Morigu: Book 01 - The Desecration Read online

  Margawt rose to his feet. He could see that the unicorn had taken a bad wound, but Anlon showed no ill effects.

  "Arianrood's power is greater than ever to have freed this one," said Anlon, his head wagging back and forth looking for the hag.

  "Aye, we now know what attacked the dwarves in their caves." Margawt wiped dust from his mouth. "The Ead has much to pay for."

  The hands reached through the ground and grabbed Margawt's feet. He was pulled up to his knees into the earth. He felt a sharp pain in his calf and plunged his sword deep into the ground. He was rewarded by freedom for his legs. He leaped and rolled, standing up once again, his left calf bleeding freely.

  "She bit me!" his voice was full of outrage.

  "We must kill her quickly, Margawt," answered the unicorn, "or the poison from her talons and teeth will kill us."

  The Hag reared in front of Anlon. She was at least ten feet tall, her naked body withered and diseased. He rose to his hind legs and stabbed at her, but a terrific blow from her fist sent him stumbling into the dirt.

  Margawt was there before she could withdraw again. She swiped at him, but he avoided it. His sword went straight between her sagging breasts, lying open an anemic chest. As his sword drove through her she laughed and a red shimmering aura danced up the blade. Before it could reach Margawt, the unicorn was on its feet again.

  "No!" he cried, - his horn smashing and breaking the weapon. Margawt fell to his knees, his arms numb from the blow. The red shimmer wrapped around the horn of the unicorn. Anlon cried with pain and danced away.

  Margawt rose to his feet and dived away from another swipe. The demigod sank again. He made his way to the unicorn, who continued to shake his head as if trying to rid himself from an irritating fly.

  "Don't touch me," he gasped, "it is plague and pestilence she has set on me. You must kill her yourself."

  As if she had been conjured, the Hag appeared behind Margawt. He rolled away from her blow, but not the unicorn. A huge and decrepit fist smashed full into his muzzle. Blood and teeth flying, the unicorn fell to his feet.

  Margawt dived barehanded at the Hag, but again she sank into the ground. He picked up the broken sword. It still had a foot and a half of steel attached to it. He dared not send his senses into the earth. The Fomarian had infected the ground for hundreds of yards around him. Margawt stood by the unicorn feeling pity for the first time since he had become the Morigu as Anlon struggled to his feet. His horn was almost buried in the shimmer of disease and the ground was soaked with his blood.

  "I have her magic." Blood streamed from the unicorn's mouth. "You can defeat her with physical weapons," he gasped.

  Again the arms came through the ground, this time grabbing the unicorn's back leg. Anlon cried out. A gruesome crack--the leg snapped and bone showed through the dark hide. Before the hand disappeared, Margawt's sword severed three fingers from the Hag's left hand. There was a ghastly howl beneath them. Quickly, Margawt fell to his knees and dug his hands deep into the earth during the reprieve his blow had provided. He called his power to him, and a small island of healthy earth formed around the two. The Hag strove to break it but could not.

  She reared in front of them and waved her arms across her chest. Even as Margawt dove at her, his ears were pounded and he was pressed to the ground. The Hag sank into the earth again. Anlon gasped for air, but there was none. Somehow, the demigod had created a vacuum about the two. Margawt's island of salvation became a tomb.

  Margawt's bark of desperation was not heard and with a backward glance at the suffocating unicorn he dove into the ground as smoothly as if he dove into a lake.

  This was unlike any trip into the earth he had ever taken. There was no crystal radiance around him. The earth shivered and moaned, trying to throw off the fever of the Hag. Though he could move in the desecrated ground he could not see well. Margawt tried desperately to sense the Hag, but before he could, she came behind him and grabbed him about the neck seeking to choke him to death.

  Margawt moved in a blur of speed. His right elbow slammed into her chest. He brought his legs straight up as far as he could, and levering with his left arm flipped free of the Hag. His body popped half up out of the ground. He felt his legs grabbed but the hold was unsure due to the loss of fingers on her hand.

