Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Read online

  C H A P T E R

  Two

  He had slept for seven days, for there were great powers in the city of Tolan, powers that he sought to avoid, but the blood, the blood called him. Long had he been the hunter and he was wise in the ways of his evil, but the hunger was too great...

  There had been others, sent as he had been sent to plague the nights and lives of the humans, but he was the only one left. They too had been hunted, but by what or who the ancient one did not know and he had no great desire to find out. He was the last of the vampires in this city, the last of his kind. This night he had learned that much.

  But he would not run, nor would he hide anymore. He would feast on the human cattle of this city and he would tie their destiny to his. A small army of the undead, at his control and command--with them he would go beyond his original orders, he would work his way into the homes of the powerful and strike his enemy deep in their heart.

  He stood in the dark emptiness of an abandoned house, the home destroyed in the battle for the city long months before. To human eyes he could not be differentiated from the shadows. He was a shadow, a brooding shadow of power and an ancient curse. But it was not human eyes that watched the vampire.

  "There is nothing left but the wrongness in you," the Morigu said. "I have come to end your nightmare." The vampire turned at the sound, shocked that any could approach him without his knowledge. His eyes burned red to see a single warrior standing before him.

  The sight and scent bespoke an elf of a lesser breed. The intruder stood just six feet but was tightly muscled. He was clad in a chain-mail vest that wrapped about his loins. Thick necklaces and bracelets made of hundreds of fangs about his neck and limbs gave him a barbaric, savage aspect. His only weapons were the sword he carried, and the parrying blade at his side. The elf's eyes and hair were black; matched with his sharp pointed ears it gave him an almost sinister air. A thought that the vampire smiled at.

  "Ah, dinner has arrived." He smiled to show his sharp canines. Margawt was unimpressed and chose that moment to reveal his true self to the creature.

  The vampire let out a long hiss of longing, of despair at what his senses now showed him. It was health, health and life as the soulless creature had never experienced in his long existence. He could feel the beat of the heart from the chain-mailed breast, feel it in the very ground he stood on. It was hard and slow and the blood it moved was thick. The smell of that blood was heady to the monster, unfathomable in its force and being. Even so there was a taint about it, small, almost untraceable, but there. A sense of rot in all that health, a promise of decay in the unbridled urge to live, to exist, to be.

  It was too much to bear, too sweet to turn from. Forgetting his magic and his sword, the vampire reverted to the true beast that he was and with a howl leapt straight at the Morigu. The need was so great it was pain to the monster, a pain that could hardly be borne, a pain that could be assuaged only by that rich blood streaming between his fangs, soaking his withered throat.

  But it was not to be, for the creature, even if he had used all his magic, was no match for the Morigunamachamain. Margawt moved with a speed even a vampire could not duplicate and his sword flashed four times--four strokes, finished before the monster completed its leap, each perfectly timed and perfectly placed. The vampire fell to the ground limbless. His face smashed onto the hard floor, shattering one of the deadly canines.

  Margawt laughed once as he kicked the torso over so the vampire could see its severed arms and legs. The laugh was cruel and jubilant. The vampire's hands still feebly grasped as the Morigu made a sickening pile of the limbs. The vampire could do nothing, his magic now dampened and surrounded by the earth power. Quietly, it watched as Margawt continued his ghastly game. There was no pain at the loss of the limbs, for Margawt's weapons were not magic, nor even silver. It was the Morigu's pride that forbade him to use any weapons of power.

  Margawt lifted the vampire upright, smiling at the grisly sight of the head and torso. Casually, he lifted the vampire's lips to inspect the creature's teeth. The vampire, still lost in its need, helplessly snapped at the hand over and over, trying to get just a taste of that blood, that power...

  "It is over," Margawt said. He took off a bracelet on his arm and dangled it in front of the vampire's face. "Most of these ornaments are made from the left fangs of goblins I have hunted. This one here is special. It's made from both the fangs of each of your brothers I have hunted this last week." He squatted down, shifting to make himself more comfortable on the stone floor.

