Morigu: Book 01 - The Desecration Page 26

  "You mean some magic to confuse them, and think we are more than we are?" asked Donal.

  "Arianrood will penetrate it and destroy your magicians," Margawt said.

  "No, she won't, not in time anyways. The enemy has never come into contact with our magic before. She has no defense against it. We are not strong enough to openly fight magic against magic, but there are things we can do." He looked at Mearead. "She knows of your blood price, lord. She will center on you and the Longsword. Much of their power will be directed that way. They also will know of the Morigu and will attack him, but they don't know us, and they don't know our powers. We, as Trell'dem was fond of saying, are a little surprise."

  The discussion continued for some time. Mearead and Donal wished to attack Arianrood before the battle, but the maker convinced them otherwise; they were too valuable. With them in the front ranks, the enemy would be too concerned with them and the Morigu to worry whether all the warriors they saw were really there.

  They all had supper with the maker and two human Lords, the leaders of the other force. After the meal, Mearead asked where the other two stalker masters were.

  "Hmm, well," said the maker, "you mentioned an army at your back is not a good thing so the hunter and the destroyer with a few other Stalkers and the Hounds of the Hunt have gone off to assassinate the leaders of the enemy army at Madia. They will be back tomorrow." Though he did not show it, Mearead was impressed.

  "And the attack?" he asked.

  "We leave in the late afternoon tomorrow. That gives us time to gather our armies, reach the battlefield and then attack refreshed the next day." Mearead shook his head, the blood price called to him, yet he knew he must wait one more day to confront his adversary.

  Bronwen, Mearead, and this night Donal, too, slept better than they had in a long time. Margawt walked out to the battlements of the monastery. A quiet footstep announced the maker as he joined the Morigu.

  "You could not sleep, Avenger?" the monk asked.

  "I'm sure you are aware the elven kind do not sleep, at least not as you humans do, and such as I do neither." Margawt stared out at the little valley below.

  "The earth calls to you, Avenger?" asked the man.

  "It does; even through the stone I can hear and feel the agony the Dark Ones inflicts upon the earth things."

  "In the sanctuary, the shrine, Margawt," said the maker kindly, "you could find relief. The Horned One will stop the call for a while."

  "No." Margawt's voice was soft and for the first time in a long time he sounded young. "I must feel, so when the time comes I will not forget and fail my duty." The maker shook his head in sympathy.

  "You carry a heavy burden," he said. "I fought in the Dark Seign wars, Margawt. I was a mage of a little skill. I befriended one of your kind, a Morigunamachamain. He never even told me his name. He was a great warrior, Margawt, and a noble creature." He sighed and leaned on the battlements.

  "He became a Morigu not through the horrors that you faced, but through long dedication and love for the life of the world." He turned to the elf. "But once the pack with the Goddess was made he was driven as you are, never resting, always, always fighting. He had been a gentle elf, a kinder being I have not met. By the end of the war, he would speak rarely--even to me. He was covered with scars inside and out. Two months after the fall of the Dark One, he killed himself." He sighed once more. "The Hunter can be cold, vicious, unpredictable, but never is he cruel. You have a hard mistress, young one." Margawt looked at the man, his eyes black, holding a knowledge the man could never know.

  "It is my duty," he said. "What I was died in a nightmare long ago. I am the Morigu, nothing more. It is as I wish it."

  "The Morigu." The maker chewed on the words. "Aye, that is what the earth things call you. Not a Morigu, but The. None think, none remember who you are. Who you are, whether you will it or not. Margawt, a young Shee, a dark elf who does not know you cannot give your soul away, only loan it."

  "You do not understand, you cannot understand," said Margawt. The maker turned to Margawt, his blue eyes flashing.

  "Don't ever make that mistake, boy, ever" his voice rang. "If you learn nothing, learn this. Though another cannot live your experiences, they can understand, always there is a way to understand." He smiled. "After all, that's what I do. I am the maker. I always find a way to understand." With that he left, leaving the dark figure of Margawt standing alone, wondering, for the first time, if any could understand. Though he was one of the most powerful of all creatures, he could not answer that question. He did not even dare ask it.