  He reached down and grabbing an arm held it while his sword flew through air, earth, and unholy flesh. He had severed her arm. The Hag sank deeper into the earth, her arm floating to the top as if they truly did fight in water.

  This time, Margawt centered on her evil and dove toward her. He could see well enough so that he saw her remaining arm point and a Word of tremendous power usher from her lips. He gasped in pain, his left breast feeling as if a sledgehammer had hit it. The force of the magic threw him out of the earth and onto its surface. He stared incredulously at his breast. It was torn completely, muscle and tissue hanging as if it had blown out from the inside.

  The Fomarian appeared in front of him and sent his blade spinning from his hand with one push. Matching savagery with savagery, Margawt leaped upon her chest and one hand sent a blow to her chin that threw her to the ground. She could not marshal enough willpower to sink into the ground. Margawt's knees pressed into her shoulders. He smashed his left elbow into her toothless mouth as his right hand dove stiff-fingered into her throat.

  She lifted herself into a sitting position but could not attack, for Margawt gave her a vicious head butt. As her head snapped back, his hands clapped either side of her ears. If she had eardrums it would have popped them. As it was, she swooned nearly unconscious. . . but Margawt knew he was weakening fast and must finish her now.

  Again, his right hand went deep into her neck. This time he grasped the neck bone and pulled it straight through the neck. It broke and the Hag of the Elder Night, making no sound, bleeding no blood, died.

  "At last," Margawt heard a whisper but he could not tell where it came from. Unseen by him, Lord Death straddled the dead Fomarian's body. In his hand he held a shimmering green and black bit of light. He laughed, juggling the demigod's soul from hand to hand.

  "I curse you," he whispered to the soul form, "I curse you with all my power. Wherever you go from here, black one, the curse of Death will haunt you till you find final annihilation." He cast the evil thing from him watching as it sank into the earth. He smiled. No rebirth for that one, except in Hell. He stared into the many worlds, daring any to gainsay his right. But the gods in their fear still kept their eyes turned from the world. And none of the enemy saw his gesture.

  'Soon,' he thought, 'soon,' and he was gone.

  Margawt rolled off the stinking corpse and dragged himself to the unicorn. Anlon's bloody form made no movement. The red shimmering was gone from the horn. The blue-black coat was covered with deep red as the ground all about Anlon was stained.

  Margawt tried to call the earth power to him to help himself and the unicorn, but the disease of the Hag remained and blocked him. The pain in his calf and breast built until even he could no longer bear it. He collapsed next to the unicorn, their blood mingling and spreading in pools about them.

  For three nights the Morigu lay on the battlefield. He tried desperately to draw on the earth power to awaken, but it was too diseased. Corruption entered his veins and ravaged his soul. He wished to die but the call of the earth was too great. Then, he felt himself lifted and placed on clean earth. With a surge of joy, he drank in the health of the land, but it was not enough. He could not awaken. Grimly, he fought on as his life's energies drained away.

  Two hours after speaking with Mearead, Donal Longsword followed two dwarven warriors down a sloping path. He still could not believe the king really thought he could kill Arianrood and though he knew it a mad, futile venture he was determined to join the dwarf.

  Donal's mail had been replaced with a full suit of dwarven chain mail. It was remarkably light and made no sound as he walked. It was a dusky brown color. "So," said the dwarf who presented it to him, "in
shadow where you will walk no sound or sight will this mail give." In his hands he carried the two-handed longsword he was named for. It was unsheathed and in his heart he pledged never to sheath it till it drank the traitoress' blood, a vow he knew to be impossible but one he pledged to a brave dwarf lying dead in the valley of Morhalk.

  Now Donal could hear a tingling as of wind chimes coming from ahead. He entered a great cavern filled with dwarves. His guides led him to the front, where Mearead stood by the falls.

