Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Page 5

  In a cave beyond the world's paths two great spirits stared at the tiny figures of Niall and Dermot. Their forms were shadow, and human, but from the brow of the smaller one the outline of stag horns showed.

  "The goddess is generous with her gifts," said Lord Death.

  "There is always a price for her generosity," answered the Hunter and he did not seek to hide the bitterness of his words.

  "Is she right? Can the epochs of the world be split into three great wars?"

  "She tends to think in threes," the Hunter snorted. "It is a habit she has." Lord Death's laughter was harsh and filled the cave.

  "Indeed." He stood up. "But in one thing she is most definitely right." He mounted his golden chariot. "We cannot allow the Dark Ones to win, no matter what."

  "Even if the world is destroyed?" the Hunter asked, still not moving.

  "Even so." And Death lashed his black steeds and left that place.

  "But if the world dies," the Hunter continued as if his companion were still there, and indeed the god knew Lord Death could hear his words, "then I, too, will fall and the goddess with me." And the Hunter looked up and his shadow eyes burned a dark green. "And tell me, where is there room for Death when there no longer is life?

  "The fortunes of war," came the reply, followed by the harsh laughter. The Hunter bowed his head once more and did not answer.

  C H A P T E R

  Four

  Seven days after Niall and Dermot returned from their encounter with the goddess, the warlords of Cather-na-nog and their army of elves and brown elves rode into the city of Tolan. The whole population of the city thronged the walls and streets to see the eerie sight of the elven host.

  "They came at night, their mounts' eyes burning red in the dark, a silver nimbus of magic surrounding each horse and rider. At their head rode Queen Maeve, her bearing proud and triumphant. On her left rode her warlord, Fergus Firemane; his name well earned, as his bright red hair matched the fierce glow of his queen's thick tresses. On her right rode the High Prince Cucullin, and the people of the city cheered to see him, for he was loved by all, man or elf.

  The elves rode in one long, sinuous line fifteen wide and they shouted and laughed, singing war songs as they came. The hawks of Diuann ai Di wheeled and dived above the host, their eyes so bright it seemed as if the stars themselves played in the night air. The elves came in all their glory, knowing the enemy would spy them out, taunting the Dark Ones with their display.

  It was a magic moment, and all there seemed somehow touched by the elven magic, as hearts once more grew bold and defiant, and the darkness that had been the city's enemy for long months was lit by elven song and human laughter.

  Waiting for the leaders stood Donal Longsword, once Warlord of Aes Lugh, now Warlord of the Armies of Tolath. He stood taller than any there, and all the people of the city took pride in their half-elven leader. On his right stood the Warlord of the West, Fin, Laird of Dun Scaga, and on the left stood the Arch Mage of the Stalkers, the maker. Behind them stood the lords of the empire, bright in jewels and armor, and a nobler assembly of humans had not been seen in the land since the Dark Siegn wars.

  From the group walked three more figures, and the crowd let out a sigh at their beauty. Ceallac, king's cousin. Warlord of the elves of Cather-na-nog, led them, and his power draped about him like a black mantle. Beside him walked Cormac, son of Cainhill, his manner stiff, the memory of the betrayal of his father always with him; a son weighed down by his father's sins. And last came Dermot of the Shee, and her beauty was more than any human could ever have.

  The two groups met and the leaders as one bowed to one another.

  "I have brought Maeve rab Kiel," Cucullin's musical voice filled the square, "and present her and her warriors to this grand city. She has come to join the alliance."

  "And welcome you are, my lady," Donal answered. "Truly, you are the hope unlooked for."

  "Thank you, my lord." Maeve bowed once. "My people and I will do all in our power to help."

  "We can ask no more," the warlord answered graciously.

  "Ho, cousin," Cucullin shouted out to Ceallac as he leapt off his horse. "I have missed your bright smile!" Ceallac answered this by a shout of his own and a quick hug. The two great elves searched each other's features, reading there the payment the war had taken from both. All eyes were drawn to them; it seemed to the humans as if two gods of some ancient tale stood before them. And all there knew that of all that walked the earth, Cucullin the Bright, and Ceallac, king's cousin, were accounted two of the greatest and it made all their hearts the stronger to see them together.

