Morigu: Book 01 - The Desecration Page 31

  "But won't that weaken the barriers more?" the Morigu asked.

  Lonnlarcan nodded. "Yes, probably, but we know that Arianrood for some time contacted him regularly. One more time can't be enough to tip the balance."

  "And the enemy?" asked Margawt.

  "Will probably expect us at some time or another to try it," Donal said.

  "Which is probably why Arianrood let us know that she could speak with Fealoth, to plant the idea in our heads." Lonnlarcan looked hard.

  "So, again we fall into their trap."

  "Not exactly," Donal stood up, "because, you see, the enemy had no idea you existed. We're sure of that. He could not have prepared for you. It usually takes years upon years for a Morigunamachamain to come to his power." Margawt looked away as once more his mind tortured him with the events that led him to become what he was. The other two waited quietly for Margawt to speak.

  "They would expect you to call Fealoth." He looked at the two, a smile of defiance forming on his face. "But they would not expect you to test the god you created."

  "Can you hide yourself completely from Fealoth's power?"

  "It will be hard, take a lot of concentration, but I can do it." He began to chuckle, a soft, deep-throated sound, the promise in that near-laugh plain to the others. "When do you plan to try this?"

  "Tomorrow," said Donal. "You must leave before then and return unknown to anyone."

  "None must guess what we do in case they inadvertently give us away." Lonnlarcan's eyes burned silver. "You must leave on some mission, to be gone for a day or two, then hide in a chamber in the temple." Margawt nodded.

  "I think tonight and tomorrow I will have to confer with the Goddess." The other two smiled.

  "We must know," Lonnlarcan's voice was urgent, "is Fealoth alive or dead, and if alive, is he with us or against us?"

  C H A P T E R

  Twenty-One

  That night Donal resumed the council meeting. When all were seated he took his place by the map.

  "Now," he said, "we must decide what our first move is."

  "We need more information." Mearead's voice slurred.

  "Indeed we do." Donal gave them a look of smug satisfaction.

  "I assume, my lord," said Ceallac, "you have a plan?"

  Lonnlarcan answered. "Yes, we do." He stared at the others for a moment, sweeping them all with his silver gaze. "We must call Fealoth." Immediately the room exploded in bedlam.

  "He is dead," someone shouted.

  "He has betrayed us," this from Kevin.

  "What help are human gods?" Ceallac's voice rose above the din.

  "Can we do it?" Mearead's voice quieted the others.

  "We know that Arianrood did, before the war," Lonnlarcan answered, his once melodious voice harsh and rough, "and since that time we have seen the barriers between the Bright World and ours grow steadily weaker as the enemy has used other powers to help their cause."

  "I have spoken with the High Priest here in Tolan," Donal sajd. "He is anxious to try, since," he added wryly, "adherents to the faith have become few and far between." The humans looked nervously at each other. None could now claim to be a stout believer in the faith of the Bright God.

  "The people of Tinnafar," said Kevin, "have always been followers of Lugh. Should we not try to call him instead? He has never wavered in his alliance to men."

  "No," said Mearead, "it makes sense. Fealoth was supposed to have defeated the Dark One forever. He lies in the middle of this."

  "Yes, yes," added the maker, "how is it that Fealoth allowed Arianrood to go so far, to betray what he supposedly stood for?"

  "My old friend" Mearead stressed the word, "has a lot to answer for. We will call him and he will come." His statement left no room for refusal.

  It was decided that the next day they would attempt to call Fealoth and then, armed with whatever knowledge gained from the event, they would plan for a military offensive. As the council meeting adjourned, the dwarf king rose to his feet.

  "It will behoove us all, my lords," he said, "to remember one thing." He paused for a moment. "There is no doubt, Trell'dem was right. The enemy was just rebuilding their strength. This is the same war we fought so long ago. The Dark Seign wars are not ended yet." The others said nothing and left one by one to wait to see what the next day would portend.

  Much was made of the Morigu's departure that night and Donal made sure all the human lords, plus Ceallac, were there to see the elf ride into the night. As soon as the lone figure was lost in the grey shadows, Donal went about preparing the temple of Fealoth for its divine visit.

