Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Page 10

  Lord Death walks the cobblestones of Tonlith, He trods the corpses and wades the slow streams of blood and gore that overflow the streets. No longer is it a battle; it is nothing more than a slaughter. The men of Tolath fight with a wild abandon and shout in joy as their weapons and armor grow dull with their enemies' spraying blood. It is a victory as has not been had by them in this war, and they savor the destruction of the enemies with fierce delight. Delight that he shares.

  The elves are there, too, fighting as they always have, always will: viciously, ruthlessly, deadly. The dark host is devoured beneath the flashing' blades, and none escape their doom.

  The elves hunt the night through, as the humans collapse in exhaustion. The army of Tolath has lost few warriors in the battle; the dark ones have lost all. Mearead's troops had waged a similar decimation of the enemy in the hills, and the walls of Tonlith were decorated with the heads of thousands of goblins, wolves, and trolls. It was the most complete victory either army had experienced since the war had begun.

  And he enjoyed every minute of it....

  In a small audience hall still wet with blood, Ceallac, Bran, Shiel, and Cormac met. All four had small cuts and bruises but not one of the leaders had suffered a major wound. Through the thick stone walls the warlords could hear the ragged celebrating of the army of southern Tolath.

  "It doesn't make any sense," Bran said. The four sat at a battered table, the top covered with reports. The Earl of Althon shook the paper he held in his hand. "It was too simple, too. complete. It never should have happened!"

  "Aye, that's the truth of it," Shiel added, his face shadowed in the torch light. "I've fought these bastards over, about, and through these damnable mountains and I tell you that their warlords are smarter than this!"

  "It was beyond stupidity," Bran continued. "Are we supposed to believe all of a sudden an enemy that has shown itself to be, in every way, a brilliant strategist, would make such a blunder as this?"

  "Och, they gave us this slaughter, like one of their bloody offerings," Shiel said. "I cannae believe for a moment that this battle was fairly won."

  "You are both right," Ceallac answered. The elven prince sat rigid, his face hard. "There's a riddle here I cannot read."

  "For what possible reason," Cormac interjected, "would they throw forty thousand troops away?"

  "I cannot say." Ceallac shook his head slowly. "There can be no gain here for them. And," he continued, "I agree with the Lord Earl and General Shiel. This was not a tactical error; this was deliberate. The enemy wanted us to destroy this army. But why I cannot say."

  "Could it be that as Lord Shiel has said," Bran asked, "it is some black magic, some sacrifice we were unwitting partners to?"

  "Nay," the elven prince answered, "nay, for the demonic practice of sacrifice is ritualistic and there was no conjuring here. I would know if there had been."

  "Then for some unknown reason," Shiel's voice rasped in exhaustion, "the devils simply handed us the greatest victory of the war, improving our morale, wiping out a force they needed--''

  "And handing us the key to the mountains of Tivulic," a deep voice boomed out. All turned to face the speaker. Mearead walked into the hall, his footsteps echoing about the room. "I've found an entrance to the dwarven caves, and even now our men hold it."

  "So," Ceallac said, "it is done and we have accomplished our mission. We can now move into the caves and try and retake them."

  "Sure, and that will be no easy task." Shiel stood up and looked at the others. "We have the battle; we wiped out their forces: Ruegal is safe. Now, to be sure, we can move into the mountains because we've found a gate. And it isn't something we've been trying to do all summer long?" The general grimaced. "I wonder now, have any of you thought of the most important riddle? Where, by all the gods, is the dragon?"

  "Oh, lad," Mearead answered with a smile, "that's an easy one to answer. The dragon is no doubt in the caves of Tivulic. Waiting for us..."

  The maker, High Priest of the Hunter, brooded as he stared out the stone window of the tower. Through his mages he had learned of the victory at Tonith and the archmage had duly informed Lord Fin. But it was as clear to Fin and the wizard as it was to the leaders of the southern army that something was terribly wrong about this victory. It was simply too easy.