  "As I understand it," he said, looking the vampire straight in the eye, daring the creature to try its hypnotic power on him, "since you are really nothing more than an animated corpse, you can replace your limbs from any severed limb as long as enough meat is on the bone to hold it together." Margawt twisted his lip in thought. "I think here we may begin." He walked over to the pile of limbs and picked up a leg. Turning back to the vampire he said, "I do not trust your masters to punish you when I send you to Hell. And"--he sniffed the air once--"there is nothing for me to hunt nearby, I will teach you true horror this night." He laughed. "You and your kind are nothing to me--dead people who refuse to stay dead. Decaying meat with no true soul. But"--and his eyes gleamed darker than the shadows--"you hunt the living, infecting them with your corruption. The hate that you feel, the hunger that you know, is as nothing to the wrath of the Morigu. I shall enjoy your fear and pain. For you are no longer the hunter, you are now the prey."

  And finally the vampire began to scream and he did not stop until the light of day finally called what was left of his soul to its payment in Hell. But none heard those screams. They never went past the house, they never went past the Morigu. And he reveled in their music.

  Just before the sun rose to free the vampire from its torments, Dermot of the Shee rode out the newly built gates of Tolan. She was the last of her kind left in the empire; the other four had fallen in the siege of the city. She had grown since then, in skill and in magic, and was now accounted one of the leaders of the allies. But she was ill-suited to the part she was supposed to play, and today her heart was hard, trapped in a cage of duties.

  She rode to a great hill before the city, one of two that held the slain from the earlier battles about the capital. In one rested many of the fallen warriors, but in the other lay only two: Mathwei, colonel of the Army of Tolath, and Baibre, high sorceress of Cather-na-nog and Dermot's aunt. Many times the young elf came here to watch the rising of the sun and to seek what peace she could find at her beloved aunt's grave. But today she was surprised to see another horse and a tall figure on bent knee before the crypt's marble doors. The figure turned to her and slowly stood up and she felt a cold warning in her very bones. Dermot at first thought he was of the elven race because of his size, but then she smiled. She had made that mistake before with this human: Niall Trollsbane, general in Tolath's armies, and the greatest of the human warriors.

  "My lord general," she said, dismounting gracefully.

  "My lady," he answered with a sketched bow. "Sure and it has been long, hard months since I've seen you, Lady." She gave him a brief smile.

  "Duty, my lord, has kept me quite busy."

  "Duty is it?" His grin was wide and stayed. "In truth duty can be a bit of a burden, can it not, Lady?"

  "My thoughts exactly." She moved a little closer to him. Though the sun had not yet risen, she could see him plainly with her elven vision. He was big and heavily muscled. He sported some new scars on hands and face and his gray eyes, once so clean and serious, were now somehow more merry, but also haunted. She was surprised to see his once short blond hair was now long and tied in a horse-tail braid. Noticing where she looked, the general tugged the braid self-consciously.

  "I wear it to remember him," he said, nodding toward the grave mound. She followed with her gaze and stared at the stone doors.

  "We all have someone to remember in these times."

  "True enough, lass, true enough
." He could not see her as clearly as she could see him. Her form seemed to shimmer with a faint light like the air over a hot fire. And her eyes, though black, were too bright for mortal eyes. Even though Niall had been in close contact with many of the elven kind since the start of the war, he still could not get used to their beauty and etherealness. He coughed self-consciously; he felt awkward for having called her "lass."

  "I did not know you and Colonel Mathwei were so close."

  "Close enough." He looked to the ground, his voice low. "He taught me things, though in truth I dinnae think he knew it. Mathwei, he--ah, I'm no bard to speak of such things, Lady." But her silence compelled him. "He had no great power, no great skill. He was a young lad, from a family of no name, no rank. But Lady, he understood this war, what it meant, better than any I have met." Again he tugged the hair braid. "It is easy, is it not... or at least easier, to be brave when you have power? Aye, I can match blade work with any, save maybe the Morigu or some of your own lords, yet among men I am accounted great and . . . powerful."