  There were more words said, but they were quiet and between the leaders. The night was long, as the whole city rejoiced at the coming of the brown elves, and all the inns of the city passed out free ale and wine. Though the elves of Cather-na-nog were as aloof as always, the humans were glad to find that the brown elves were happy to mingle and share a drink with the people of the city. Only dwarves could outdrink the small elves, as many a human found to his consternation that night.

  The next morning rose fine and bright, though the chill of winter was there to be tasted. But the people of the city woke to a day of holiday and of more festivities, for their leaders knew how much the long-suffering city needed it. But as the elves and humans began again to challenge one another in drinking and dancing, their leaders met in solemn council.

  Once more the council chamber of Tolan was filled with heroes. The morning light streamed through the high windows onto the relief map of the empire on the floor of the circular room. The amphitheater seats filled quickly, as one by one the leaders of the alliance came in.

  From Cather-na-nog, Ceallac, Warlord of Cather-na-nog, sat surrounded by his people: Dermot, the Shee; Cormac, son of Cainhill; and Cucullin, the Bright. There, too, sat Maeve, Queen of the brown elves, and her warlord, Fergus Firemane; and perched on the queen's shoulder was the great hawk Carlolis Bright Wing, quietly grooming his golden feathers.

  Next to the elves sat the human lords: Fin, Warlord of the West; Niall Trollsbane; Kevin, the duke of Tinnafar; Bran, earl of Althon; Crohan, baron of Mathia; Gwenyth of the Long Sight, duchess of Conlai; and Tara Brightblade, newly elected grand master of the Green Branch knights. All wore bright mail and white cassocks, like a painting of the elder days.

  There also sat the Stalker masters: the maker, calmly sipping his wine; the huntress, Bronwen ap Remon, shifting uncomfortably on her seat; and the destroyer, mysterious in his black hood and armor--he did not move a muscle.

  Near the marble doors stood the unicorn Anlon, son of the Hunter and the goddess. Next to him stood Margawt, the Morigunamachamain. And across from the others sitting by himself was the King of Crystal Falls, Mearead. The dwarf did not look at any of the others, but quietly stared at the bright sheen of his ax blade where it lay in his mailed lap.

  One other figure stood there, by the map. Donal Longsword, Warlord of the Empire of Tolath. He took the measure of each with his bright, gray eyes and finally nodded, as if in agreement to some previous conversation.

  "I welcome all to the council of Tolan," Donal said. His handsome face seemed lit by an inner light. "There is much to be discussed and settled." The others made affirmative noises, but none spoke up. Donal nodded his head once more, then took a deep breath.

  "First, I have some news I must impart to you," he said, his voice lowering. "And sad news it is. Yesterday, Cathbad, son of Trell'dem, was found dead." Donal let the statement sink in, then continued. "As you know, the prince was bespelled by some dark curse we could not lift. It kept him in a state of perpetual terror and nightmares. Apparently"--the half-elf shifted, making his mail coat ring--"the poor boy could not take the dreams and visions anymore. He ripped his eyes out with his own hands and bled to death. Nothing could be done for him. Let us hope the prince has gone to a happier place."

  None of the leaders said anything, but all were shaken by this latest blow to the alliance. It had
been hoped that eventually the elves or the mages of the Hunter would break the spell that held the prince. It was a horrid way to die.

  "It leaves," Donal continued, "the throne empty. There are no more direct heirs to hold the scepter. The Archduke Mannon is the most likely candidate for the throne, but Fin and I feel we can wait until winter before an emperor is chosen."

  "Surely," Kevin spoke up. He was a short man but built solidly. "The land needs a ruler, now more than ever."

