Morigu: Book 01 - The Desecration Page 11

  And above it all, heard only by the dying, a wild laughter filled the field, and a golden chariot trampled the fallen.

  Mathwei led his men in a crossing pattern, slashing at the fleeing goblins. He tried to shout his triumph but his dry throat would only let out a gasp. For a moment he became separated from his men. Dark forms rushed by him, running, running. But one stood and waited for the warrior.

  It rode a skeletal horse with eyes of green flame. The rider was pale, bloodless, its eyes bulging and red veined. The vampire bared its fangs at Mathwei.

  "Die," it hissed, drawing a wicked scimitar. Unhesitantly, Mathwei kicked his horse and charged the apparition. The two swords clashed with a shower of sparks, but the spectre was too powerful for Mathwei. Before he could withdraw, the scimitar darted beneath his guard and slid through the mail chest, even as a clawed hand ripped the throat of Mathwei's mount. Man and horse collapsed in a heap.

  Mathwei rolled away from the animal's death throes and jumped to his feet to meet the attack that would surely be his last. The ripped tissue in his chest tried to respond, but the pain was too much and the warrior fell to his knees.

  "Death." He tried to shout at the vampire, who wheeled his mount around, its eyes turning red in bloodlust.

  Lord Death heard that cry, so small amongst all the sounds of the battlefield. He had read Dammuth's soul as the wizard departed. He had seen this young warrior in Dammuth's heart. This he could do, this he would do.

  A wave of a shadow hand, a burst of wind deflecting an arrow, the missile sticking the vampire through the neck. It fell from its mount, and was covered by a wave of retreating goblins. Mathwei's men rode up, surrounding their captain, bringing him from the field. As the pain overcame him and Mathwei felt healing sleep numb him, he heard a voice, sad and silent.

  "Twice have I let you go, young warrior. The third time you must join me in my halls."

  And all across the battlefield the goblins and their allies fled in terror. They had lost the battle and wished only to save their lives.

  A mile away from Mathwei, three figures of horror stood. The tallest stood some eight feet. It was a vaguely human skeleton with bits and pieces of muscle and flesh holding the bones together. The skull had two sickly yellow-green luminous worms spinning in endless circles where the eyes should be.

  "We have lost." The voice was a whisper of branches cracking beneath a heavy foot. "They still have spirit." But he felt uneasy. There was something else here. Something that was more a threat to him than to the others. He was Lord of the Undead, but the humans' chant of "Death" had unnerved him. There was something more, something more....

  The second figure was about six feet tall. It would have looked human except for the albinic flesh and hair and the extended spinal ridge along its back. The demon was a hermaphrodite and displayed its oddity with perverse pride. It raised a three-fingered hand.

  "Yes, lost, but not defeated." The voice was cool, soft. "Still, the master will be displeased." The figure shifted and moved forward with its back to the battle. Its reddish eyes, slitted like a snake's, stared at the burnt grass where its feet stood a moment before.

  "The fortunes of war," said the first, its laughter made weirder by the hollow rattle of air through bone.

  "Still," continued the second, "still, I think those over-zealous Green Branch knights are most to blame. I think it is time they were withered. Yes, withered." It turned its back to its companions and began an incantation in a high-pitched voice.

  The third figure sighed. He was less worried about how the master would feel. They would win the war. Who cared about a few thousand goblins, more or less? 'A gesture does seem in order, though,' the demon prince thought.

  He was less than three feet tall. He looked to be a rather insignificant imp. The red scaly skin was highlighted in yellow and his wings looked too weak to carry his grossly overweight body. He jumped off the giant rat he had" been riding, patted him affectionately on the back, and watched the hermaphrodite with interest.

  The skeleton shifted its attention to the imp. If there was any doubt as to who was the leader here, one had only to look in the skeleton's eyes as he watched the diminutive figure caress the rat. The glowworms turned a purple-greyish color. They cast a violet shadow on the creature's face. There was fear in that glow, fear and terror.

