmare Queen and her siblings. This uneasy balance wasn't maintained for long, however; over time, the creatures of the wild were warped, becoming unnaturally bloodthirsty and aggressive. The surrounding hamlets and villages began to starve, for they could not hunt safely, and the frenzied wildlife ventured out in an act of spite, laying waste to the farmers' fields. The message carried clear as a mountain stream; the population was no longer welcome near the forest.
"Settlements near and far raised a great army of wizards and men, and they set to march on the forest. The crows brought news of the approaching threat to the sinister sisters, who laughed at the notion of defeat. The birds then relayed their most stunning information yet; the wizard Fionn McCoul was among the militia. Fionn was a hero, a wizard of unmatched might, and the army's only hope for victory.
"The sisters Macha and Badb had ever been less magically potent than their third sibling, and it was at this time that they took advantage of the opportunity fate had granted them. It cannot be said for certain why they fled Morrigan to join Fionn's army; some speculate that jealousy and resentment for the Nightmare Queen's power drove them, while others posit that they had broken away from an insidious spell of enthrallment, freed by the fear of the imminent doom that was battle against the grand sorcerer Fionn.
"Fionn was wary of deception. He kept careful eyes on the sisters, insisting that they stay at his side, spearheading the army. As they approached the forest, a single crow shot from the branches into the sky. It circled and peered down at the assembled militia with abominable glowing eyes, then opened its beak to release a harrowing shriek. The masses erupted into a chaos of blood as swords and wands were drawn, and friend turned on friend. Unprepared, Fionn was helpless to defend his people against the curse's onslaught, and he watched in horror as the people tore themselves apart in a mindless miasma of madness. His efforts to lift the curse were made in vain.
"As the last man fell, the crow landed amongst the carnage and became the Nightmare Queen, who looked upon the broken bodies with satisfaction. It was then that the unlikely trio attacked; Macha, Badb and Fionn struck out with all their might, and Morrigan repelled them. The ensuing magical contest shook the foundations of the earth and drove away the clouds in the sky. The three fought valiantly, but Morrigan gave not a hint of mercy as she set upon her sisters and cursed them into the final world.
"Despair wracked Fionn; he had led countless numbers of good-hearted people to a senseless slaughter. Why hadn't the sisters warned him of the Nightmare Queen's terrible power? Morrigan knew his thoughts, and she laughed cruelly.
"'You thought my sisters cared anything for your kin?' she said. 'They despised you and your ilk as much as they despised me. They meant to be rid of us all in one foolish ploy.'
"'You will face retribution for the blood you've spilled,' Fionn vowed.
"Morrigan smiled an evil smile and beckoned an arm to someone unseen. 'If there is to be a reckoning, let the full scope of my deeds be known.' A body shifted among the morass of gore, and Fionn stood paralyzed with horror as a body dragged itself upright and stood beside Morrigan. The woman's skin was pale as starlight in the few spots unsullied by the blood that seeped from her grisly wounds. Fionn looked into her clouded eyes, and he knew then that the corpse that stood before him was the wife he had left safely behind in their home.
"The Nightmare Queen had bewitched Fionn's wife, tricked her into marching with the army. Hatred and sorrow such as Fionn had never felt overtook him. He set upon Morrigan with wrathful intensity, and the witch cackled while she fought back, reveling in the tears that streamed down Fionn's face. The air was alive with magic as they dueled. Fionn's grief had turned him into a primal force of justice: yellow-eyed monsters stampeded from the woods and fell against him; waves of the dead peeled themselves from the earth and broke upon his strength; the black expanse of numberless crows above were smote from the heavens.
"At last, Morrigan faltered. She fell to the ground, defenseless and wounded. Fionn stood over her and prepared to strike the killing blow, but he stayed his hand, and it was not mercy that held him back, but vengeance. 'Death is a kindness I will not grant you,' he said. 'You will endure to suffer as others have suffered for your deeds.' Fionn captured the witch and they departed, the only two survivors of that dreadful massacre.
"Fionn pondered the fate of his charge with a heart full of revenge, and made a decision. He brought the witch to the northern coast and parlayed with the Bennadon tribe of giants. The giants were well pleased with Fionn's victory and consented to his requests, and together they constructed the Giants' Causeway, a vast magical bridge of stone that rose from beneath and split the sea. Fionn built upon the bridge further and further until the mainland was just at the edge of sight, and there he stopped.