  The first thing that caught Donal's attention was the fact that this cave, unlike all the others he had seen, was untouched and left in its natural state. The falls came from the tremendous ceiling fully three hundred feet above. He had thought it would be a powerful flood of water. Instead, it was more like a stream, not more than a foot in depth and two in width. All along its straight path, imbedded in the wall, were beautiful glowing jewels that refracted the light off the wall, covering face and stone alike in a dazzling and ever-changing dance of colors, some that only one with elven or dwarven eyes could see. And the only noise the falls made was gentling music. Donal stopped and stared until a dwarf tugged him along out of his trance.

  The fall came to land in a shallow pool. Where the water went after that he could not say. The pool's bottom was covered with small multicolored stones that had been placed there for thousands of years by dwarves seeking solace. In this beautiful pool stood the king up to his waist in the water. About him were seven cowled figures chanting in a deep monotone.

  The chanting stopped and Mearead spoke to the assembled crowd.

  ' "All here know the news and the betrayal." He spoke quietly but the cavern carried his words to everyone. "I leave the kingdom in the worthy hands of my sister, Sorcha." The woman bowed her head silently. All that Donal could see was her blond hair. "Long has it been that any king has called for the blood price. Now, I do. Despair not for me, my friends, but for the fall of Colin and the dwarves, the fall planned and executed by the black witch." Donal could feel the hate and anger raging from all the dwarves. 'There must be thousands in the cave,' he thought.

  "We cannot march and burn her land, but we'll have vengeance and I will be the instrument." With that he turned to the cowled ones. "I am ready, fathers," he said. He took off his shirt, and with muscles rippling in the light held out his hand. In it a knife made of pure crystal was placed.

  "You claim the blood price?" came the deep voice from the cowls, all chanting as one.

  "I do."

  "To strive until thy enemy dies beneath thy hands?"

  "I will."

  "To overcome all that stands in thy way until blood is paid?"

  "I can."

  "To make the pact with earth and bone?"

  "Earth and Bone."

  "Blood and muscle?"

  "Blood and muscle."

  "Soul and spirit?"

  "Soul and spirit."

  "Life and destruction?"

  "Life and destruction."

  "Through all paths, all doors?"

  "I will pass."

  "And death?"

  "Cannot defeat me."

  "And pain?"

  "Cannot reach me."

  "You claim the blood price?"

  "I will."

  "You claim the blood price?"

  "I do."

  "You claim the blood price?"

  "I have."

  A sigh passed through the crowd. Now one of the cloaked dwarves stepped into the water. He took the blade and shrugged back his sleeves, revealing bare arms. With one hand, then the other, he cut long lines down his forearms. The blood flowed and was absorbed by the crystal. Quickly the cuts healed. The crystal seemed to be made out of liquid blood. The blade was handed back to the king.

  "This is the blood of your people," said the cowled dwarf. "You have claimed the blood price as is your right. Do with it as you will." He stepped back out of the water. His robes were not wet.

  "Blood price," said the king and he drew a long scarlet line across his chest. His blood did not go into the crystal but flowed down his chest to the water that slowly turned red.

  "What is the price?" came the chant.

  "The price is blood eagle." The dwarves shuddered as one, from fear or anticipation Donal could not tell.

  "The price," came the chant, "is accepted." The pool was completely red now. Donal lifted his head with all the dwarves as, incredibly, the blood flowed up the falls. When it reached the top the whole cavern was cast a lurid color. All the dwarves seemed to be bleeding. The caverns and ceiling dripped the blood. The floor became a thick pool of red. Donal checked his arms. None of the strange light even reflected off his skin.

  "The price is accepted," said the king. With that the seven figures melted to shadows and were gone. As quick as that the falls were clear and the cavern was its normal colors. Donal was covered with sweat and he knew he would never forget the cavern of blood he had seen. Mearead held the knife to his heart and the wound healed. The crystal returned to its normal state. He reverently placed it at the bottom of the pool. He came up to Donal and clasped his arm.

  "We must begin," he said.

  Mearead and Donal left the Crystal Caves a few hours later. They were in full armor and because of the properties of the camouflaging dwarven mail, wore no cloaks over it. For the rest of the day they walked without saying a word. That night they made a cheerless camp wedged among a large growth of bramble. Donal watched quietly as the dwarf reverently wiped and polished his helm. The helmet covered the dwarf's head and face completely. The front was designed to resemble a dragon. It was cleverly made so that the dwarf's beard seemed to jut out from the dragon's chin.