  "Perhaps." It was Fin who stood up to answer the duke. "But we have survived so far with no emperor. Better we wait until the campaign season is over. We don't want to weaken ourselves with squabbles over the succession." He sat down with a clatter of his mail shirt. The other humans discussed it for a while longer, and in the end all agreed now was not the time to decide the issue. Only Niall did not take part in the conversation, for as second son to the Archduke, he would benefit greatly if his father took the scepter. Some took Niall's silence as simply good politics, but the truth was otherwise. Niall sat watching the debate with something very much akin to fear. Last spring he would have leapt up, demanding the throne for his father, and in turn for himself, conveniently putting away the thought of his older brother. But now the thought of possibly being in line for the succession for emperor was unnerving. The general could no longer with surety say what he wanted out of life, but one thing he could definitely state, he would never want the scepter.

  "The next topic is equally grisly." Donal shifted his great bulk uncomfortably. "The monks of the huntress have confirmed what we all feared. In the south, those people who did not escape the enemy have been herded into armed camps. There they are the cattle for the enemy armies." And at this statement many of the leaders leapt up, shouting their anger and defiance at this latest of outrages. It took a few moments to settle everyone down. Then in a firm voice Donal continued.

  "These are not breeding farms," he said. "The enemy does not plan to keep the humans as permanent livestock. They are simply using the most convenient form of genocide." The eyes that watched the warlord were hard. "We can't be sure how many have survived, but we estimate that two-thirds of those who did not escape to the north are already dead. If we can't free the survivors by winter, none will be alive come springtime."

  It was almost too much to face. Most of the heroes at the council were veterans of this war. Each had seen too many horrors to recount them all, but this was too much!

  "Kill them!"

  "Vengeance!"

  "We can't allow this!"

  "Attack! We must attack!"

  And on it went. Donal said nothing, waiting for the furor to once more settle down.

  "It was," said a deep voice, and all looked with surprise at the dwarf king, for up to now he had been silent, "you, Donal Longsword, who five months ago in this room proposed we change the direction of the war and go on the offensive." The dwarf stood up, placing his ax gently down. "And all summer long we have strived to. But the enemy is numberless and all we've achieved is a cold stalemate." Donal sought to interrupt, but Mearead waved the giant warlord to silence.

  "I have thought long on this, Donal Longsword, even as my heart burns with the blood price." The dwarf pointed at Niall, then at Dermot. "Have these two tell their tale, and then I have words for all of you."

  At that Dermot and Niall looked at one another and in unspoken agreement she told of their meeting with the goddess. The humans all knew the story already, but the elf lords did not. Dermot's voice was soft and musical and maybe tinged by her magic, for the listeners felt as if it were their memory that was being recounted. Word for word, the elf reported the goddess's message and not everyone there understood its meaning. But Cucullin did.

  "So," he said, "it is the final war, not an extension of the Dark Siegn war. Win or lose, the madness has really only begun."

  "Maybe so, kinsman," Ceallac answered, "maybe so, yet the lady has given us some hope." The elven warlord shifted to the edge of his seat. His strong features lit with interest. "I know of the Tome of Rhiannon, for that lady was my great-grandmother. She was a sorceress of great power and wisdom and long ago she left this life for the Bright World." Ceallac's aura grew light enough for even the humans to perceive it as his enthusiasm grew. "Have you studied the Tome, Dermot?" he asked.

  "I have begun, my lord," she answered. "Day and night have I gone over it, but still I have not grasped all the meaning of the first page. I thought"--she hesitated for a moment--"I thought that perhaps I should give the Tome to Fiachra or another greater than I."

  "Nay, Lady," Cucullin answered, "for it is into your hands that the goddess has gifted this prize. There it must remain." The humans said nothing, for to them it was as if the gods themselves spoke. Though many had dealt with the elf lords as equals, still they could not shed their awe of the elven race. Even Niall, last to be humbled of all the humans, watched in rapt concentration, for it seemed to him that the elves spoke in more than words to one another, and he felt somewhat like a child trying to decipher the weighty dialogue of his parents. So it was he was startled when Ceallac turned his black elven eyes on him.

  "And you, my lord," the elf asked, "have you tried on the ring?"

  "I, I have not, lord," Niall answered in a stammer. "Though I carry it wherever I go. I get a strange comfort from it. But I have nae dared to place it on my finger." The elf lord nodded.

  "This ring is made of mortal magic and unknown to me," Ceallac carefully said. "But I think, Lord General, you should not waste too much time in using the goddess's gift."