"Morrigan did not speak. She watched as Fionn lifted the earth from the depths of the sea and created a small island of rock. The stone flowed together in sharply angled patterns, forming an array of jagged spears across the island's surface that jutted out in all directions, the better to discourage any wildlife drawn to the witch. Fionn wove enchantments into the spiky outcrop, obscuring it from all who might seek it by air, by sea, and even by magical means.
"From the stone, Fionn constructed a cavern. Its entrance looked back at the distant mainland that would remain forever out of Morrigan's reach. He cast spells of confinement upon the prison, then turned to face the witch one final time. From behind her, the sea exploded in a shower of saltwater. A whale with shining yellow eyes surged from the ocean, and Fionn called upon the water; it responded in a swift and towering wave that knocked the whale aside, and the beast was speared through upon the island's largest stone spires. It writhed pitifully, immense strength nevertheless no match for Fionn's enchantments. Fionn returned to the witch and sealed her away inside the cavern.
"It was there, on Spire Island, that the Nightmare Queen would spend her remaining days, gazing out to watch as life carried on. She would never again tread the dense woodlands she held so dear. She would never again enjoy the soft music of nature, nor taste its sweet scents in the air. The giants would bring her food and depart without speaking, leaving Morrigan to dwell in her waterlogged prison, set upon by the relentless rains and the icy blades of the wind. She would remain there until the end of her time.
"Fionn returned home victorious, but did not feel it. He silently mourned his losses while he settled back into his role as the defender of the lands, mediating disputes and combating the evils of the world as was his wont. In time, his heart healed, and he was remarried, marking the beginning of a new family and a new life. He grew old with his wife and their nine children, and they spent many happy years together. Fionn died of advanced age, in bed and surrounded by loved ones. His wife followed soon after. The McCoul children had children of their own, and life carried on without a worry . . .
". . . Until one day, word came from the Nightmare Queen's jailers, the Bennadon giants. Morrigan was dead, but she would not die. The witch, sustained by her wretched black arts, promised her vengeance on the entirety of the McCoul bloodline along with the rest of the land. Fionn's grandson, the head of that generation, instructed the giants to destroy the Causeway, that no one may reach Spire Island and release the witch. The charmed bridge was constructed too well, however; neither the giants nor the McCouls could dismantle it.
"The McCoul patriarch asked of the giants to defend the bridge from interlopers, but they would not hear him. The younger generations had forgotten the terror of Morrigan. With great reluctance, McCoul offered a priceless family heirloom passed down by Fionn himself, and the Bennadon tribe accepted it. In exchange, they agreed to remain vigilant, and to this day their towering sentinels guard the unwary world against the wrath of the Nightmare Queen."
Pyrrha bit her lip when her father closed the book with a sigh. He leaned over and brushed a hand over her hair. "Don't worry, love, it's just a story. Remember what I always tell you?"
"Don't trust anything anyone tells you if you can't verify it," Pyrrha said in an oft-repeated tone. Her father nodded and she continued, "don't experiment with potion ingredients, don't set traps for leprechauns, don't practice magic without supervision, don't ever have fun—"
"You had it the first time," her father said sternly, his lip twitching. He pulled out his pocket watch, and his eyebrows shot up at the hour. "Blimey. Well, that's it, then. Give your old man one last hug," he said, standing and wrapping his arms around Pyrrha.
"What?" Pyrrha said as they broke apart.
"Your mother's going to kill me for letting you stay up so late." Her father ran a hand through his hair, expression slightly guilty. "If she asks . . ."
"We read Beedle the Bard," Pyrrha said immediately.
"That's my girl. G'night, love." He pecked her forehead with a kiss and turned to leave the room, extinguishing all but one floating candle with a wave of his wand.
"Dad?" Pyrrha said. Her father paused in the doorway and turned expectantly. "Can you get Mr. Puffy down for me?"
"Of course." Her father motioned, and the stuffed dragon glided down from the ceiling and settled into her arms. She cuddled it sleepily as her father gently closed the bedroom door.
It was a scant few months ago that the Clay sisters had finally found the strength to open the door to their parents' bedroom, two years after their untimely deaths. The miscellaneous belongings therein had been cradled and cried over like the treasures they had become, then packed safely away, out of sight, where they couldn't hurt.
The exceptions now lay before Pyrrha on the kitchen table, bathing in the fiery morning glow that spilled through the windows. Various historical texts sat surrounded by wrinkled and coffee-stained sheafs of parchment etched with messy writing. A map of Ireland dominated the pile, covered in marks and circles with accompanying jotted notations. It was the culmination of years of her father's research into their genealogy, the legend of the Nightmare Queen, and how they intertwined.
