Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Page 2

  For him, nailed to his table, the battle was a thing of sound and smell. The bang and crash of weapons on shields, on armor, on helmets, was a parody of the pounding of the waves his treasure gifted him. There were numbing explosions of magic and terrifying war cries. Howls from the wounded, and cries from the dying. The thud of the elvish war steeds shook the ground even as the constant cheers of their victorious riders shook the air.

  And there were the smells. The dust swirling and choking, the smoke from campfires and burning tents and smoldering corpses thickening the air like the saltwater of his dreams. It filled his lungs and, quickened by the tang of blood, burned his nostrils. The smell of split and broken bodies, their contents spilling out and staining the ground, was a horrid living thing for him. A thing of evil and putrid corruption.

  But through it all he saw but one thing, one thing for his eyes to focus on. A thing of purity and unsoiled beauty. His seashell, his magic, lay before him on the crude stool. And that he watched with a hunger only a drowning man, who clings to a bobbing, sometimes submerged, piece of wreckage could know. For all the smells and sounds it was this and only this he saw.

  So it was indelibly etched upon his small mind when the goblin soldier fell back upon the stool. The creature's head was half severed, and its pink green blood was like the spray of a wave that had crashed into a jutting rock. His heavy body encased in dirty armor was pulled to the earth in a slow movement--a graceful tree finally giving up its race for the sun and toppling to embrace the earth it had sprung from. The goblin's lower back hit the edge of the stool and it began to tip over. At first he thought that the shell would fall free, knocked to the side, but the slow toppling sped up and the stool slid farther beneath the weight of the body. The back of the goblin's head, held on to its shoulders by one thick strand of flesh, snapped back and in an explosion lost in all the greater sounds of battle, shattered the fragile shell into a thousand shards. Fragments arched away from the destruction like the opening of a circular fan. They arched up and leapt away to be lost in the dust and smoke and blood.

  Cucullin, high prince of the elves, leapt from his warhorse and over the body of the goblin he had just killed. In a weird confirmation of the Aislinneena, a thin sheath of bloodstains covered him an inch from his flesh, held off the skin by the nonexistent armor his magic had provided him. It was a nightmarish effect, as if some brown-red phantom covered the prince and mocked his movements.

  "You are free," Cucullin said, reaching out to withdraw the spikes from the table. The little creature of the wood who lay nailed there looked up to meet the gray eyes of the elf before him. Here standing in the flesh was his dream, his dream of what he would, could be when he listened to the magic of his treasure. Beyond the blood and gore, Cucullin was the image of perfection and nobility.

  "You have killed me," said the little fey. It was not lost on the creature that if Cucullin's magic ax had swung truer and sliced the head clean from the goblin, the treasure might not have been destroyed. But it didn't matter, he was not meant for war. He was meant for cool streams and blue shadows among the trees. He was not even meant for death, but at least as his heart finally gave up, he one last time heard the sound of his beloved sea.

  Cucullin stood numb before the dead creature. He wanted to scream, to howl, as once he had heard the Morigu howl. For the fey was dead and with him the knowledge of how he had died; how the high prince of the elves had killed him. And for the first time in his long years, Cucullin felt envy for the peace of the dead.

  Lonnlarcan, Ard Riegh of the Elves of Cather-na-nog, sat in his throne in the hall of Dummo Sorcha. About him stood the lords of the elven kind, their perfect features oddly shadowed by the stars above them. For the hall of the elven king had no roof, only a vast expanse of the night sky, as it shone on the earth before the birth of the sun.

  The king well matched his people. His great frame was covered with golden armor, a red silk cassock draped about him. He held his sword across his knees, the bright sheen of the magic blade matching his silver eyes and hair. He was the High King of the most powerful nation of the land, his people the greatest of those who walked the earth, and he looked the part.

  But it is not always so with the great king. For in the battle for Tolan he was felled by treachery, and mortally wounded. Though Lord Death had refused to accept Lonnlarcan's life, the elf king paid a high price for his survival. Lonnlarcan, alone of all the elves that have ever been, was cursed with mortality. Outside his hall he was an old man, weak in muscle and bone, each breath a terrible pain, as he must taste the mortality of all living creatures save the elves.