  The maker sighed, his breath forming a quick cloud in the cool night air. Winter is coming, he thought, time is ever against us. Even though so far all the plans set forth by the council were going perfectly, the wizard was hardly comforted.

  He was one of the few alive who had actively prepared for this war. For over thirty years, that had been his sole obsession, but the scope of it was beyond imagination, and the forces the allies called to their defense seemed to him woefully inadequate. So many had fallen, so many they could not spare. The loss of Trell'dem had been a personal blow to the maker, for the emperor had been the founder of the monks of the Hunter. But the greatest loss, the wizard now knew, was the loss of Dammuth.

  Earlier in the day, for the fifth time this week, the maker had tried to enter the tower of Dammuth. Again and again during the summer he had made the attempt, but he could not pass the barriers of protection that Dammuth had laid down about his workroom. And the Stalker master had learned something during those attempts. He had learned of the incredible power that Dammuth had wielded. It dwarfed the maker's and it seemed to him that only Lonnlarcan could match that power and he, too, had fallen.

  It was clear to the maker that Dammuth had died, but how the enemy could have managed such a deed was unfathomable to him. No poisoned dagger could ever have bought Dammuth, Arch Mage of the land, down. And that meant, of course, that none of them were safe from the assassins' attack.

  The empire now looked to the maker to fill the void that Dammuth's death had caused, but the monk hardly felt capable of such a daunting task. He dug his hand into his fine, blond hair and turned from the window, walking toward his bed with a sigh. He sat down on the.bed and clasped his hands. There clearly on his right hand were the pale scars of a swordsman, for that is how the maker had begun his long path to this place in time.

  Rys Longfinger he had been called and in battle he had proven to be a fine bladesman. He had fought for the empire in the Dark Siegn wars, one of the few humans left who had done so. He remembered clearly that long war, the great powers that fought, the coming of the Beast, the rising of Fealoth, the great dragons' triumph, their power with bright flames slashing the night air. He remembered it all, but most of all, he remembered Dammuth.

  Dammuth fought in every major battle. He alone went to the lands of the Dark Siegn and defeated the greatest of the dragons, Sessthon. To Rys, Dammuth had seemed more of a god than Fealoth ever had and the Stalker master knew he could never equal the grandeur and glory of the great Arch Mage.

  The maker lay back on the bed, closing his eyes so that his memories might gain shape in his imagination. The long path, he thought, the long path through time that he had walked, the years gone by, barely aging him as his companions one by one passed on. The call of magic and finally the mightier call of the god. The Hunter seeking human allies and a new path for men to trod that they might confront the trials the god knew were ahead, trials that the wizard knew were greater than had ever been faced in the Dark Siegn wars, though that seemed truly incomprehensible. His mind turned from the thoughts of Rys, lost so long ago in the quick passage of day and night, and turned to his god. The Hunter, the Lone One, once husband of the goddess, the Ancient One. The Hunter, hard, cold, vicious, but never stained with cruelty--and with that thought the mage slipped into the warmth of sleep.

  Slowly, he felt the gray darkness recede, until once more his mind formed images. They were hard and indistinct at the same time and he could make no sense of them.

  "You are my priest," the colors said to him, "my High Priest, first that I have ever had." And a bright flash of claws swiped at him. "Read the riddles, maker. It is your destiny, it is what I have calle
d you for. It is not the answers I need." Fangs devoured the pumping flesh. "It is the proper questions." And then emptiness once more.

  The maker struggled to wake, so that he might decipher the god's sending, but something held him still. The empty void filled, though this time the images held no color. He stood on a dark plain; sharp, black peaks surrounded him and the land was covered with a thick mist. Though he did not move, the sensation of motion was inescapable, as the peaks seemed to race toward him. At the base of a great crag-filled mountain a dim line of dirty white light appeared, and still unmoving he rushed toward it.

