Morigu: Book 01 - The Desecration Page 10

  "You've lost, little man," the demon sneered, "and with your heart I will make great magic!" The demon shoved Dammuth's heart into the ruin of his face. But it could not block out Dammuth's thoughts.

  "No, you won't." Unbelievably, the thought voice was gentle and sad. "You have lost for all time and you shall never even know it."

  With that thought, Dammuth, Wizard of Light, Warrior of the Star, Dragonslayer, died. The heart imploded and a glowing blue fluid spread across the demon's hand. The Prince looked at it in surprise. Suddenly, he shouted in pain once more as the glowing blue fluid that had been the wizard's heart dissolved the demon's hand like acid. In seconds, it was totally dissolved. Crying with rage, the demon lifted his good hand in the air and was enveloped in a sheet of flame, already working to forget the wizard's last words.

  All that was left in the room of shadows as proof of the great battle, of one man's ultimate defiance and victory, was a few melted candles and the mutilated corpse of an old man.

  A door of light brightened the shadowed room and the scruffy owl flew in. Slowly, it took in the mangled body of its master, the melted candles. It breathed the gangrenous smell of the Dark Ones. The owl flew to the chest, its yellow eyes focusing intently on the inside lid. Small, three-dimensional figures formed and replayed the battle for the owl's sad eyes. The eyes turned a piercing green.

  The images focused on the dead body of the wizard for a moment, and then the whole chest misted over and dripped to the floor as if it had been formed of water. The owl/familiar flew to its master, to its friend. Slowly, it bobbed its head, once, twice, three times, then flew from the room.

  The owl flew out of the tower and headed toward Aes Lugh. The enemy had killed the last great wizard. Except for Arianrood and what magic the elves and dwarves had, there was nothing to stand in the Dark Ones' way. Armies weren't enough. Murdering Dammuth was a smart move, as Trell'dem's assassination had been.

  'Smart,' thought the owl, 'except for one thing, the one thing they don't know: Margawt's love for the old wizard. ...' A grim purpose stirred the spirit's soul. 'We don't possess great magic, but we have the greatest Morigu that has ever lived, and you've just killed his only friend, you bastards.'

  But when Dammuth's anger had formed the mighty fist, not all the powers turned from him as the gods had. For there were other powers, powers that Dammuth had forgotten, that the Dark had forgotten.

  One stood above the destruction Dammuth's magic had created. He stood tall, taller than the sky. His hand was vast and touched all living things. But such was he that none, god or man, dead or undead, could see him if he did not wish it so.

  He had heard Dammuth, he heard the thousand cries of war. For as long as he could remember, as long as anything had lived, he had heard these cries, and he had answered.

  But now, this time, it was different, it was wrong. He laughed though there was none who could hear. Not even the Chained One could hear his laughter....

  'Wrong,' he thought, 'wrong. And am I not blamed for all that is wrong? Am I not the great enemy?' With that his laughter died. 'No, I have known sympathy. My touch has not always been unwelcome. Not all spurned my gift, not those who know, not those who understand. I am the equalizer! I am the doorway!' A light began to burn in the pits where his eyes hid.

  'But the doorway, all doorways, could be shattered in this war, the true war, the war that has existed since before time had begun.... Would he be broken? Dwindled? Corrupted? Or even'--again his laughter shook him, 'die?! Should I fear?' he asked, but there was no one to answer him. He was the answer.

  He was not like the other humans called gods, he was as nothing else, singular, the only being truly alone in all the many universes. And he did not know fear, could-not know fear, for he was fear....

  "I hear," he cried to the millions upon millions that could not hear him. "I hear, I see, I know." And he detached himself from himself. He coalesced into another form, a heavy grey shadow. And he stood, upon the highest of all mountains, a being that none could see.

  "I shall break my bounds," he said, and all things that lived upon the mountain died at the voice he let them hear. "I shall do that which I was not meant to do! I shall take sides! I shall fight! I, I will make war!" And he laughed again, and though his laughter killed, it was the music and beauty of that sound, not its deadliness, that mortal souls could not bear.