  "Mearead," Donal said tentatively.

  "Aye, lad."

  "I've noticed that your helm is unlike any I've seen," he said awkwardly. "I mean, I've never known your people to make a dragon helm." Mearead said nothing. "What I mean is, I thought there was a great hatred for dragonkind among your folk." The old dwarven king's heart was brought from the dark plain of vengeance where it had dwelled for so long. He could not help but like this elf/man, bumbling his words around like some boy. He placed his helmet down and lit a pipe.

  "Well, lad," he started, "the dragon folk are the worst of all creatures. People think they are greedy. They are, but not in the way you imagine." He took a puff. "They desire gold and jewels, it's true, and hoard it, but what use have they for it? After all, they aren't going to go buy clothes now, are they?" He favored Donal with a smile.

  "No, lad, it's not wealth they crave, but creations. He stabbed his pipe at the warrior. "That's why they are ever at war with my folk. For, of all thinking beings we are the most creative. We are artists born and revel in the making of all things."

  "But why," asked Donal, "do they crave such works?"

  "How is it, lad, that you were Warlord of Arianrood and know not of the great worms?"

  "I was born during the Dark Seign wars. I became Warlord after the armies of Aes Lugh defeated the last of the old sorcerers."

  "Ah," said Mearead, shaking his head at dark memories. "You mean Roinoin of the Third Eye. He was a nasty bastard. Well, I'll tell you, Longsword, the dragons don't eat as you and I. They get their strength from the destruction of others' work. The creative force remains in all things that are made, especially if they are dear to the heart of the creator and to others. The dragon consumes them and leeches that force as sustenance. Let that be a lesson to you, lad. Evil, by its nature, can never be creative. It can only flourish by destruction and seduction."

  "And the helm?"

  "Well, that's obvious, isn't it?" Mearead took a long puff and smiled to see the other's interest and expectancy. "Dragons can reach full maturity quickly if they have the hoard to devour. Consequently, great size does not denote age, but cunning and strength in acquiring and destroying hoards. So," smiled the old dwarf, "if there were any of their kind left, wouldn't it irritate them to see a fine large fellow like myself dressed to look like
them? My, they are pleased to fatten up their obese ugly bodies." He chuckled at his own bravado.

  He stopped abruptly and pointed his pipe at the Warlord. "Now, Longsword, I have a question for you," he said. "What do you know of the Duiraglym?"

  "Duiraglym?" Donal asked.

  "That's what we call it, the Howling Shadow. It is the power that has attacked us in the caves."

  "I do not know of such a being, my lord." Donal placed his sword on his lap. "Why do you ask me? Do you not trust me?"

  "Hmm, well, for the first question," Mearead leaned back, "the Duiraglym withdrew from our caves the night Colin left. But--and this is the strange part--it did not follow after Colin, but went to the east."

  "How do you know?"

  "I could feel it, boy. It is more than evil, that thing. It left a trail behind it of dead and diseased earth, like the slime of a dragon." Donal said nothing.

  "I think it's a Fomarian. Colin was sure it was." Mearead sucked on the pipe. Donal rocked back and forth on his heels.

  "No!" he said. "No. It is too much, too much." Mearead could see now that for all his strength and size, the Warlord was young, too young--as Colin had been.

  "Well, it's no concern of ours right now," he relented. "As for the second question," he patted the other's knee, "dwarves see many things, Donal, and their King sees the most of all. I trust you implicitly." With that the dwarf wrapped himself in a cloak and went immediately to sleep.

  Donal watched the small figure for a while, his mind dancing along the paths of elven dreams. Elven blood runs strong even in generations of dilution, but Donal was a half-elven and like all his kind was more elf than man. Sometimes, unlike true elves, he slept, but not tonight. For he knew that in a few days he would watch the sun rise over the battlefield he had been forced to leave. He shuddered to think about Mearead's anger when he saw the dead army.