  That night was long in Tolan. The besiegers did not seriously attempt to breach the walls or the barricades at the gate. Their goal was simply to keep the defenders awake during the night, a feat they succeeded at admirably. Niall and Mathwei stood on the wall looking down into the night.

  "It's like looking down a great black pit, a pit with thousands of eyes lining its dark sides," Niall said. Mathwei turned to stare at the warrior's hard profile. A fire at the top of one of the towers burned at the level of Niall's eyes, as if that flame came from the warrior.

  "It is the nature of what we fight, General." His voice was quiet. "One power, one beast directed at us, and great enough to swallow the world."

  Niall said nothing. The strange warrior next to him had unnerved him more than once with his observations. Mathwei had been in the war from the beginning and had seen it all unfold in front of him. The general had met many great warriors in these last days, but there was something elemental about Mathwei.

  "You're like that, Mathwei," he said to the night sky in front of him. "You're part of something, laddie, something that connects us all, but you're more than a beast." They were both a little surprised at Niall's words. He had never been one to think things out.

  "And what are you, my lord?"

  "Hah," Niall dragged his hand through his short cropped hair, "a fool, boy." He turned to his colonel and met those cold grey eyes. "A fool that's unsure for the first time in his life."

  They both stood quiet for a moment.

  "I was not born into a noble family," Mathwei smiled. "My lord," he added. "I was not brought up a warrior as you were. If there had been no war, I doubt I ever would have made it into the officers' corp." He laughed. "I wasn't born or raised to be a hero." He turned back to the sight beneath them.

  "If this wall falls," he patted it, "my family will die, their house will be burned. My sisters and mother, if they are lucky, will die by the sword or, if they are brave, by their own hand." His voice grew hard. "I do not fear for myself. The enemy will not seek me out for corruption or terror. I am still small in the grand scheme of things." He jerked his head. "I fear for those behind us, general. As for myself," he turned to Niall, "they can only kill me, and death is something I no longer fear." With that he bowed and left.

  The Shee Dermot moved out of the shadows where she had listened to the conversation. Niall's hand nervously caressed the hilt of his new sword. She watched him quietly for a moment. He stood tall, alone, his thoughts far away. In that moment she saw him as a great elf lord preparing for battle. He turned to her.

  "My lady," he said, bowing. The illusion was broken by his mortal voice full of pain and decay.

  "Forgive me for listening in," she said. Having a great height like many elves of noble blood, she stood only five inches shorter than Niall. "You humans fascinate me so."

  "And why is that, now?"

  "Well, that one," she gestured to where Mathwei had walked off, "he has not the training or the strength of your noble families, but he has a will, a spirit that is as great." A dim nimbus of colorless light surrounded her. "I mean that you humans are so bound by your flesh. I have never met any of the elven kind that was so constrained. What we are inside is always expressed in our corporeal form." She said no more.

  Niall looked at her. This was one of the famed Shee, the last in Tolan. Her dark eyes were full of strength and knowledge. Her beauty was un
real, untouchable, impossible to hold in his memory. Niall had never had contact with the elven kind before. They were a thing of legend, not reality.

  "All my life I have striven against what you call constraint," he said, "to make myself stronger, faster, deadlier. There are few humans who can match my blade," he said with pride. "Mathwei makes light of the fact that he was never expected to be a hero, but I, ah now, isn't it all that I ever wanted?" He could not meet those unhuman eyes. Their beauty did not bring passion to him, just the knowledge of his own ungainliness when compared to her. But his pride reasserted itself. Was it not always so in the legends? and he laughed.

  She turned to him. "Why do you laugh?" she asked.

  "It is my mother's tales I am remembering. She told me of your kind. In truth, how strange it is to be around you all the time. Aye, but then I remembered I am fighting in a war that wasn't supposed to happen, against a being that is called a goddess by my own clan. Demons, magic, monsters. I am, as the blessed Moriarty said, doomed to live in interesting times."