In the process of combing through her father's notes, it had become clear to Pyrrha that there was more than a hint of truth to the tale. Dozens of cross-referenced records of historical accounts supported the general sequence of events portrayed in the storybook. Her father had corresponded with a variety of magical historians, chief among them a man called Furnival, who had a fondness for Celtic magical history that shined through in the few obscure supplemental details he had managed to uncover.
Naturally, the specifics surrounding a mysterious figure from a thousand years past were nearly nonexistent; it seemed that the meat of the tale as written in Three Hundred Most Spellbinding Legends of Magical Europe was largely made up. The puzzle's frame was built, but tantalizingly empty in the center, and Pyrrha hungered for the missing pieces.
Curiosity wasn't the only reason for Pyrrha's drive. Her father had also done extensive research into their bloodline, all but confirming a familial link between the Clays and the legendary wizard Fionn McCoul. If everything added together the way it seemed to, Morrigan's continued existence was a dire threat that loomed not just over the country, but the Clays in particular, or what was left of their family—just the two of them. Pyrrha couldn't stand by awaiting the day that the magic of the prison faltered, by gradual decay or outside interference. Something had to be done, and no one was better equipped than Pyrrha to handle it.
The next step was simple in theory: find Spire Island. The writing on the map appeared to concur with the storybook as far as the general location, off Ireland's northern coast. Every little green patch that denoted an island was crossed out next to a note in her father's hand: SI likely Unplottable. A wide circle enclosed a broad swath of ocean, with several dotted lines extending north from the coastline: Causeway begins somewhere—rockier regions more likely, obviously. Hike with the girls?
Ascertaining the location of the Giants' Causeway was Pyrrha's next goal. Her father had made little progress on that front, but there was an option he hadn't considered—or perhaps he had, and had dismissed it as too perilous, but danger was no obstacle to Pyrrha. Today she would follow up on the information she had garnered from the Ministry's records in the Department of Magical Creature Regulation and Control, and seek out any remnant of the Bennadon tribe of giants.
"So, where are you off to this time?" Pyrrha started at Ashlin's voice from across the table. Her freshly woken sister was customarily disheveled, blinking blearily.
That was something Pyrrha did not want to answer. Instead, she said, "How many times have I asked you not to sneak up on me?"
Ashlin huffed. "There was no sneaking, I walked in like a normal person. It's not my fault you're oblivious when you're working. A drunk erumpent could get the drop on you." She heaved a full-body yawn. "God, how do you wake up so early without coffee?"
"A cold shower helps."
"You're psychotic," Ashlin said, plopping into a chair. She waved her wand vaguely at the cupboards, and the coffee tin soared out and began the process of brewing itself. "Seriously," she said, "if you're a lizard person, I deserve to know."
Her eyes back on the table, Pyrrha chuckled softly. "A lizard person would prefer warm water, assuming they were cold-blooded."
Ashlin made a noise of good-natured exasperation. "You can learn literally anything, and I still can't teach you to banter like a human being. All hope is lost for the Lizard Person Integration Initiative."
Cookware clanked clumsily about. Pyrrha hummed and drummed her fingers against the table while her eyes raked the map, scanning the markings she had added in the northeastern quadrant. She had noted several promising areas to search on the coast, but it would take weeks to properly survey the length of it. The much more expedient way to go about it was to find the last giant colony, based somewhere in the southern Ural Mountains; if there remained a descendant of the Bennadon tribe, they would have the knowledge she sought.
According to the Ministry's most recent records, there were barely a dozen giants left in the colony; their extinction was all but complete. The chances of success were slim, but it was worth an attempt. Pyrrha wondered if she might even find the mysterious heirloom of Fionn's that had been gifted to the Bennadons.
"—to answer my question?"
Pyrrha looked up again and wordlessly raised an inquiring eyebrow.
"Oh no . . ." Ashlin said, clutching her face with mock despair. "I knew this day would come—you've filled your head with so much knowledge it's overtaken your ability to talk!"
Pyrrha huffed. "What was your question?"
Ashlin looked delighted to have been an annoyance; she beckoned with her wand and received a floating mug of coffee. "I asked where you're going today." She glanced at the map before looking back at Pyrrha intently. "Be more specific than 'out,' if you don't mind."
"Just a bit of hiking around, exploring. Nothing to worry about."