  "I shall reach for him! The Dark Lord will feel my touch! I shall do that which I am incapable of! For who is the greatest warrior if not I?" He took in the whole world with his sight, even as his hand continued to reach across the globe, across the universe.

  "Yes, I shall do that which I have forbidden myself. And who," he asked, "who shall say me nay. Who shall judge Death?"

  But even as he, Lord Death, dared to test his very being, the wizard cast his magic and the demon Prince answered. And Death, Lord Death, fell silent. He watched all, he claimed the fallen, but still was he silent. He heard the great wizard's last thoughts, and he did not turn from their wisdom.

  "I did not need this sacrifice," and with these words he let the gods know his thoughts. But they did not understand them. Death knew, he knew that even in the golden realm, sides had been taken. And Death was not one to warn an enemy, though in truth he was hard-pressed to remember a time when he truly had an enemy. Those that defeated him were not often in his disfavor.

  Finally he touched the wizard, and the cord was unbound. Lord Death shook his giant head, his feet straddling the world. He watched Dammuth's soul leap and dance to the beyond.

  'Unbelievable,' he thought, 'few humans are strong enough to be accepted in my halls, but this one has leapt over my domain and gone on...' He watched silently the laughing souls following Dammuth, those who fell fighting Hell.

  "Hell! Can you imagine?!" He shouted. "Fighting Hell itself!" The audacity! The glory! He took one more look at the great multihued radiance of all that was the wizard, wondering where it went. He was the door, but even he was unsure where those who passed him went. And this one, who knows? If Death cannot say, who could?

  Such a tale--his mind spun with the music of it. Such a tale, but it was not his to sing. In the fullness of time Dammuth's fall would become known; it was not for him to tell. There were limits even Death could not break, and though he would have refused Dammuth's death, he could not. . . though he wished to sing the tale, who was there to hear? It was impossible for him to talk to mortals on the world's plane; they were so fragile.

  'A shame,' he thought, 'this would inspire them so....'

  "The glory," he shouted to the multitudes who did not hear him, "is this not true glory?! Is this not what life and death are meant to be?" But there was no one to stand at his side. He sought through to the world. 'There,' he thought, 'there. My brother can hear, my brother can see.' With that he separated again and called his golden chariot to him, racing to the world, racing to war.

  C H A P T E R

  Six

  The last day in May should have been a bright morning, but the sun was covered by sullen clouds, concealed by the fires of war and the magic of the Dark Ones. It made the light mute and thin, dusk instead of dawn.

  The leaders of Tolath's Third Army, surrounded by their officers, stood upon a low hill facing the battlefield layed out at their feet. The warriors were massed in three groups. The right flank, mainly foot soldiers and archers, held the bank of the Dudny River. The left held a small area of woods and rough foothills; there was stationed a like force with a small cavalry brigade in support. The center was held by the empire's finest. The foot soldiers were set on a low ridge, their shields locked, their spears placed. In front of them waited the cavalry of Tolath, some 2500 strong, led by three hundred knights of the Green Branch.

  The Warlord Crane looked up from his camp stool.

  "General Ernet," his voice was harsh, "you have the right flank." The general bowed and with his officers behind him, mounted and rode off. "General Fintan," the slim warrior saluted,
"the left." Fintan nodded and did the same.

  "That leaves the center to me, eh?" Laird Fin smiled down at the Warlord.

  "Afraid so." Crane reached down at his feet and picked up a wine flask, taking a deep drink. He offered it to Fin, who just shook his head no.

  "Ah, well," the commander said, "for once we have chosen the field, for once we have a chance." Crane sucked his teeth as he remembered the many defeats already. "We have to hold them, Fin. If we don't, all that's between them and Tolan is Comar, and we could never hold that city against them."

  "Aye," the Laird answered, "they took Dulatia in two days. They'll take Comar in one." Both thought of Baron Teague who had fallen along with his city. The three had been friends for twenty years. Neither mentioned their dead comrade. There were too many deaths to remember.

  "It's up to you, Fin. They'll throw everything they've got against you." The Laird of Dun Scaga looked out at the advancing army. They held no ranks, just marched as one dark mass. He grasped his sword hilt.