  Dermot struggled to understand her own reaction to the human's words. For some reason she wished to reassure him, but she had not the knowledge. She studied the man's profile again. His chain-mail armor fit tight to his muscular body. She could tell that his body held a strength even an elf would respect. After all, did he not kill a stone troll in single combat? All could see his warriors fairly worshiped him, and the youth, Mathwei, a man of great promise, gave Niall the respect he held from all others.

  "By your own words, my lord, you seem the sort of warrior who would wish for such a time if you were not part of it."

  "Oh, aye," he turned away, "aye, never did I doubt my ability, my lady. Never did I doubt that I was born in this time, to do something grand, to be," he smiled, "a bright and bonnie hero." He shook his head. "Och, I am counted high among men, but I have learned two new things that were strange to me in the days before the war."

  "And they are?"

  "Humility, my lady, humility. And most of all, fear...."

  C H A P T E R

  Seventeen

  The next day Mearead and the others spent their time checking their weapons and outfitting themselves in armor that the monks provided. Both Mearead's and Donal's armor were in fine shape and the two left Bronwen and Margawt to join the maker in inspecting the troops. They followed a small passage leading through the cliff face to the other side, where another valley was filled with warriors.

  Two thirds of the men had already seen combat in the south, the rest were the warriors of Inlit, a small baronial hold to the northeast. Their leader, the Baron Sean of Inlit, was the nominal commander of the armies, as ranking royalty. But the real leader was a Green Branch knight, Conlath ap Lathe.

  He walked up to greet the three. He was a powerful man, nearly as tall as the maker, though shorter than the huge Donal. Conlath bowed to the maker and to Mearead, then he turned to Donal.

  "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Warlord," he said, wiping a wet lock of brown hair from his eyes. "I've studied your plan at the battle of the Hills of Colmain. It's a fine military mind you have."

  "Thanks for the praise," said Donal, "but I'm Warlord no more."

  "Not if I have any say in it, boyo." Conlath turned to the maker. "He should be the Warlord, maker. Arianrood was a fool. He's one of the best alive."

  "I agree," said the maker. "I suggest the two of you make your plans. Mearead and I along with the other leaders will join you as soon as Lord Brasil joins us." Donal started to protest. "Nay, you are the Warlord. It is decided. This battle will be fought on horse and you've got the most experience and training of all of us in that regard." Donal bowed his head, saying nothing, but none could miss the look in his grey elven eyes. He had no doubts that this was a task he could meet.

  "Are you sure that's wise?" said Mearead as he watched the two men walk off. "He has years but little experience."

  "Mearead, though Arianrood picked Donal for his loyalty, he is no fool," answered the maker. "He has the best mind for the tactics we need, and in the border wars of Aes Lugh, he stood out and won every battle, with minimal losses." Mearead shook his head.

  "Well," he said, "if he's half the man his father was, he'll do." The two turned as a rider approached them. It was the destroyer. He leapt off his horse in a fluid movement.

  "The assignment went perfectly," he said with no preliminaries, though the dwarf did not miss the fact that he as well as the maker was addressed. "The leader of the enemy force was a minor demon, one of Apkieran's. He was hard to kill."

  "Our losses?" said the maker.

  "One dead, five slightly wounded." Mearead recognized his voice from the night before. This was the one that had spoken of the peace of the dark. "We killed five of the enemy's commanders and about forty others, including one minor magician."

  "Did you use any magic?" asked the maker.

  "It was unnecessary," came the answer.

  "Excellent," said the maker. He turned to Mearead. "If it is all right with you, the destroyer will ride at your side. If you can find Arianrood, he will be of great assistance in your quest." The dwarf studied the formidable figure and said nothing. "I will leave you in his hands for now. The preparations for the magic we plan to use are rather lengthy. I must join our mages." He bowed and left. Mearead stared at the silent figure of the destroyer for a moment.