  This had to be done quietly, though. Not a few people, priest and mob, had died in the riots earlier, and the populace was ill-disposed toward the temple. In darkest secrecy, special troops--all consisting of members of the royalty and the Green Branch knights--went about cleaning the place and preparing it for the great ritual.

  The temple was a monstrous edifice of stone and marble. The inside vast enough to hold three thousand worshipers at once. Once entered, the faithful would pass beneath the tiered seats for the royalty. These were at the very back, forming three sides of a rectangle that surrounded the tomb of Ellawyn and Lir, the mother and father of the god Fealoth.

  Twelve columns marched across the floor, six to each side, each the thickness of a large wagon wheel. Between each pillar was an alcove where a painting presented part of the story of the rise of the god. At the opposite end of the temple stood a stone altar, overshadowed from behind by a twenty-foot sculpture of Fealoth.

  To the left and right were two silver doors leading to the inner sanctum, where a series of three circles merged to open to the inner chamber where the bones and armor of the god were interred in a crystal case. For when he ascended to godhood, Fealoth had no more need of his physical body and left his bones and armor on earth. Only the shield and sword did he take with him, their mystical element essential in his rise.

  The mob had not been able to reach the inner sanctum since the narrow circular corridors were easily defended by the priests. All the priests of Fealoth were able fighters, since Fealoth was above all a warrior god.

  The High Priest set a limit to how many could be present. Seven, being a number of power and good luck, was chosen. So it was that early the next morning, Donal, Mearead, Kevin, Lonnlarcan, Cucullin, Ceallac, and Niall entered the hushed interior of the temple.

  The temple was clean, but all the marks of the attack could not be erased in a night, so all stared as they walked in at the defaced paintings and chipped marble. Surprisingly, the statue and tomb in the main hall were barely touched as if the mob, so recently converted, could not quite bring itself to attack these monuments.

  "Where are the benches?" Ceallac murmured as the temple rang with the ching of armor and weapons that all wore.

  "Fealoth is not a god you kneel to," answered Mearead, "even if you prayed to him."

  The High Priest waited for them at the altar. He was a tall man, his long white hair in a thick braid reaching his waist, emulating the hair of his god. His piercing green eyes took in the party as he bowed deeply. If he felt it a little unorthodox that the group was armed, he said nothing.

  "All is in readiness," he said, his high-pitched voice disturbing the image of the patriarch he obviously cultivated.

  The others followed him as he led them into the inner sanctum. None could fail to notice the hard-scrubbed walls and floors marking the spot where blood had been shed where the priests had taken their stand.

  The inner chamber was completely bare except for the enshrined bones placed at the very center. They were raised on a short platform made of a chunk of solid jade encased in a crystal coffin. The top had been opened and the crown of Tolath was placed upon the skull. Also in its thin grasp rested the sceptre of the emperor.

  "They have been placed there," explained the High Priest, "to give the god earthly objects to focus on." Along the curved walls of the room stood twelve priests in bright blue rob
es, heads completely covered by long hoods as they chanted in a sonorous monotone. Each swung a thiruble of incense that clouded the room with a thick, cloying smell that attached itself to clothes and hair. But around all the elves an unseen force pushed the multicolored smoke away from them, forming a clear aura an inch off their skin.

  The High Priest positioned each of the leaders around the casket, then he bowed once to the skeleton. He retreated to the foot of the casket. He joined the chant, speaking in an archaic tongue that only Lonnlarcan of all there was familiar with.

  For an hour the priests chanted, making gestures, crying in loud voices. Each of the leaders tried to help by concentrating, but the elves could not follow the paths of the humans' desire with their own magic. Mearead became more exasperated as he became sure that no real power was being exerted by the priests. Just wishful thinking.

  After another half hour, the High Priest raised himself slowly.

  "Nothing, my lord," he addressed Donal. "I am sorry but there is no response. The god does not wish to be disturbed." The Warlord and Ard Riegh looked at one another. This was not a turn of events they expected.