  "Yes, well," Mearead's deep voice interrupted. All turned to see the dwarf thumping down the stairs to where Donal stood. "That's all fine and grand and, well, elflike," he said with a small smile. "And I'm sure the book has some grand spell and her ladyship"--he bowed to Dermot, his white beard brushing his boots--"will figure it out in good time. And," he continued, staring up at Niall, "I'm sure the magic ring will teach our favorite general how to fly, or think, or something equally wondrous."

  By now Mearead had reached the floor. He gave Donal a dirty look and the warlord moved to the side. Mearead placed his hands on his hips and glared up at the others. His feet straddled the great map on the floor. The sight should have looked ludicrous, but somehow it didn't, for the dwarf looked like an ancient god straddling the world, and the wisdom and power in the king's gaze was anything but funny.

  "I said I had some words for you, and I do," he said. "First things first, though." He cleared his throat. "One, we know that Fealoth has betrayed us." He ticked off each point with his stubby fingers as he spoke. "Two, we know that whatever the nature of this war, we have to win it or we die. Three, Arianrood has been in this for long years. Four, the enemy's battle plan has been well thought out, and I will say with some confidence they have so far met their objectives with perhaps one exception--they didn't take this city. Other than that I'd say all in all they got us right where it hurts, and all they need to do is keep squeezing.

  "The north is theirs. And I include Cardoc-nae-corond in that assessment, for if my cousins there have not fallen then they are like my own people, bottled up and out of the picture. We might as well face that Maihan and Ibhire are lost, too. The enemy has Fiodha, Aes Lugh, Fas-Nache, the Dark Siegn, and I'm sure most of the Borderlands. That leaves us with what's left of the empire and Cather-na-nog. As I've said, the Crystal Falls are surrounded by an army that my people cannot break. Now, figure the Devastation is of no good to any of us and I would say that we are in as bad a strategic situation as possible."

  "We know all that," Ceallac interrupted. "That's what we are here to discuss."

  "Fine. Well, I'm discussing it." Mearead began to pace, his wrinkled face hard. "The enemy leaders have left the field, with the exception of that devil dragon in the south. But it doesn't matter. We are helpless to try and discover what they are up to, though I think we can all guess. We need all our heroes with the armies; that alone has kept what little we now hold." H
e stopped and looked up at one window, the shaft of sunlight casting his broad form into shadow. "Now we know what Queen Maeve here plans." He nodded his head. "If it worked, we could not only hurt the enemy deeply in Aes Lugh, but have a chance at freeing Fas-Nache and the Crystal Falls. If that happens we have two more armies and some serious breathing room.

  "But, frankly, it's not enough, because I think even if the elves' plan worked, by the time they were finished there, the empire would be gone." Several of the humans interrupted to argue with this, but the dwarf king just ignored them.

  "We can't ignore the fact that the enemy holds the Tivulic mountains nor that the dragon is stirring trouble there. There are still enough troops in the south that the Dark Ones could overwhelm the empire."

  "Nay." Niall stood up. "You're wrong in that, dwarf. Ruegal Keep will never fall to the devils. They'd nae take it in a thousand years."

  "Well, they don't have to," Mearead answered. He pointed to the map. "All they have to do is leave a force strong enough to keep the warriors of Ruegal in. Then"--his finger followed an imaginary path--"one army to take Tolath, one to move to the north, one to take the coastal cities. A hundred thousand troops, with thirty or forty left holding the south. They'd take Tolan within two months." The dwarf whipped around to glower at Niall. "And don't you be doubting, my bonny lad, that they have the warriors to do it. Add one other thing: Cuir re Duriche, the last dragon. That bastard will bum Ruegal Keep right out from under us."

  "And so," he finished, "even with a reunited Aes Lugh, how many can they send help to the empire? For don't let us forget that Fiodha is firmly in Remon's hands, and Remon is Arianrood's dog. Even if a host marches from the Crystal Falls, they could never take the empire back. And tell me, Lord Ceallac, can the elves afford to leave their woods and send the main part of their strength to the south?"