Ashlin snorted. "Right. You'd be a rubbish spy, you know. Not only can you not lie worth a damn, I can clearly see Dad's bloody Morgana notes under the map."
"Morrigan."
"Whatever. Tell me what you're really doing."
"I didn't lie," Pyrrha said, packing away the scattered books and papers into her pouch with a wave of her wand. "I'm going to look into something, and it's nothing to—"
"Pyrrha, don't make me hex your face upside down."
With a short sigh Pyrrha relented. "I'm looking for giants, the Bennadons. Hopefully there's at least one left."
Ashlin winced. "Those are the ones that supposedly guarded the sea bridge?"
"Yes. They're my best chance to find it quickly."
"So . . . you really think this 'Nightmare Queen' is real? Like, she's out there right now?"
Pyrrha nodded solemnly. "I'm going to take care of it, don't worry. I'll be back before sundown." She swirled her wand at her head, and her hair twisted itself into her usual simple updo. Ashlin's voice stopped her on the way to the door.
"Hang on!" Ashlin fidgeted a moment under Pyrrha's gaze. "Could you, er . . ." She gestured vaguely at her messy hair. "I'm going over to Elise's today."
"Yes, you have my permission," Pyrrha said with a pointed look, stepping behind Ashlin. "Braid?"
"Thanks. And there's no need to get snippy; I asked you already yesterday, and you hummed yes."
"Was I reading?" Pyrrha twirled Ashlin's hair into an intricate French braid with a charm.
"Yeah, and don't say it doesn't count, because that's rubbish. You need to pay attention." Ashlin's tone was suddenly irritable.
"Alright, relax. Have fun at Elise's, and I'll see you tonight."
Ashlin would be fine without her, as always, and that was even more certain as of a breakthrough in her studies of blood charms last year. The spell of shared blood Pyrrha had placed on her would transmit any pain her sister felt to herself, and she could be at Ashlin's side in the next instant. Failing that, Pyrrha had made certain to help her master the Patronus messenger, among other vital skills.
Ashlin accompanied Pyrrha to the door. The morning greeted them with golden sunrays spilling over the dewy grass. Fluffy clouds scudded across the pale blue sky. From the surrounding woods came soft birdsong, mingling to create a pleasant harmony with their mother's wind chimes. Pyrrha stepped outside and inhaled the heady scents of dawn.
"Hey!" Ashlin wrapped her arms tightly around Pyrrha, burying her face in Pyrrha's shoulder. "Be careful, you big, stupid genius. If you die, who'll buy me the new Nimbus?"
Pyrrha patted her sister's back. "Whatever would you need two of them for?" She winced as the hug ventured into rib-crushing territory. "It should arrive any day now; could be today, even. Congratulations on your O.W.L. results. Mum and Dad would be as proud as I am."
"Thanks," Ashlin said quietly, voice trembling a little. "I love you so much."
". . . You too, Ash."
Pyrrha knew she'd found them when distant roaring and crashing disturbed the peaceful ambiance of the Russian wilderness. The uproar came from the north, not much further up the mountain. She flicked her wand at her boots, and then her steps fell free of the crinkle of leaves and the snap of twigs. The thunderous clamor of battle led her between lofty pines and past foliage that leapt out of her way at wandpoint.
A stick plucked from the edge of the forest that encircled the Clay household had conveyed Pyrrha to the southern Urals as a portkey, directly after she had apparated into the middle of a farm a hundred miles away. She'd dismantled it before it could attempt the return trip. The Ministry couldn't detect the creation of a portkey, but they could and would know where they came and went, if the locations in question weren't properly obscured. Pyrrha didn't expect the Russians to be any less diligent.
Immediately she had set off, apparating half a dozen times up the mountain; any responding law enforcement would arrive to an empty stretch of forest. Pyrrha was beginning to regret that hasty move. There was little of consequence for miles around, excepting the giant encampment she sought. The aurors would come to the obvious conclusion about her destination and prepare an ambush: much more of an annoyance than simply subduing them outright.
Pyrrha halted and aimed her wand at her own shadow. It rippled once and rose from the ground, pulling itself into the third dimension as if emerging from a pool of still water. She directed the figure to stand before her, and it moved without a sound, a blank, humanoid silhouette. After a ponderous moment and a twitch of her wand, the shadow resolved itself into the shape of a grizzled, grey-haired man with a lined face set in a scowl. The shadow puppet went on ahead of her, and she followed at a safe distance.