  "Well," said the imp in a pleasing and melodious voice, "I think I need a new mount." With that, he patted the rat once more. At his touch it squealed in a human voice and thrashed around on the ground, trying to dislodge the large larvae that had appeared on its back and were even now digging into its flesh.

  The skeleton shivered and said no word.

  The imp watched the rat dispassionately for a few minutes. The hermaphrodite shrieked a word and a red streak flew from its hand straight toward Tolath's army.

  "Yes, you are right. Some gesture is in order here. And I think Warlord Crane has enjoyed his victory long enough." The imp made several quick motions in the air and a blot of blackness, a tear in the very fabric of reality, appeared from his brow. It was slowly moving toward the victorious army. "Yes," said the imp, "a new mount would suit me fine."

  The evil army fled the field losing all order. Behind them they left nearly three-fourths of their comrades. For miles, the dark shapes of goblins, trolls, and wolves dotted the countryside in the twisted shapes of defeat, and lying next to them were the dead and dying of Tolath's finest.

  Fin, Laird of Dun Scaga, emptied his canteen over his head. The lukewarm water did little to relieve his exhaustion. All around him the knights of the Green Branch tried to collect themselves and bind their wounds.

  "Fin, get off that horse and have a shot with us," a knight called across the clearing. The knights had found a clearing relatively free of the dead. Some of the younger warriors were decapitating the few enemy corpses around.

  Fin looked at the knights who called to him and slowly shook his head. A shadow seemed to stand near him and whisper that it wasn't over, that he shouldn't dismount. He longed to throw off his armor and weapons as the others had, but the voice was incessant. 'Ridiculous,' thought the knight to himself, 'I am hearing voices now.' But he stayed on his horse. A lonely sentinel, battered and weary, but he stayed on the horse.

  One warrior leapt to his feet, the sudden movement startling the others. "Arm!" the knight cried. "The Dark Lord reaches for retribution! The trees crack, the leaves wither. Beware, the Sword itself melts!" The knights leapt to their feet, grabbing weapons, the pump of adrenaline in them a palpable force as the men threw off their exhaustion. Fin shifted his grip on his lance. All the knights searched for the attack they knew would come. The warning had been given by Malachai, and all had learned to heed his witch sight.

  The men stopped their frantic arming as a sound rose in volume all around them. It was-the sigh of a great animal, a storm on the ocean, and it was coming to them.

  "Woe," cried Malachai, "the Fire Lord calls us to Hell. The Green Branch is withered." Fin's mind raced as he tried to decipher the warnings.

  "What," he mumbled, "what attacks us?" He heard a soft whisper, the fall of leaves in a silent forest: salamander.

  Even as Fin registered the whisper the sighing stopped, and with a crash the fire elemental landed in the midst of the knights.

  It was at least twelve feet in length. The upper part of its body was human and colored a deep black. The human torso flowed into an elongated tail with no legs. The tail ended with a wicked-looking pincer and was covered with red scales. The creature radiated a terrible heat, its tail flicking fire as it thrashed about. The four knights it landed amongst burst into flame, their cries reverberating across the clearing.

  Immediately, the others attacked the demon. The few who made it close enough to the creature found the weapons useless against the salamander's flesh. In minutes, the air was full of the smell of burning flesh and molten metal. Weapons were melted, men were crushed by the slap of the awesome tail, eyes burned b
efore a warrior could strike, arrows charred to cinders as they struck the creature. But still the knights attacked.

  The demon was meant to destroy them, and they knew that there was no running. It was a personal challenge, and though the men shivered with fear as their comrades died in agony, still they fought.

  Fin moved his horse around the salamander. He knew why he had been chosen to fight this creature. He had several small salamanders at Dun Scaga. They had been given to an ancestor by a wizard before the Dark Seign wars. In Fin's great-grandfather's time, one of the elementals had escaped and was finally killed by his great-uncle Don. The story was told and retold in the family. Fin knew there was only one way to kill a salamander. In the cleft where the creature's human back merged into the red scales of the tail, there is a raised vertebra. Between this vertebra and the tail, a weapon could be driven into the monster, here and only here. Unless one had magic. "Which," snorted Fin, "we have woefully little of."