  Mearead sighed, then moved toward the skeleton. He reached down to touch the hand feebly clutching the sceptre. All the priests cried aloud and the patriarch grabbed Mearead's shoulder to pull him away. But he might as well have tried to pull down the pillars of the temple as budge the dwarf.

  "My lord," Donal cried, "you go too far." He pushed the priest away. "Do you forget who the Lord Mearead is?" The man just stared back, his green eyes bright.

  But Mearead paid no attention. He was remembering days long gone by. He was not thinking of the god, but of his friend, the young, cocky emperor of Tolath, more comfortable with drunken jest than godlike utterances. And he remembered--a dark field, two great hosts facing one another and he walked across the length of the field, alone, to face the giant shadow, to face the Dark One himself; to issue the challenge of Fealoth.

  He remembered and his old heart ached, ached with the blood and pain of the old wars, ached for the deaths of his people in the last months, the constant fight inside himself over the fear of betrayal by his friend. He reached out with mind and heart and for a moment he felt a touch, light, then pull away. He groaned and shouted to the ceiling.

  "Fealoth!" he cried in a great voice. "You owe me! You owe me, Fealoth!" He lifted his ax and shook it toward the empty ceiling.

  "Damn you, Fealoth! You owe me! Fealoth! Fealoth!" he cried and some force, some power carried his words so in all of Tolan, in every house, in every shop, the cry was heard, not loud, but there. None could avoid it, not even the god.

  He came as he knew he must. The others he could ignore, but not Mearead, never him.

  In the room the clouds of incense whirled around and around. The incense was burned down in seconds and the thick vapor drove into the casket. There it wrapped around the bones, obscuring them, filling out the forms of muscles and sinew, fat and flesh.

  Inadvertently, all save Mearead and Lonnlarcan took a step back. Slowly, the vapors quit whirling about the bones and formed into a semi-opaque body. In agonizing slowness, the body pulled itself up and off the platform. The others crowded at one end to face the rising of the god.

  But it wasn't the proud figure of the statue that faced them. This being stood at an angle seeming to barely hold itself up. Great rents in the flesh covered the body as if an ax had chopped it randomly. The bright blue eyes were missing; in their place were empty holes, dark and blind. The smoke-flesh had turned the silver so closely associated with Fealoth, but it was a dirty and tarnished color and made the apparition only that more ghastly.

  "I have come," the mouth barely moved and the voice was hollow, sounding as if he spoke from a great distance. Not soft, but from far, far away. The priests fell to their knees in a mixture of joy and horror. Mearead took a step closer, but even he dared not reach out and touch the God.

  "Fealoth, what has been done to you?" he asked, his voice husky.

  "The war never ended, my friend." Fealoth shook his head sadly. "I have fought and fought, but my strength has not been enough. I have been cast down, and barely manage to survive." He sighed, like a great breeze through the evening trees. "The Bright World, is not all bright. . . I had no time to adjust to my new power, my Godhood." He backed against the walls as if for support. "I could not warn you. I could not help you. He was too powerful. He," Fealoth stressed the word, "always blocked me."

  "The Dark One," Mearead's voice was sad and old.

  "Aye," Fealoth looked down at the dwarf, "our ancient enemy. I chained Him. Even at my height I could not kill Him. But always, always, there were those eager to do His bidding, always there were those who strove to free Him." He fell silent, his breathing great rasps that echoed about the chamber.

  "Can you offer us no help?" said Donal.

  The god looked up. "Help? Help, Warlord? There is no help for you. . . you are all doomed. He will rise and none can stand in His way. He will rise and stretch forth His great black hand and this world will be His." Unnoticed by the others, the thimbles lit and again the clouds filled the air. But whereas before they had been multicolored, they were now grey. They drifted to enshroud each of the figures. It seemed to each person there--man, elf, and dwarf--that it was as if the others dwindled to shadow and only he was there, alone, facing the Bright God's despair.