With her wand Pyrrha rapped her head as she walked, shivering a little at the cold trickling feeling that dripped down her neck as she became a transparent shimmer in the air. Closer to the din, thunderous collisions crashed over the enraged shouts of the giants. Between the distant trees, a stone-strewn clearing surrounded a waterfall that fed into a smoothly flowing river. Giants bellowed and hurled rocks and fists at one another.
Homenum Revelio revealed the expected life forms twinking ahead in the forest surrounding the rocky riverbank. She cast it poorly on purpose; the telltale swooping sensation would alert the aurors, and lure them out of hiding.
A series of soft pops disturbed the air. Over half a dozen wizards with wands out surrounded Pyrrha's shadow, which she willed to a standstill. The puppet raised its arms in surrender.
A brunette witch stepped forward, wand arm steady. Pyrrha idly noted her prominent cheekbones and striking jaw as she began to cast silently on the man nearest.
"Do not move," the witch said calmly in Russian, performing a series of deft wand movements. Pyrrha felt the brief tingle of anti-apparition and anti-portkey jinxes pass over her. "You are apprehended, by the authority of the Federal Sorcery Security Service of Russia, unit twenty-two."
The shadow stayed stock-still with its arms raised while Pyrrha continued to weave her spell from a short distance away, keeping her movements to a minimum. Three of the seven aurors were bewitched, conjoined by a shimmering white thread only she could perceive. One of the wizards rubbed at his neck distractedly.
The dark-haired witch waved her wand, then frowned when nothing happened. "Do you not carry a wand? What is your purpose here? Speak." There was an expectant pause. "Do you speak Russian? French? English?" The witch switched languages seamlessly.
Beside her a weedy wizard massaged his jaw with his free hand, eyes darting around. "Something's wrong, Ros. I feel . . . strange."
Her wand flashed out, and a jet of red light passed cleanly through Pyrrha's shadow and struck a burly wizard on the shoulder; the man collapsed bonelessly and five others mirrored him, their unconscious bodies toppling to the dirt as one. Pyrrha hadn't ensorcelled the witch in time.
The witch swore and threw herself behind a nearby tree. Pyrrha was already moving when she felt the hastily-cast Presence-Revealing Charm swoop overhead. She beckoned as she darted from her previous position, and the limp forms of the stunned wizards lifted from the dirt, held aloft by their ankles. Swatting away a volley of stunning spells, she stepped behind a thick tree and swung her wand upward and around; the stunned wizards soared higher, suspended a hundred feet from the forest floor. They floated in a wide circle above the space between herself and the witch, who had ceased casting stunners.
It appeared the witch had grasped the threat quickly; if Pyrrha was incapacitated, her spell would fade, and the aurors would fall to their deaths. It was a surprise, then, when a torrent of water surged around the trunk of her tree and submerged her to her waist before freezing solid. A huff escaped her as she shattered the ice and sent the jagged chunks flying, shredding through a bounding grizzly bear. It vanished into nothing on death.
Pyrrha chuckled softly and stepped out, flicking her wand up and outward. The ground erupted in a broad spray of dirt that blew violently away, blasting around a shimmering pocket of seemingly empty space. The dirt swirled and became a hailstorm of stones shooting back at her; she reduced them to dust, allowing the haze to conceal her as she moved. Pyrrha felt the touch of another locating spell as she gestured at the Disillusioned agent's rippling form. Thick roots burst from the soil and wrapped greedily around the witch.
The ensnared outline was too wide, too still; it was a Disillusioned boulder. Pyrrha blocked a sidelong spell and cast in the same movement; she turned and aimed at resulting spark of life, shutting her eyes as she sidestepped another spell. Her charm flashed brilliantly against her eyelids. The auror's outcry of pain and shock was satisfying, a feeling brushed away by impressed annoyance when a tree leaned in front of the witch to intercept Pyrrha's followup stunning spell.
Striding in an arc around the tree Pyrrha gestured, and the witch's form melted into being. Another locating spell brushed Pyrrha while the auror stumbled back with her wand up, blinking hard. A flock of sparrows appeared at the witch's movement and surrounded her in a tornado of feathers; Pyrrha shifted them into iron cannonballs that veered and smashed repeatedly into the witch's arms and legs like a swarm of bludgers. She cried out and collapsed under the assault, and Pyrrha vanished the cannonballs with a wave.
The witch lay in a heap, her wand still clutched in a shaking hand, the arm bent at an unnatural angle. Pained breath hissed between her teeth; she glared defiantly past Pyrrha, vision still impaired. "Do it, then," she said. "Motherless, dog-fucking cunt—!" Her arm crunched when she brought it up with an agonized yell.