  As he approached, the light fractured until before him stood a line of pale forms. There were women, of many races. Each stood naked before him, and unmoving, their eyes pure black orbs. He could not tell how many there were, for numbers and measurements meant nothing in this world. Then one by one they began to topple, falling as statues would; but as each landed the wizard could see a bloody knife jutting from their backs. Only once did he make a sound, for he cried out as he recognized the face of Rhee, wife of Trell'dem, but he could make no move to help her and she in her turn fell.

  And so the ghastly vision continued until only one form remained. She did not fall but stood unmoving as her flesh ripped from her whole, until only the revealed red, blue muscles, and fat remained. Slowly, these corrupted, as her organs did, decomposing before the maker's eyes, into a wet slosh that flowed down to make a grisly pile at her feet. Then when all that remained was a wet skeleton still retaining a few fragments of meat, she reached to him. But even as she did, the bones, too, began to crumble and mix with the horrid stew at her feet.

  Suspended above the rotting pile was a shimmering length of light, and quickly it darted toward the gray sky. But something grasped and held the strand and forbade its passage. It was a thing of fire and darker powers, but the wizard could make no sense of it. A cold wind blew about him and it picked up the stripped flesh and ballooned it into a ghastly parody of life. In this empty shell the light, now darkening in despair, was thrust through the mouth.

  The maker stared at the grotesquely flapping skin, his eyes seeking the light, but unable to find it. The face he realized was somehow familiar, somehow recognizable; it reminded him of--

  "Niall," he said aloud, and the general stood before him, though his back was to the apparition of the woman. Niall's eyes were like those of the woman, solid black, though they seemed liquid in the odd light of this world. Though he was human in features, there was a fluidity and strength to the general that recalled the elves. Niall, too, held his hand out to the maker as the woman before him had. His hand was held rigid as if gnarled by age, and about his finger a dark blue flame burned.

  "What happened to all the women?" the maker asked him, but Niall had no answer. His form seemed transparent and wavered at each breath of the wind.

  "So the god sends me an offering," a voice interrupted and abruptly the maker felt his feet touch the hard earth. He spun to confront the voice and caught his breath at the sight before him.

  That it was a demon prince he could tell by the evil it exuded like a clinging mist. It stood above him, thrice his size, and its eyes burned yellow. Its form was black and indistinct, though the maker could see one arm was handless.

  "This is becoming a new vocation for me." The demon laughed, showing foot-long fangs. "Killing wizards, I mean."

  "Father," the maker prayed, "save your son." The demon laughed again and pointed to the highest mountain, and there a green ghost light, covering the tops of the black peaks, glowed. The wizard's magic showed him the form of Arianrood in the middle of that nimbus of power. A great fist appeared, beating against her magic, striving to break through.

  "You have been causing problems, Rys Nimblefingers," the demon said. And at his words the maker felt all his power stripped from him and he fell to his knees at the brutal magic of the dark prince. "Though I grant that traitor dragon has done more to harm us than you ever could." The demon looked down, and the maker was knocked to his stomach by the power there.

  "Crawl, worm." The demon's great foot lifted. "Crawl before your master!" And with that the foot came down, crushing the man beneath it.

  A great cry shook the dark land and the rocks and stones split at that sound. Arianrood's bar was broken and the Hunter entered. He howled once at the demon, but it disappeared in a flash of fire and laughter. The god turned to Arianrood and his eyes were like two great red suns.

  "You dare to lift your hand against me?" And his anger stained the dark land with a blackness it had never known. One great hand swept the Ead off the mountain, flinging her through the air with the ease of a child throwing a doll. But she, too, escaped in a blast of magic.

  The god stood a mile high, but his form dwindled to that of a man as he made his way to the corpse of his follower. He reached down and held the maker to his breast, shaking off the shadow hand that held the maker's cold shoulder.

  "Brother, could you not have withheld your black hand?" the Hunter cried to the shadow that stood before him.

  "You know I could not," Lord Death answered, "not here." The Hunter's fierce gaze turned from the other and looked straight at Niall. At that look Niall's eyes turned gray once more and he blanched at what he saw.

  "They did not know of you," the god said--nearly was it an accusation. "--so you must remember." Niall just shook his head numbly.