  And so though the king was girded for war, he no longer rode out against his enemies. He sat in his hall, he planned with his advisers, he cast his mighty spells, but Lonnlarcan, the Ard Riegh of the elves, could no longer grant his own heart's desire--he could no longer meet his despised enemy in battle. And for such as Lonnlarcan, death would have been kinder.

  "So," the king said, "we are free of the invaders, at least for this year."

  "Aye, my lord," Cucullin answered. The High King just nodded to the prince. In the week since the destruction of the Maigull host, Breeda and her troops had nearly eliminated what was left of that once proud army. A great victory, the king thought, but hardly enough.

  "Cu," he said, "we must turn to the south. If the empire falls it is only a matter of time." The king stood up from his throne and walked down the marble dais. At his feet lay a great map of the land. Though the map was made of inset jewels and precious metals, most of it lay stained and dark. Lonnlarcan pointed to the stains, even now withdrawing from the north of Cather-na-nog.

  "The humans are hard-pressed," he pointed to the empire, "and the dwarves are still trapped in their caves."

  "I fear," Fiachra spoke up, "that it is the dwarves we need most, my lord."

  "Yes." The king nodded. "There is no great love between their people and ours, but the dwarven folk are the fiercest in war."

  "We must then," Fiachra continued, "find a way to lift the siege on the Crystal Falls." But none of the elven leaders answered this. All during the long months of the summer they had debated this over and over, with no solution. The nations of the land were being swallowed one at a time, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

  "Is that it, my lord?" one elven sorceress asked. "Is it already over now, naught but a matter of time 'til we all fall?" The king turned to her. She was young, forced by the necessity of war to take a position that she was not prepared for. Her predecessor had died before the walls of Tolan, as so many others had....

  "What would you have me say, my lady?" The king's voice was gentle. "We have done all that we can. All, who could, have heeded the call to arms, from all the lands. The enemy can simply wear us down with their greater numbers, there are no others to hear the war horn's call."

  "Not so, my lord," a voice called out. And the court turned to the entrance. There stood a tall woman, golden hair curled to her knees; a thin white dress did little to cover her beauty. Her pointed ears spoke of elven ancestry, but it was her eyes that drew all there. Oversized, they stretched across her face, but there were no pupils, just a dark blue, like stones from an idol.

  "Lady Orlaith," the king said as the court bowed to the demigoddess. "Never have I known you to leave your lake. I thought you still mourned and had withdrawn from the world."

  "Am I less than the many who have sacrificed so much in this war?" she asked. "Is my sorrow so much greater than theirs?" And with that she looked straight at Cucullin, but he could not meet her gaze. The lady favored him with a sad smile and turned back to the king.

  "It has been long, and longer still, since I have walked the earth," she said, "and I think it is the last time I shall." Her eyes turned gray, like slate and as hard. "Still, even in my halls I could not tum from the cries of the land. I have brought you hope, my lord, and a new ally." At her words the elves started. Allies--how could this be? The Lady did not
answer the unspoken questions, but gestured once.

  Into the hall strode another woman and the elven blood in her was there to be seen. She was shorter than elves are wont to be, but her face was proud and her red hair bright and fiery, an equal match for her pure black eyes. She wore thick scale armor and a black cloak. A mighty sword lay strapped to her side. She marched past the Lady of the Lake straight to the king and there kneeled to him.

  "I am Maeve rab Kiel," she said, her voice harsh, "last of the line of Ail rab Kiel, once king of Mai Methra. I have with the Lady's help gathered the remnants of my people, lord; two thousand horse and eight thousand foot and I pledge them and myself to your cause." She looked up into the king's silver eyes, her own sad. "It is so much less than my ancestors led, so little a remnant of a once great people. Still it is yours, my lord. Use it well."