  The smoke grew thick, and unknowingly all there drank deep of its fumes. Even the elves became encased in a cloud that began to wrap tighter and tighter around them, pressing on them, forcing them to relive the scenes of the war, all the deaths. And for what? A brief respite, a moment in the sun? Fealoth himself, a God, was helpless. What could they do for all their vaunted power?

  This was the message that Fealoth brought them, the message that weighed down their hearts and souls. The message that was one by one destroying them. Already two of the priests had fallen to the ground; their hearts burst as their wills shattered.

  And it would have worked. He would have destroyed them all in that moment. But He did not know, He did not know that one other listened, one other was in that room, one who could see Him for what He truly was.

  Margawt's form flowed out of the wall. For a moment he stood, concentrating, using all his power to blind the God to his presence. The vision he saw was not the same as the others'. For he saw Fealoth unhurt, strong, a ruthless grin twisting his handsome features. And the Morigu saw more, he saw the Darkness within, the evil and corruption a thick sludge that was the true body of the God. Margawt restrained himself. The agony of Fealoth's evil scraped his nerves like a razor, but though tears of blood streaked his face he moved one slow step at a time, closer, closer.

  Fealoth felt something, the threat, the hate, something. He concentrated, putting more of his essence into the earthly form. More, he poured it in. And as more of his power infused the skeleton, the God began to register something, something narrowing in, He would have it in a second . . . .

  Then He did see something, but it wasn't the Morigu. It was a thick, pale shadow, a shadow not of evil, but of doom, and it reached for Him.

  "This is my world," Death hissed. For the first time since his ascension, Fealoth felt fear. He pulled away from the earthly coils He had created, rising away fast before Death's cold hand could touch Him.

  And the Morigu struck. With a great cry he brought his sword down, crashing the skull to slivers, the force of the blow shattering every bone, cleaving the crown in two. Though Fealoth escaped, the Morigu howled with delight, for he knew he had hurt Him, he knew he had hurt the blackest traitor of them all. And as the others strove for consciousness, the Morigunamachamain's howls rang through the temple as he did a mad dance amongst the God's bones.

  It was a few hours before the others recovered. The events of the night were explained to the other leaders. After everyone had time to think about it, Fealoth's betrayal was not such a shock as it could have been, and it was offset by the know
ledge that for once they had trapped the enemy and ruined at least one of their intricate plans.

  If Mearead was quieter than ever, no one took notice, nor did anyone blame him that he alone of the seven did not congratulate the Morigu.

  Margawt said nothing, for he realized he, too, must seek to find the answer of a friend's part in this war. Was Dammuth dead? Or did he follow the path of Arianrood and Fealoth?

  There was one more casualty of the traitor Fealoth that night, as the High Priest, feeling the betrayal perhaps more than anyone, slit his thin old wrist. When Mearead was given the news he just nodded and continued to sharpen his ax, as he had been doing since he awoke from Fealoth's power.

  Two shadows watched it all. Silent, they stood above the city as the inhabitants hurried about trying to find the strength to continue the war.

  "You have shown yourself," the Hunter said. Death just shrugged.

  "It was worth it, to attack that traitor."

  "What now?"

  "Red war. The people of the land must rearm, hold the evil hordes back."

  "They will try to release our Dark Brother."

  "He is no brother of mine!" Death's form expanded and he looked down at the Hunter. "The people must hold."

  "What good if they bring back the Beast?"

  "Evil," Death hissed, "evil, brother, works against itself. Give them time and the leaders will fight amongst each other, each trying to rule." He laughed. "Even the Black Soul would have a hard time controlling Arianrood, and the Demon Prince Dubh has trebled his own strength."

  "What of us?"

  "You must seek the answer to the riddle of when and how they will bring the Beast back."

  "And you?"

  "I am going to find a way to kill the unkillable." His form expanded into nothingness. "I am going to kill the Lord of the Undead."

  Epilogue

  In a room that was not a room, a place that was not a place, in darkness that was more than darkness, a thick, black chain rattled and for the first time in one hundred and fifty years a shadow stood. The chain was still too thick, but it was weaker, weaker.