  "The magic," he said quietly.

  "The magic," Crane rubbed his eye with a scarred hand, "and without Dammuth...." Again there was silence between the two. Both wrestled with the same question. Less than a week ago the wizard had disappeared. Was Dammuth dead? Or did he, like so many, betray them? Without the Arch Mage the empire had few magicians left, and none with the power to openly confront the enemy.

  "It will be the Green Branch that decides the day," Crane said abruptly.

  "Perhaps," Fin pulled his mind back to the battle, "perhaps, we have some small magic of our own, and we can resist the enemy's power better than any of the others."

  "It's you, Fin, you and your knights. If you falter, it will be another rout, another slaughter."

  The Laird of Dun Scaga reached out and grasped the Warlord's shoulder. He thought of his son, Fergus, left to hold his land and his castle. He thought of his dead wife, of all the many dead. He gripped Crane so hard, the Warlord could feel the pressure beneath his mail coat.

  "We will not fail, not this time." Fin's voice was pitched so low Crane had to strain to hear it. "Not this time...." With that the clan Laird left to take his command.

  The Warlord sat on the hill, silent as the enemy army moved closer. For the first time in two months his heart felt light. They had lost Trell'dem and Crane was sure the Dark Ones had killed Dammuth. Half the high command had been wiped out in those first weeks, but still, there was Fin. There were others, but most of all, he thought, there was Fin.

  He got up, calling his officers to him, his mind filling with a hope, with a phrase pounding in his blood--"Not this time...."

  Mathwei ap Niall shuddered as the beat of the enemy drums reached his ears, his horse dancing beneath him. He touched the little vial of poison hanging around his neck. All the warriors of Tolath's Third Army wore the poison. No one had any intentions of being caught by the Dark Ones.

  "Captain," a young orderly tugged on Mathwei's stirrups, "Sergeant Kai says all the men are in position."

  "Fine, son, now you get behind the lines," replied Mathwei, little realizing the youth was but six months his junior. The orderly took off running for the rear.

  "He's the lucky one," Dak, the standard bearer mumbled. Mathwei pretended not to hear. His mind raced over his orders as the enemy came into view. He led the cavalry on the left flank. He was to move, strike, retreat, keep the enemy off balance so the warriors behind could hold their positions.

  "Damn," he spit, watching the horde move closer. In the front ranks of the enemy were gibbering, dancing goblins. Though goblins were strong, they were slow. Mathwei knew that in a fair fight his warriors could demolish goblin foot soldiers. But there were no fair fights in this war. This was the fourth major battle since the invasion and it looked to the cavalry captain that it would be the fourth to be lost.

  The Third Army of Tolath consisted of what was left of the First, all the troops of the Southern March, a couple thousand free men, some four thousand reinforcements from the north, and the three hundred knights of the Green Branch. All told, some twelve thousand warriors, but it was not enough.

  The invaders had at least fifteen thousand goblins. Scattered among them were a few units of black dwarves, some dark cave trolls, gargoyles, etc. But by far the worst were the undead. Zombies, the walking dead, many who had once been warriors of Tolath.

  Now they were the enemy's most feared fighters. The zombies were weak, but nearly impossible to defeat. If a man was bitten by one he would bloat up, turn black, and die within a week. There was no cure for the deadly plague.

  "Damn," he said louder, "how do you kill the dead?" He inspected the enemy carefully.

  "Thank Lugh," he sighed in relief. No dark wizards or undead faced his men.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes and turned to look at his warriors. Every one of them was a veteran. In this war, surviving one battle was enough to make one a veteran. Their swords were nicked, their chain-mail shirts dirty and battered. Many had lost their helmets and only a few retained thigh guards. Each man carried an eight-foot spear with a crossguard between the foot-long blade and the shaft, long swords, round shields of embossed wood, and short stabbing swords.

  Mathwei sighed at the sight of the goblin heads at the ends of spears, saddles, belts, and even pinned to shields.