  "Your name is held in high esteem, my lord," she answered, but she could not understand his words.

  "High esteem, och, what a grand phrase!" He said nothing for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Lady, I have seen--the things done... I can face it. I must, for wasn't I born to it? But Mathwei, ah, now the lad did nae have my training, my strength, the power of a great clan behind him. Yet, he faced it. Oh aye, he faced it all." The general turned from the elf maid, his head hanging between his broad shoulders.

  "How can I say it? Where, in truth, are the words? The dead of the empire. . . The songs I longed to be in. The dead were as nothing to me. Did I think of what it meant when a city fell to the enemy? Nay, only of the great glory of the recapturing of it by some noble hero. And may the gods forgive me, I longed to be that hero."

  "Surely, my lord, you--" But she stopped as he turned to face her. His face was now hard, and the newly won scars seemed to burn in the predawn air.

  "Nay, nay, Lady, you misunderstand." He dared to move closer, to look straight into her magic eyes. "I was not humbled by the powers greater than I. I was not overawed by the elves and the lords and the wizards, nor even by the enemy. But that one man, he shamed me. He pushed and pushed, striving to match the forces thrown against him, forces he could do little to stem and could never overthrow." She took a step back, unused to this show of emotion.

  "The dead," he continued, "they are all around us now, thousands and thousands, and how is it they died? Horrid ways. Och, there are no words for what is happening, even as we speak, to those I am sworn to serve and protect. But to me, Lady, they had ever been just the pavement for my road to glory." Finally he relented and once more turned away.

  "Do you nae remember, Lady, that talk we had on the walls not long before these two fell?"

  "I do indeed, my lord."

  "Well, lass, there I swore I had learned fear and humility." He shrugged. "But I, like Mathwei, have no fear for myself, only for those I must shield. Fear that I may fail." He laughed. "And as for humility, oh aye, I must be telling you the truth, it's not a virtue I have often indulged in."

  "I do not understand what you are trying to say."

  "Don't you?" He looked up the hill. "Perhaps it's best. But it seems to me, Lady, that the only heroes are those who do what they must, because it is right. Mathwei knew that, and truly I think he was such a hero as this world rarely sees." Just then the sun's first light touched the hill and Niall was surprised to see a figure on the top. He pointed.

  "Now who can that be?" he asked, even as he turned to mount his horse. Dermot's eyes were sharper and she could make out that the figure was on a pony and clearly she could see the aura of power. She shivered once then mounted and followed Niall.

  Near the top they both could see the apparition was a small woman on a dark pony. She waved once to them and began to ride about the hill. Niall kicked his horse to follow, and Dermot was right behind them. He said nothing, determined to face the intruder on this sacred ground. Dermot, however, now understood her earlier premonition.

  "Goddess," she whispered.

  Fin, Warlord of the West, shifted his bulk uncomfortably on the hard seat of the marble chair. He sat in a small council room dominated by a large oak table. The long, stained glass windows letting in the morning light, patterned the muraled stone walls with bright splashes of color. Across from the warlord three people sat: the leaders of the monks of the Hunter, each representing an aspect of the human soul.

  The maker sat in the middle, tall and blond, his youthful looks belying his years; he was the High Priest of the monks, the foremost of all human wizards now alive. To his right sat the enigmatic destroyer, first in war, and probably the equal to any in combat, including the elf lords. The destroyer was covered in a gray material that Fin learned had the consistency of plate armor and a tenth of the weight. And to the left sat Bronwen ap Remon, who had been freed from Arianrood's prison by Donal Longsword and Mearead. She had just short weeks before been chosen as the hunter, to replace the Stalker master who had fallen before the might of Apkieran. They were formidable and led a powerful force, but they were each unsettling in their own way. Fin sighed loudly.

  "So, the Duke of Tinnafar has agreed to give the castle at Brest to your order?"

  "Yes, my lord," the maker answered. "There we may train the acolytes and expand our numbers."

  "Good enough." Fin looked at the destroyer fingering his sword hilt. "I'm sure that Donal will agree to this. You monks are the only source of magic we humans have. We need more wizards."