  "What happened to all the women, Niall?" Death asked, and for a moment, long and true, the heart of Niall ap Mannon stopped upon hearing the voice of Death. With a sharp pain it began again, as he felt himself pulled away. He was sucked to the sky faster and faster. The two shadow forms dwindled beneath him, the cold corpse of the maker white between them.

  "The answers are in the questions," the Hunter said, and Niall heard no more.

  C H A P T E R

  Nine

  For a week the army of Aes Lugh had wormed its way through the terrible swamps of the Devastation. Though winter was fast approaching, the swamps held the heat of the summer; the land was wet and unsure underfoot. The trees were warped and bent, trailing stringy vines instead of leaves. Thickets of brambles ten feet high and an acre broad had to be avoided, or hacked through one foot at a time. The once mighty river of Kiennon was now a slow, vast thickness of sludge that hardly resembled water at all. The air was cloying and stuck to the lungs like an incorporeal spider web, and the humans began to sicken from a variety of diseases.

  It was more than demoralizing for the army. Even the elves seemed to grow dim in the dank light of the swamp and many began to wonder if they would ever escape the clinging grip of the Devastation.

  Many creatures inhabited the swamp, but they were bent and twisted things, warped by the dark magic that had blasted this place long years ago. Patrols disappeared, scouts were found raving in madness, and in the morning a handful of those who had died in the night were always found. It was enough to break the strongest, to drive fear into the souls of the bravest, but for Margawt it was much worse than that.

  The swamp wasn't just a land holding evil and wrongness, it was in itself a thing of corruption. The earth itself was diseased, putrefying all that grew in it and on it. It was for Margawt an agony beyond any torment he had ever borne. For if a hell had been devised to torture the Morigunamachamain, then this place would be it.

  Donal Longsword was not unaware of what the swamp was doing to Margawt. He had not forgotten the words of the Hunter, and that the god had told him to befriend the Morigu, but the half-elven was the warlord of this army and his responsibilities were many. So it was that he found himself thinking not of Margawt this gray morning, but of the body of the brown elf found not three feet from the perimeter of the camp. Maeve came up to the small circle of guards that surrounded the corpse and knelt down beside it. She examined the wounds carefully, for the brown elf had deep, long slashes on the inside of each arm, and it was apparent to all that something had restrained him until he bled to death.

&n
bsp; "So close to the camp," Donal said. Maeve did not look up at the warlord. She just cradled the corpse's head in her lap and rocked back and forth. Donal motioned for the others to leave, then went down on one knee. He said nothing, waiting for the woman to speak.

  "I don't know him," she finally said. "I never even knew his name."

  "I'm sorry," Donal answered. Maeve nodded her head slowly as if agreeing.

  "It was a terrible death." Her voice was soft. "For anyone, Donal Longsword, for anyone." She put her arms under the body and stood up. The sprawled body in her arms was a grotesque sight and Donal moved to help.

  "No," she said. "He followed my banner; he is my responsibility." She sighed and sniffed once. "So many of them I don't know, and they'll die following me, before I ever have the chance to even learn their names." Donal stood up, his giant frame casting a shadow that covered the elf.

  "I wish I had words of comfort for you," he said, "but there is truly no glory, no honor, no victory that can wash the blood off the hands of a leader."

  "We should at least know their names," she insisted. Donal shrugged and for a moment the two stood silent, the sorrow a palpable weight that enveloped both of them.

  "He says he knows their names," Donal finally said.

  "Who?"

  "The Morigu. He says he knows the names of all the dead."

  "Then his burden is greater than mine," the queen of the brown elves answered. She walked back to the camp still holding the corpse, but her eyes were dry and her shoulders straight, and in that moment Donal admired her as much as he had ever admired any living being. He watched till her form receded and was lost in the vastness of the camp, knowing she would not bury the dead elf here. None of the dead of the army of Aes Lugh were buried here. Indeed there was a whole new addition to the army, as wagons had been built to carry the corpses of those who fell to the darkness of the swamps of the Devastation.