Pyrrha flicked the spell aside and returned with a stunner that struck the witch in her chest; she slumped to the ground.
After probing the area for hidden backup, Pyrrha stood back and took a moment to appreciate the duel; it was a welcome reminder that not everyone she would pit herself against would be woefully incompetent.
At a gesture, the six flying aurors descended and piled unceremoniously next to the witch. Pyrrha charmed the area with several protections, then paused in the act of walking away to look back at the auror. She allowed her thoughts to linger a moment on red lips and hollow cheeks before evaluating the auror's battered limbs critically. With a sigh at herself, she began waving her wand slowly, and the witch twitched and shifted under her skin while bones reset and fused together. Pyrrha placed a vial of Petri's Palliative Philter between the witch's clenched fingers before resuming the trek to the giants.
The FS3 aurors retained their memories in the hope it caused Drang even the slightest inconvenience. Pyrrha considered and dismissed the idea of injecting his distinctly hoarse voice into their recollections; after being rendered unconscious they would anticipate and reverse any memory tampering, casting more doubt on the shadow likeness she had created being linked to him.
Still transparent and muffled, Pyrrha crept to the treeline around the riverbank. Nine giants sullied the otherwise majestic scene. One stood in the river, underneath the waterfall that barely surpassed his height, and seemed to be taking the giant equivalent of a shower. Another stood atop the fall, baring teeth like chipped bricks in a childish grin while he urinated on his kinsman's head. Five more lounged around a bonfire the size of a small house, laying on pelts of interwoven wedenbear skins and passing around a sloshing clay vessel. Several of them sported bloody injuries.
The last two giants were in considerably worse shape; they lay in gory heaps near the riverbank. One had her chest brutally caved in, the pool of blood steadily growing underneath her. The other simply had a mess of scattered flesh where his head should've been. It had either been dashed to little pieces on the rocks, or ripped off entirely and hurled out of sight.
It was no great trial to identify the Gurg. He was the only giant entirely uninjured and utterly at ease, picking food from his teeth with a knotted branch. Those around him flinched whenever the branch happened to pass its aim their way.
"Bolga!" the Gurg called suddenly, thrusting out an enormous arm towards the clay vessel. "Give me the drink!"
The one called Bolga leaned away with a defiant grunt and upended the vessel over his open mouth. The others stared slack-jawed and wide-eyed while he drained the massive jug. An anticipatory silence fell. Bolga uttered a satisfied belch, and he set the cup aside with an expression of dull-witted defiance.
The Gurg sat up straight, face set in a cold mask, withdrew his makeshift toothpick from between his teeth and pointed it at Bolga as if it were a tiny wand. The other giants cringed and flinched away as Bolga stiffened. Shivers beset his body; he whimpered and tore at his hair, then cried out; he roared with terror and rolled about on the rocky ground as if covered in crawling abominations from the depths of his nightmares. Birds fled the area in droves.
The Gurg's arm never wavered; he kept the branch aimed at Bolga while the unfortunate giant thrashed about. Then Bolga stood, eyes bulging with terror like prey with baying hounds at his heels. Still screaming, he whipped his head around, searching desperately, and his wild eyes alit on the bonfire. Bolga flung himself onto the inferno in a massive crunch of wood. He and his tortured cries took an agonizingly long minute to die.
Around the bonfire the other giants sat stiffly, staring, eyes darting to and from their leader with poorly disguised fear. The Gurg leaned back again contentedly and returned to picking his teeth with what could only be Morrigan's staff.
Pyrrha reached out for the staff with an Accio, but, of course, it wouldn't be that easy; the charm slipped away from her.
If she had more time, she could lure the subordinate giants elsewhere, or else pit them against each other. But she didn't. The FS3 would be sending backup for their missing aurors any time now, and Pyrrha wanted to be clear away before that happened.
Letting herself fade into view, Pyrrha strode out of the trees and into the silent open. Rocks shifted mutely under her boots. Bolga's seared corpse still suffused the air with a rancid smog, and his final expression conveyed agony, even charred as his features were.
The Gurg watched her carefully, confederates around him shooting to their feet with startling agility. From the distant waterfall the final two called out in alarm, and they were preceded by their thundering footsteps, each stride shaking the earth as they joined their fellows between her and their Gurg.