  "And more of my own," the destroyer added. "I will train a new force of five hundred; they will be ready for the spring campaign." Fin did not answer. He could not deny the destroyer's skills and usefulness; that didn't mean that he had to like the man, however.

  "And you, Lady?" He smiled at Bronwen. She smiled back. Much of her natural aggressiveness had been tempered in her training, and now, more often than not, she acted like the shy animals of the forest that her powers emulated.

  "My order, of all the Stalkers, have had the fewest casualties, my lord." Her brown eyes refused to look at the fierce warlord. She hesitated for a moment, rubbing her chin against her shoulder. "All along we have recruited and our numbers now approach a thousand, with half of them ready for battle and fifty having reached master rank."

  "Well, that is good news," Fin said. And he meant it. The monks of the hunt were the best scouts the army had and though they rarely fought with the regular army, it was they who led the guerrilla war along the southern front. Bronwen had learned her tactics from her god Himself and had perfected them in her seven-year-long rebellion against her father, Remon, the sorcerous king of Fiodha. Fin was constantly surprised by how tiny the girl was, and how young. But she was proving to be one of the empire's best assets.

  "Bronwen has done an excellent job," the maker said, beaming at the girl. "And thirty more of her monks have been sent to Donal in the south."

  "And what of your monks?" Fin asked.

  "Four more applicants will be tested this week for mage level," the maker answered. "I think all four shall make it, which will give us thirty-nine mages in all, and a hundred just beneath them." The Stalker master did not bother to mention that he was the only human archmage now alive.

  "So," Fin said, "we now have at least the power to continue the stalemate that exists." He scratched his thick red beard. "But I wonder..." But he did not finish his sentence, for at that moment Margawt appeared at the door. The thick, wooden door was still barred shut, and none had heard it open, but there stood the Morigu.

  "I have finished," he said. "None of the undead hunt the city." Fin noticed that the destroyer for the first time moved, a quick movement toward his sword, just as quickly stilled. "Now, I wonder," he thought, "what that is about?"

  "Well done, lad," he said aloud, still casually watching the destroyer. "We knew you would succeed."

  "I must go," said
Margawt, and turned to leave.

  "Wait." Fin stood up. He towered over the Morigu, but Fin had seen Margawt fight and felt as if it was he who must look up to meet the other's eyes. "Where do you go?"

  Margawt said nothing for a moment, apparently puzzled by the question. He looked as if he would leave without answering, but then with a shrug he said, "I hunt." Again he turned to go, but Fin reached out a restraining hand. Only Fin, Laird of Dun Scaga, of all men, would have dared such a thing. Margawt spun from the grip in a whirl of speed, ending his movement with his sword at the warlord's throat. If Fin was surprised or afraid, he did not show it. The two looked at one another, down the bright length of the blade. Behind the warlord, the destroyer had moved nearly as fast. He stood to the side of Fin, his blade out, while Bronwen and the maker had not moved.

  Margawt stood like a stone statue. He stayed motionless for a moment as his mind tried to sort out what must be done. The man before him held no wrongness--bitterness, hurt--anguish 'even--but no wrongness. Indeed, Margawt realized that Fin held less taint of corruption in him than any mortal man, save perhaps the maker. With a sigh, the Morigu sheathed his sword. He did not even glance at the destroyer.

  "You should not touch me," he said. He shuddered for a moment. He had shielded himself from the earth power in order to give his message to the humans, but now it was creeping through his shields. It was pain to him, for it brought the cries of the living earth and her children as they fell before the enemy, in all the places of the land.

  "I must hunt," he gasped out.

  "Margawt," Fin said, "in three days Donal, Ceallac, and all the warlords will come to the city for a great council. We wish you to be here." Margawt turned to go. "The Lord Anlon told me to insist on it," Fin added. The Morigu stopped once more. Anlon, the unicorn, was the closest thing that Margawt had to a friend, since the disappearance of Dammuth. He nodded once and left, this time opening the door.