  "How good are you?" he asked.

  "I can kill her." It was a statement of fact with no room for doubt. "I can kill anything that lives."

  "Maybe," said Mearead, "but I'm not sure she is alive anymore."

  At midday, the lord Brasil and his men led by the Stalkers, entered the valley, The warriors were a ragged bunch. They had fought steadily since the capture of Dun Scaga some two weeks before. Brasil was a slightly smaller version of his father, Fin. His hair was redder and if possible, a bit more wild. Quickly, the monks started to outfit each warrior with new armor and weapons which they seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of. Mearead's estimation of Trell'dem was once again upgraded.

  The companions, along with the rest of the leaders of the small army, sat atop a stony hill overlooking the valley overflowing with warriors. On another hill, two dozen of the monks, now uncowled and in shining chain mail, unloaded a large crate from a wagon. The maker pointed to them.

  "As soon as they are done and the horses arrive, we will begin the building of the illusion."

  "Horses," said Bronwen.

  "Yes, horses," answered Donal, fitting easily into his role as Warlord. "We wish to make the enemy think we have five times the number of warriors we actually do. The monks of the Horned God will make four images of each of the warriors, each image will be slightly different from the original. To make them even more believable, each image will ride a horse."

  "A horse?" Brasil's brogue was thick. "How is it these phantasms of yours are going to be riding, never mind guiding, a horse?"

  "They won't," said the maker. "We will. We've collected over the last month and a half over ten thousand horses. These will be directed by fifty Stalkers, directed not by hand, but by magic. And," he added "we will make the illusion of another ten thousand horses."

  "So when the attack comes about," said Mearead, "the real horses will be an actual weapon."

  "Exactly," said Donal.

  "But if the warriors and horses that the illusions are created from fall in battle," Margawt asked, "won't the illusions be destroyed too?"

  "In elven, or human, magic," answered the maker, "but not in ours. The images will fight and attack within a limited repertoire, no matter what happens to the original."

  "Can the illusions be killed themselves?" asked Brasil.

  "No, they are made of light and shadow," said the maker, "but should one believe the arrow shot or the sword thrust is real, then the blows will fall."

  "It's a good as if we had the men themselves," said the Baron Sean.

  "Not quite, my lord," Donal added. "They are good unt
il the enemy perceives the illusion."

  "Concentration of magic always leaves a trace." Mearead scratched his chin. "Surely the enemy will feel this and attack the spell quickly."

  "No," said the maker, "they will not feel such a concentration for it will not be there. The energy will remain here, for it is in this valley we will create it."

  "You can create such magic and hold it for so long?" The dwarf did not try to hide his skepticism.

  "We can." He stood up and pointed to the other hill. The monks had removed the crate and there stood a glistening object some ten by twenty feet. 'The man or horse stands in there," continued the maker. "His reflection is broken into four three-dimensional figures. Imbued by our power, these reflections are dispersed from the prism into five mirrors. The mirrors alone took us twelve years to create. When we reach our destination, the mirrors will be broken and the illusions freed." He looked at the others and smiled. "It is simple, really, and quite unexpected."

  Bronwen volunteered to be the first subject of the spell. Since in her armor she would be unknown to the enemy, it was agreed.

  Bronwen walked up to the device. It was shaped like a narrow pyramid, its walls opaque and milky. A monk opened the side and she stepped into total darkness. He handed her a bow and spear.

  "When the light appears," he instructed, "stand still for a few moments, then draw your sword and wave it around, as if you were fighting. Take the bow and spear and with each do the same. Make sure to shout and talk some. When you are ready to leave, rap on the wall opposite of where you have entered. It will go dark again and we will let you out."

  He closed the door behind her and though the light was cut off, for a minute Bronwen watched a dash of light bounce around her. Every time it moved it became dimmer, then it was gone. The whole room filled with a piercing white light.

  Bronwen went through the motions the monk had told her of. After a few moments, she realized the reflections were not copying her precisely but adding and changing her moves. They were acting of their own volition!