  Noticing his look, Dak spoke up. "You can't blame them, Captain. It's been too much, sir, too damn much. They've watched their friends butchered, wounded, tortured, and gods preserve us, how many times must they watch that?" Dak pointed to the grisly tableau before them.

  A score of goblins stepped out from their ranks. They carried a large reinforced pole and a struggling human. Quickly, they surrounded the human, and a pounding, followed by cries of pain, was heard. The pole was raised, the man dangling from it. Early in the war, the goblins had taken to using crucified men as their war banners.

  On Mathwei's right, a shower of arrows rose from the Bantry archers stationed there. Predictably, a wall of flame intercepted the missiles. Not one reached its target.

  "Damn, damn, damn," Mathwei swore over and over.

  "Lugh protect us, save us Lugh." The murmur passed through the ranks as the victims' cries reached a new crescendo. No one prayed to Fealoth anymore. His priests were ineffective against the undead. It was Fealoth who was supposed to stop just what was happening. Mathwei sighed. "Fealoth," he murmured.

  There was only one answer. Fealoth had been overthrown, destroyed by the Dark One he had defeated 150 years ago. Now everyone turned to the old gods. The young god, Fealoth, was dead. There was no help there.

  Mathwei signaled to his bugler. "Advance, Walk," was sounded. The warriors kicked their mounts and moved into the waiting dark embrace. He turned to Dak and smiled, his smile engraved in a pale face. "Dak, pass it down the line. The first order of business is to kill that poor bastard on the pole. There will be no retreat unless I command it. Anyone found running, I'll spit on my sword. One more thing, Dak," he leaned over the horse's neck, his eyes sharp as his weapons, "pass along the line: Today, Mathwei ap Niall collects his first goblin head."

  Dak angled his horse to the troops behind, his only answer an inarticulate shout of defiance.

  The two hosts clashed with a great roar. The horde of Darkness howled its hate. The army of Tolath cried its outrage. Fireballs exploded into the humans, bursting with great gouts of flame. Lightning bolts arced from the sky, and darker magic killed by the score.

  At one point a wind elemental appeared in front of a cavalry charge. In minutes, half of the cavalrymen were dead or dying. The rest ran for their lives.

  All across the four-mile battlefield it was the same. The human units would defeat the enemy, throwing them back only to be routed themselves by some arcane blast of magic.

  The few humans left with any knowledge of magic dared not use their powers in contention against the dark ones. They used what power they had to heal the wounded and to keep supplies fresh. This was enou
gh to tax them to their limits.

  The warriors fought stubbornly on. Too many times had they fled and listened to the enemy's laughter. No more, each man told himself, victory or death. The cry was taken up. Soon the chant was picked up by the whole army. "Death. Death." With one voice the warriors cried, and for the first time since the war had begun, the evil hordes knew fear.

  And He heard them, He heard them cry His name. He rode his chariot with the humans, silent, unseen, except for those who felt his touch. He spread his power and gave strength to the warriors' arms. He heard them and answered as only He could.

  The humans pressed on, deserting their positions across the field. No leader could stop them, even if one had been inclined. The battle madness infected them all. This day, this day they would be the reapers, this day they would have revenge.

  Dak, Mathwei's sergeant, was the first to reach the crucified soldier. With one quick thrust he ended the man's life. Seconds later, two javelins pierced Dak's armor. He pitched off the horse and knew he was dying. "I'm glad I was the first," he told the blood-drenched earth. "It was worth it."

  Magic or no, the enemy could not stop the empire's advance. Goblins died by the thousands. The humans fought like madmen and even the undead held no fear for them.

  The knights of the Green Branch led the advance. They kept three lines of horses. The first would charge and break off, then the second would charge and break off, the third, charge and break off. Already a hundred of the feared knights were down, but still they kept their lines, charge and break off, charge and break off. The enemy, folding underneath the relentless pressure, turned and ran.

  The Dark Ones' magic began to go awry. A fireball meant for Tolath's cavalry destroyed its casters instead. Concentration was broken in the midst of a spell, their power became misdirected, as simple mistakes began to kill their own troops. They couldn't understand it, couldn't fight it, and the leaders began to join their army in flight.