  Fin tried to shout this knowledge to the others but the sounds of the battle were too loud. Already a score of warriors were down and Fin realized he had only minutes before the creature finished them all off.

  The salamander was not twisting and turning around as most of its kind do to protect its one weak spot. With a thrill of hope, Fin realized the salamander was sure of its strength and was not protecting itself at all.

  He rode the horse toward the monster. One part of his mind wondered at the horse; it should not be moving toward the fire demon. Though as well trained as a war horse could be, its fear of fire should make it bolt, even as all the other horses had already. Fin kicked it into a gallop and a cry of triumph burst from his throat.

  As he approached, the salamander turned to face Fin. It was too late to stop the charge. His chance was lost. All would die because he failed. Fin's soul wailed in desperation. So close, so close....

  As the monster's heat began to bring out blisters on Fin's metal-encased hands, a cry broke to his right.

  "Scaga!" He heard his ancient war cry and Malachai charged the salamander from the other side. His hand flew up and a bottle burst against the creature's snout. The whiskey, ignited by the creature's own heat, flamed up and momentarily blinded it. It turned toward Malachai and lunged at him. With a mighty blow, Malachai chopped at the hand, his sword splintering and melting at the same time. The black hand grabbed the warrior around the waist and as his body caught fire, Malachai drew his dagger and stabbed at the demon's eyes.

  Fin spurred his horse into a gallop and he lowered his lance. The salamander's entire attention was on Malachai. The ridged back and flashing tail filled Fin's entire vision. The ride took forever, but Fin knew he would make it. Though heat still radiated from the creature, Fin could stand it. It was using its full powers on Malachai.

  The horse's mane began to singe and shrivel. Everywhere that metal touched Fin's flesh, it began to smoulder. But he didn't care. His whole being was centered around a six-inch square of black flesh. The salamander dropped Malachai's burning body and began to turn toward the sound of hoof-beats, but two more knights recklessly attacked it from the front, and even as it tried to decide what to do, the lance pierced its flesh.

  Fin and the horse were one creature, and their weight pushed the lance through the demon with terrific power. The lance sunk four feet of its length into the salamander, pushing out through the other side in an explosion of fire and black blood. The creature arched with a high-pitched scream, the only sound it had made throughout the whole battle. A spasmodic thrust of its tail sent Fin and his horse reeling through the air. He crashed into the ground some twenty feety away. The air seemed incredibly cool, but Fin knew he was dead, his lungs were burned, shriveled, his face a ruin of melted flesh. He opened his left eye--the right didn't seem to work at all--to stare up at a shadow.

  Fin knew it was time and reached his hand to the shadow, but it shook its head, and kneeling down, touched the warrior's chest. His body was filled with a cool wind that whipped about inside him. As the wind healed his flesh, he realized the agony his body had been suffering. He let out a scream without knowing it. But as his body arched in the pain of healing, his mind laughed with joy. For Fin, Laird of Dun Scaga, knew he wouldn't die this day. And he heard a voice answer, "Not this time...."

  Warlord Crane sighed and took another sip of his wine. He sat on a camp stool, surrounded by officers and aides. The younger ones all had the flushed look of the victorious, but Crane felt none of their elation.

  "Very good," he sighed to the officer that had just given his report. 'Take as many men as you can and help search for the wounded." The officer saluted and left.

  Crane stretched his greying body and moved his bulk on the flimsy stool. He stood over six-four and though his body was beginning to lose its tone with age, Crane was a massively imposing man. "Fintan, Ernet, send the others away."

  The two generals dismissed the other officers and squatted down around the Warlord. Crane looked the two over. 'Good men, but damned young to be officers. So many,' he thought, 'so many assassinated, murdered. And here I am, one of the few left.' He looked at the two expectant faces and took another sip of wine. 'An old alcoholic with rheumatism. Damn.'

  "Well, gentlemen, your assessment." The two looked at each other. Ernet shrugged, and tracing his dagger in the ground, spoke, his eyes downcast.

  "A week, maybe two, my lord, before they reorganize."

  "Aye," said Crane, "and they'll bring a larger army probably."