  For long moments the king said no word, he just stared at the form of the woman before him, refusing to meet her gaze. He remembered well the mighty kingdom of Mai Methra, the beautiful woods long burned to dust, along with the brown elves' fabulous tree cities. The brown elves had dwindled since that time, in numbers, in might, in magic, but still they were cousins to his own people and once they were accounted among the mighty. To see them come to this, a tiny army that would have been lost in the great host of Mai Methra... It must pass, he thought, all things. And his heart was heavy, as his mouth tasted once more the dry husk of mortal air.

  But then he looked at the woman and met her eyes. There was much in her face: hardship and violence, bitterness and harsh memory. But there were other things, too, things he liked well, though a human could never see past her elven beauty. To the king she was expressive in a way his people could never be.. She did look as the old ones had; and her aura was strong, surprisingly full of magic. The king turned a quiet glance to the Lady Orlaith. Maeve did not move from her knees.

  "She, and the ones she leads, are as their ancestors were," the Lady said, her musical voice filling the hall, and daring any to doubt her words. "You know, my lord, that long have I sheltered the remnants of the brown elves in my land, though most chose to go to Aes Lugh, and Arianrood's rule." And at that Lady Orlaith bared her teeth, to show the fangs hidden there. "In my land, my lord, under my protection the people of Maj Methra have not dwindled as they have in Aes Lugh, and elsewhere."

  "The goddess speaks true, my king," Maeve said. "My warriors are a fair match to a like number any warlord can call to battle." And there was pride in her voice.

  "How is it," Lonnlarcan said, "that in all these long years I have not known that any of the royal line of Kiel have survived?"

  "I hid them," Orlaith said. "Hard has Maeve's life been, for the enemy has long hunted the brown elves down; they do not forget that it was the people of Mai Methra that prophesied the Dark Lord's fall."

  "But surely," Fiachra dared to speak, "we could have protected her and her people."

  "As Arianrood has," Orlaith answered.

  "Lady," Lonnlarcan's silver eyes flashed wildly, "Arianrood is a traitor. Do you say that I and mine are?"

  "No, my lord." Orlaith laughed. "I am sorry. It is long since I had ever to speak at a court." She smiled; this time there were no fangs, just gentle humor. "I would just remind you that less than a short year ago Arianrood was your ally." The king nodded at that, but had no reply. He had felt Arianrood's betrayal the hardest, except for perhaps the Arch Mage Dammuth, if he still lived.

  "Remember, my lord," Orlaith continued, "I am a goddess to these people and a prophet to yours. And though I can see little in the future of this war, long ago I did see that the brown elves would have one more chance to rebuild their lost glory. If I have hidden this, and helped them build their strength in secret, can you really say I have done wrong?"

  "Nay, Lady, I cannot, and will not. You have ever been true and wise." The king reached over and took Maeve's hands, lifting her to her feet. "Lady," he said to her, "do not kneel to me, for you are a proud and noble line, and never did I rule your people."

  "There is no country that is ours, lord, no land that holds our destiny." Maeve's voice shook. "We are cast from the world's stage and forgotten."

  "Not so." Cucullin could hold his silence no longer. He moved to the little elf. "Not so, noble lady, for always here, at least, have your people not been forgotten, and still we mourn the loss of beautiful Mai Methra."

  "Thank you for your kind words," she answered, showing a brief smile, "but still the world is as it is, and Mai Methra is no more and never can that land be rebuilt."

  "True, little queen," Lonnlarcan said, and Maeve started at his words, "but kingdoms lost may be regained."

  "It would take more than my ten thousand, and even, I think, lord, more than your might to lift the curse that holds the land of Mai Methra enthralled."

  "Even so." The king turned back to the map. "But I wonder, is it not so that many of your people live in Aes Lugh?"

  "You know that to be the truth, my lord."

  "Indeed, and tell me, my queen, do you think all your people have joined Arianrood happily and willingly in her betrayal?"

  "Nay, my lord." The brown elf's face darkened. "I swear it is not so."