Several gigantic steps away Pyrrha stopped. She spoke in the guttural language of giants, loud enough for the leader to hear. "I am Pyrrha of the McCoul family. Step aside. I wish to speak to your Gurg."
"Don't care who you are," a one-eyed giant said, licking his cracked lips. "Unless McCouls taste better than other stupid humans." Low laughter rumbled among them.
"Brain's my favorite part," another said, baring her jagged teeth in a feral grin. "Too bad this one got none."
The one-eyed giant glanced at her curiously. "How you can tell?"
"Let her pass," the Gurg said. The giants fell silent and stepped away, creating a narrow path around the gruesome pyre.
Without pause Pyrrha passed within arm's reach of the vicious beasts. Sour body odor and blood hung in the air about them. They leered down at her hungrily; briefly Pyrrha met their eyes, then turned away with indifference that concealed her disgust. She stopped before the Gurg, who lounged on his side once again, fidgeting with the staff that appeared as a twig in his hand.
The Gurg didn't mince words. "Prove to me you're a McCoul," he demanded, eyes shining with undisguised greed. "It is a dead tribe."
"My ancestor, Aedan McCoul, gave the Bennadons that staff," Pyrrha said, nodding at it. "Are you a former Bennadon? Or did you take it from them?"
"My father was kin to them," the Gurg said, grin crooked. "I killed him for this." He looked at the staff between his thick fingers with the fondness of one recalling heinous deeds done with relish. "It has served me well. And so I wonder, what could the McCouls have brought to bargain with this time?"
"A gift infinitely more precious, I assure you," Pyrrha said. "You'll have it as soon as you tell me what I need to know."
The Gurg laughed, a booming, incredulous sound. "Give me your offering, first. There will be no bargain otherwise; wizards are not to be trusted."
"That's an interesting sentiment," Pyrrha said, "considering you've already decided to kill and eat me once you have what you want. Let me tell you this, then; the gift I offer is your life. Tell me where to find the Giants' Causeway, or I'll take the knowledge from your mind as you die by your own hand."
The Gurg's answer came in the form of an outraged roar as he sprang upright, pointing the staff at where Pyrrha had been. She reappeared silently outside the circle, and said, "This is your only warning, all of you! Flee, and I will allow it. Only your Gurg has what I want. Will you die for him?"
The giants stood indecisive, expressions conflicted while they weighed their options. The Gurg made their decision for them: "It's just one human, you sniveling cowards!" he said, red-faced, spittle flying from his lips. "Bring her to me, alive, or I'll curse you into madness! GO!"
Three giants stampeded along the river toward her with booming battle cries, the other two trailing behind halfheartedly. Pyrrha pulled at the river with her wand; a geyser of water shot up and spiraled into an array of icicles that thrust themselves through the two nearest giants with a wet punching sound, pinning them in place with pillars of ice protruding from their torsos. A jab split the earth under the third, and the giant fell into the crevice. Pyrrha gestured; the fissure crushed him flat between its walls.
One of the impaled giants hung glassy-eyed, rivulets of its blood running down the ice spires that held its corpse upright. The other groaned and pleaded incoherently, clutching at the icicles protruding from her stomach, patting at the welling blood ineffectually. Pyrrha waved her wand as she passed; the column of ice reared up like a huge river serpent, holding the moaning giant aloft and smashing it headfirst against the rocks with a loud crunch.
The remaining two stared, wide-eyed, and one of them turned to flee, leaping into the river and splashing across to vanish into the woods. The other bellowed and snatched a large rock from the banks, hurling it out. Not breaking stride, Pyrrha whipped her wand forward; the stone slingshotted back and shattered against the giant's forehead, sending it staggering back a step. She traced a complex pattern, and the giant yelped as his body began to shrink and shift until a large hog floated helplessly in the air, writhing and squealing. Pyrrha decapitated it in a flash of white light, a fountain of blood spouting from the neck.
"This is your final chance!" Pyrrha stalked toward the Gurg.
The Gurg uttered a wordless cry and brandished the staff; Pyrrha vanished and reappeared a distance to the side, and the spell that flew from her wand struck the giant's hand. His arm jerked back, and he fumbled the staff for a moment before regaining his grip and pointing it again. Again Pyrrha disapparated and emerged behind the Gurg, who turned and bolted for the treeline.
Trees leaned and extended their boughs at Pyrrha's command, snaking around the Gurg's struggling arms. They held him in place far from securely; the giant hollered and strained, ripping out branches and pulling up roots. Pyrrha approached at a brisk pace. He wrenched free for a moment and stumbled ahead, only to be further ensnared by more bewitched undergrowth. He pulled away, then, back towards the river, but Pyrrha was there. He met her gaze over his shoulder, eyes bulging with fear. She found herself unsympathetic.