  "The men think of it as a great victory. They won't like us retreating again, my lord," Fintan spoke. His voice was slurred, one side of his face a ruin of scars, the memory of a fireball. He still woke up screaming at night.

  Crane watched a trail of saliva drip down the ruined side of Fintan's face. The general had no nerves there and consequently no knowledge of the drool. For some reason it fascinated Crane, and he felt almost disappointed when Fintan licked his mouth unconsciously. 'God, I crave some whiskey,' thought the Warlord.

  "No choice, son," he said aloud. "We've decimated their army but we can't establish an offensive. If we can field half the force we had today in two weeks, we'll be lucky.

  "Still," said Ernet, "it is our victory, the first, and we can keep the people from knowing how many we really lost."

  'Damned fewer than we should have'; Crane kept his thoughts to himself.

  "Yes, morale, my lord, at all costs we must keep up the morale," Fintan added.

  "We retreat in two days. We'll leave a strong garrison at Comar, make our stand in Tolan, and pray the elves and dwarves get there in time."

  "Volunteers, my lord, at Comar, only volunteers," said Fintan. Crane looked over at Ernet.

  "Aye, my lord, the city will never hold, but we can slow the advance some."

  "Time is what we need, lord, a good defense to hold them as long as possible and make them pay a price." Fintan stood up and stared his leader in the eye. Fintan's grey eyes showed no emotion. He reached up and rubbed the scars on his face, his right hand burned and misshapen. Three fingers emphasized his next words.

  "The dreams, my lord, they get worse. The pain never ceases."

  "No," said Crane quietly.

  "My lord, someone must lead the men. We must hold at Comar. You must give me the command."

  "No," but the conviction wasn't in Crane's voice. "You're too valuable."

  "My lord, I have fulfilled my duties well but I am no great tactician. The pain. The dreams. The drugs the mages give me are habitual. It takes more and more to stop the pain. Soon, very soon, nothing will ease it. I can hold Comar for days, perhaps even a week. You must allow me."

  Crane looked at Ernet, who averted his eyes. None would survive Comar. Yet, to ask for volunteers, Crane must give them a leader. 'A damn good one,' Crane thought. He must, there was no choice.

  "Wait till the army bivouacs at Comar, then ask for volunteers." The words choked in his throat. "The command is yours, General Fintan."

  The do
omed general's eyes filled with. . . what? Relief? 'Gods damn this war. It is killing the best, always the best.'

  Crane cleared his throat once more, refusing to look at Fintan. "We didn't win this battle, you know. They did." His hand made a vague motion to the army around them. "We were in a good defensive position. We could have inflicted incredible damage on the enemy, but something took over them." Crane shivered as he remembered that deep chant of death reverberating around the fields. "I don't understand it. We lost all control. The original plan would have worked."

  "But," said Ernet, "we would've had to retreat. We would never have hurt them like we did."

  "Dammit!" shouted Crane. "They could afford it! We couldn't. We lost too damn many." Crane's angry tirade stopped as something caught his eye. A red flash. "What the hell?" He leapt to his feet pointing, "A fireball?"

  They all followed his finger. Cries of battle drifted on the air. The red flash seemed stable. Around it, scurrying black shapes could be seen. All the officers on the hill moved to the edge to peer down.

  "Laird Fin and the Green Branch are down there, sir. I don't know what it is, but," Fintan added, "it is no fireball."

  Crane looked at him and called to his aide. "Glasny, get some cavalry down there immediately." He called after the warrior, "Send those archers, the Bantry men."

  He turned to Ernet. "There's some regular infantry down at the foot of the hill. Form a shield wall, and send a battalion on to that clearing now." The general turned and ran to his horse. "Fintan, call to arms. Get the men in position. Their armies are done, but they still have their stinking magic." Fintan grabbed two other officers and the bugler. Even as they mounted, a new cry came up and Crane saw a blot of darkness angling from the skies toward him. He leaped up and drew his sword.

  " 'Ware," he cried, "the bastards send a parting shot!" His men made a concerted rush to his side, but they were too late.