  "And then, my queen, what do you think would happen to the unhappy land of Aes Lugh if Maeve rab Kiel were to go there, and as is her right claim queenship of the brown elves, now under Arianrood's rule?" For a moment there was silence as all took in the High King's daring plan. Maeve looked about her at the faces of the mighty lords gathered there, and then she turned to the Lady Orlaith, the goddess of her people and all of Maeve's life the only mother the brown elf had ever known. She smiled at what she saw in the Lady's eyes and then filled the hall with her silver laughter. She turned once more to kneel before the king.

  "I think, my lord," she said, her laughter oddly bright and not hard at all, "that life would become very difficult for Arianrood and her twisted friends."

  And so it was decided in the magic hall of the elven king: Maeve rab Kiel, Queen of the brown elves, would lead an army to the south. With her would go thirty-five hundred elven cavalry and five hundred of the king's own personal guard, led by the High Prince Cucullin. With her, too, would go her own lords, her two thousand horse and another two thousand foot riding behind the elves on their mighty beasts. To the south they would go to the empire of Tolath and there gather what allies they could and then to Aes Lugh, to strike a hard blow at the heart of their most hated enemy, Arianrood, Queen of Aes Lugh, the Ead.

  On the hill that held the hall of Dummo Sorcha, standing amid the Richliess flowers that spread like stars on the dark earth, Cucullin said farewell to Orlaith, not a goddess to him, simply the woman he loved and could never have.

  "It is useless for me to ask you to come with me, Cu." The Lady's voice was heavy and choked with tears.

  "The Bright World is not for me, my lady," Cucullin answered. "My destiny is clear."

  "Do I not know it?" she asked, but there was no heat in her words. "I who you forced to use my powers and pronounce your doom?"

  "If doom it is, Lady, then it is one I can accept for it means the end of my hated foe."

  "Apkieran," she whispered, "Lord of the Undead." She turned from Cucullin, unable to bear the hurt that the sight of his beauty gave her. "It is too high a price you will have to pay for his fall, my lord."

  "No price is high enough to rid the worlds of that beast!" And his voice was harsh. For one hundred fifty years he had striven to destroy the demon prince and revenge his father's destruction. For Apkieran had not only killed the prince's father, but he had ripped the elf's soul from his breast and shredded it, destroying him for all time, killing him as no elf had ever died. Annihilating him.

  "Noble fool," she murmured, but he could not hear. She knew he was doomed more surely than he could realize, for the weapons he needed, the armor and ax of his father, were his only by the power of Aislinneena, and that power she knew would not be enough. He would fall, destroyed as his f
ather had been before him, and for her... nothing...

  "If I begged," she asked quietly.

  "Then, my lady, you would shame me, and you would break my heart, but never, my lady, would you turn me from my path." She turned to him at that, her eyes filled with tears.

  "And that is it. The end. Ah, Cu, my Cu, I had hoped that in these months of war you would have seen, realized such cost is not..." But he held a hand to her mouth and gently quieted her.

  "My lady, I hate this war, I hate the death and the pain. It racks me as a fire would. But all it teaches me is that I must do what I can, whatever I can to make it end. I have no choice." She removed his hand from her mouth; holding it gently she kissed it once. She looked into his eyes, searching.

  She saw the love for her she knew would be there, and the great love he had for all things. She saw the mighty soul that could have been so much more, and done so much more good than his act of vengeance ever could accomplish. But most of all she saw what she must see, that being who and what he was, being all that she loved as only a goddess could love, being all that and more, he truly had no choice but to follow his doom.

  "Ah, my lord, what is happiness in this world?" she said, turning from his eyes and the truth written there. "For when you speak, you talk as the poor Morigunamachamain do." He kissed her then, gently and with passion, and then he held her, whispering so that she would not hear, though she could not help but understand.

  "In this war, my beloved, we are all becoming as the Morigu."

  And when they left the hall at the rising of the sun, they left one another forever, though they did not know it. And behind them, on the hill of Dummo Sorcha, the Lady left one more thing. Her tears had taken seed and a new flower spread its petals about the hill. It was not silver as the Richliess, the flowers of elfdom, were, but it was gray and it opened only on the darkest of nights, though it was afterward said that the fragrance of the flower was sweet and if deeply inhaled awakened and renewed gentle memories.. . .