The pines held the Gurg's arms and legs fast while she performed a complicated wand movement. She shivered at the sensation of blood being drawn from her; it spilled from her wand and coiled in the air like a nest of tangled serpents.
"No—what are you doing? Stop—I surren—!" The giant thrashed against his bonds, gagged as Pyrrha's blood streamed into his mouth, into his nose and ears, behind his horrified eyes, and disappeared into his body. He hacked and coughed, struggle turning desperate. "What—what have you done? What have you done to me?"
Pyrrha reached out to her blood, and it responded. The rush of sensation was disconcerting as ever; she felt the giant's veins and vessels as her own while her blood spread itself through him. Two lines of sight, two sets of lungs, two beating hearts. She was of two bodies and one mind. The sensory input was almost overwhelming, but only almost. She had come quite far.
The grasping foliage retracted at Pyrrha's will. She knelt—no, she forced the giant to kneel before her, and she met her own hard black gaze when she peered into the giant's blank, bulbous eyes. The staff slipped from her fingers as she raised her wand and dove into the giant's mind, plunging through the surface of heart-stopping panic into the repository of memory.
She conjured thoughts of Morrigan, the staff, the Bennadons, the Causeway. The Gurg's mind responded with memory after memory that she examined and allowed to flash by: forcing his fellows to fight to the death for his amusement, with the staff's curse as the loser's prize; losing his mate to a rival Bennadon in the dead of night; establishing a dominant role over the tribe, staff never far from reach.
Further back she delved, recollections less cohesive, like painted canvas left in rain: he smashed his father's slumbering head in with a rock, picking up the staff before turning to his brother; his mother consoled him and wrapped his wounds, promising that one day the staff would be his; his parents sat him by the fire and told him of their ancestors, who were granted the staff in return for guarding a deserted expanse of rock.
With a jolt Pyrrha seized onto that memory and pulled it taut before her: No one ever attempted to cross the Causeway; the Bennadon giants left that land behind when the time came, never to return to the stretch of coast a few dozen miles northeast of a small human village whose name didn't matter.
Pyrrha withdrew herself from the giant's mind. The sickening, doomed feeling of twofold existence returned as she did, and she fought to keep her breathing steady; her bare chest heaved, and her robes seemed to constrict her torso like a vise. She turned, and she turned, and she followed herself out of the woods and across the stones to the river, walking as fast as she could without stumbling.
She stood ankle-deep in the river, fell to her monstrous knees beside herself, splashing water across her robes, and she watched her massive back bend when she submerged her head under the water. A cool breeze played across her face as the river rushed around her ears. The crisp mountain air she breathed was marred by the stench of blood, and her lungs burned as her forehead scraped the gritty riverbed.
The sky was a peaceful shade of blue, but the dark greenish hue of the river grew steadily darker. Black spots swam in her vision; she took a deep, calming breath and her nose and throat inhaled icy water. Pyrrha stood utterly still and forced herself to stay bent, to ignore the hysteria flooding her bodies. Cold water kept surging, forcing itself down her throat, and it swelled in her chest to burn like bile, filled her lungs to bursting; both of her shuddered and she watched her bloody hands claw at the silt she felt between her empty fingers, and the world was too dark, too bright, as one heart shuddered with desperate panic while the other slowed and stuttered and stilled.
Pyrrha opened her only set of eyes and gasped for air. The world tilted under her, and she stumbled, clutched at her aching heart. Alien terror leaked away from her. The sun shined brighter than it should, like a blinding eye leaning close to drink in her distress. She leaned forward on her knees and panted, nearly dizzy enough to fall, but she locked her legs into place. Heart and head thumping painfully, she glanced at the face-down body of the Gurg. It drifted away on the water with an incongruous serenity.
He had been fully aware, privy to every sensation and helpless to even twitch a finger. It was a costly spell, quite less useful than the Imperius Curse, as it only allowed for control of the body and not the mind, and had significant drawbacks besides. In the case of magic-resistant beings and beasts, it was a boon, but Pyrrha now wished even more fervently than before that there was another way to end the spell. The two-body sensation remained a major impediment to her using magic.
Into the forest on unsteady legs she ventured, and she retrieved Morrigan's staff before disapparating, hoping she hadn't just inflicted herself with another phobia.