Rise of Morganna: The Descendants Miniseries Collection, #1

By Landon Porter

From the pages of the superhero series, The Descendants.

In the present, the sorceress Morganna is a supremely powerful madwoman. But a thousand years in the past, there was only Elise of Halfren, daughter of Marcus.

Before the overwhelming mystic power, before the madness, there was one young woman's drive to prove a daughter's worth. What it led to was a path of darkness that altered the course of all human history that is yet to be understood in the present.

In that present, Morganna finds herself in the strange world of Faerie, forced to fight not only for survival, but to regain her lost power.

Rise of Morganna is a miniseries spin-off from the series, The Descendants, taking place after The Descendants #7: Legacy of One, which is collected in We Could Be Heroes, (The Descendants Basic Collection, #1).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paradox-Omni Entertainment
• Release date: Jan 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507003145

Landon Porter

Landon Porter is a billionaire industrialist who fights crime with the aid of his magic sword and faithful companion, Distraction Lad whenever he's not dating supermodels or fighting evil robot bears from the future. On a completely unrelated note, he makes up fanciful stories for a living. An avid fan of superhero comics and roleplaying games, he blends tropes from both into his works along with themes of family, hope and redemption alongside a fervent rejection of cynicism and darkness.

Book preview

Part I

(This chapter takes place immediately after the events of Descendants #7)

North of Wales, 1130 A.D.

Rain poured down in rippling curtains, making it difficult to see even a few feet in front of her nose even under the heavy tree cover that protected the path through the forest. In perfect weather, the trail was dusty, steep, and treacherous. In the deluge, it was a river of sucking mud. No person with any kindness would let even the most hated dog in their household out into such a downpour, much less volunteer to go out in it themselves.

But Elise of Hafren braved it. Bundled in a horse blanket against the driving rain, her feet bare for fear of losing her only pair of shoes, she pressed up the hill, sliding in the muddy soup all the way. She knew the way from following her father along it to the ancient stone house that squatted at the hill’s summit like a sleeping dragon.

Aside from herself, her father was the only person from the village to visit them. The folk who fished the river and tended the fields refused to consider the idea and called Marcus of Hafren mad to go willingly. They said the women who had taken up residence on the hill were witches.

In point of fact, that was why Marcus had moved to the sleepy village, taking his wife and only child from their comfortable home by the river to a dank, cold, thatch roofed cottage. He and his partner, Geoffrey of Monmouth, were embarking on an ambitious venture that few scribes of the day would even consider; they were writing an epic, the tale of the legendary bear-man who had defended the land against invaders in antiquity.

The plot was intricate and far reaching and involved a great deal of discussion of the occult. Being ostensibly men of God, neither man had dealings in the practice of magic and knew not where to begin; the druids were all but extinct, wizards the thing of myth and legend; that only left one source…

Lightning cracked in the sky, outlining the stone house with its brilliance. Elise felt a smile tug on her otherwise miserable and bedraggled lips. The folk of the village were right. The women of the house were glad to indulge her father and from their tales, Marcus had spun the character of Morganna la Fey, mighty sorceress.

She had heard the tales time and again as her father spoke constantly about his and Geoffrey’s works to her and her mother. Morganna was strong enough to match the greatest man who ever lived and essentially fight him to a stalemate on the virtue of her magic and guile.

Morganna was a woman who would make a father proud that he sired a daughter when he could have had a son. Magic was the ideal replacement for the sinew and broad shoulders she lacked.

Hauling herself out of the mud and onto the front step of the ancient edifice of stone, she pounded on the door with both hands.

***

Another World, September of 2074

It is living? a voice asked. All was blackness and pain, but the disembodied, genderless voice somehow found her through it all, sounding like the clear tone of a bell. She tried to reply, but all that came out was more discomfort, followed by hacking and gasping.

Yes, is living. Another speaker said, just as genderless, but with the melodic trill of a flute.

A great clod of dirt erupted from her throat, allowing air the finally make a triumphant return to her lungs. Her throat burned.

Is good it is living, no? the bell-voice said.

Yes, is good. Good for it, maybe good for us if is nice. The third voice brought to mind the dulcet notes of a harp.

How we know if is nice? the flute asked.

Gasping, she flipped herself on her back, feeling pressure ease on her chest and face that she hadn’t even noticed before. She gulped air as if it was the water of life itself, desperate not to lose contact with it again.

Important more so; we know what it is? the bell asked.

Am not knowing. The harp replied haughtily. Is very fat for spriggan, tall as well. No wings, so no is millennial.

Is short and thin and color of wet sand. Is no troll or ogre. The flute offered.

Could be daemon. The bell said, Daemon look like everything.

Puzzled by the odd conversation going on around her, she opened her eyes. Most of her vision was blocked by the leafy branches of strange trees she didn’t recognize. Their branches were light and waxy and their leaves broad and flat. But directly above her, many of those branches had been bent or knocked loose, leaving a hole through which she could see the sky.

It was no sky she had ever laid eyes upon. The sky she knew ran the gamut of shades of blue, giving way to whites, grays or the occasional black with the weather. Orange or red, the colors that accompanied the sun would also have been acceptable. A quick check of her ‘acquired’ memory told her that this at least hadn't changed in the interim save the addition of a few sick shades of yellow from something called ‘smog’.

The sky currently above her mocked all of that by being a rich, verdant green. Not just green, but roiling like the surface of the sea in a tempest, or the canopy of a forest lashed by storm-winds.

She didn’t have time to question the ceiling of the world because a glowing blob of violet light imposed itself between it and herself. Are awake now, yes? The harp-like voice was coming from the object hovering over her.

What… are you? Morganna croaked hoarsely. A will-o-the-wisps? Am I… dead? Against the protests of every muscle in her