Morigu: Book 01 - The Desecration Read online

  "Do I surprise you, Mathwei?" he asked. "Well, I'm old. Very old, you know. Seen a lot of things. And let me tell you--Fealoth, he was my friend. I helped to make him a god. After all, you don't go around doing that to people you don't like, do you?" He laughed. "Or do you?" He turned away.

  "I have to leave this room, this silly, bloody hall and bury another friend. Trell'dem, ah Trell'dem. Now he was like the Liberator! But better, better. The best man I ever knew." He shifted to face the warrior. "He was incorruptible, you know." His voice grew quieter. "Power corrupts, even the best. Even those who should know better. But Trell'dem, he was incorruptible!" He shouted the word out. "Of all the men I have met, he was the best. The best that a human being could be. The world is a darker place without his light." He drew his robes around him, looking old, old. "The world grows darker and the shadows draw close to me, calling my name...." He grew silent, seemingly forgetting the young warrior next to him. "I doubt that another like him shall ever come again, ever."

  Mathwei did not move a muscle. The old man's grief was too much, what could he say? He felt so tiny, so ignorant. 'Dammuth, Dammuth,' he thought, 'I sit here next to you, you the greatest hero alive, and I can do nothing for you, nothing.'

  "You can do something for me, boy," Dammuth answered quietly. "You can tell me, tell me what it's like."

  "My lord?" The voice trembled.

  "They killed him, they stabbed him in the back," Dammuth shouted, "the sons of bitches poisoned him!" The air grew static at the wizard's shout. Mathwei shifted further away, his skin dancing with the magic forces let free by the mage's anger. Mathwei could barely hear the other's voice. "Surely he deserved better than that....

  "Tell me, young follower of Fealoth," Dammuth stood up again and walked a few feet away, "tell me what you think has happened to your god."

  "I don't know, my lord," Mathwei answered. "I think--I think he must be dead." He spat the word out. The wizard stared at the sitting warrior for a moment. 'So young,' he thought, 'sitting there with his hands clasped like some lad caught at stealing an apple.'

  "I never followed Fealoth, never prayed to him," Dammuth said. "Never even went to one of his temples." He smiled again, a bright child's smile. "I prefer to be friendly with the gods, not their friends." Silence. Mathwei shifted nervously; even in his pain Dammuth was impressive. His dark green robes fit his body tightly, showing the strength in the slim body. His eyes were deep-set behind a thick brow bridge covered with a thatch of white hair. His face was smooth except for the long mustache which still retained a dark hair here and there. Remembering his duty, Mathwei stood up.

  "My lord, the others await you."

  "Do they?" Dammuth smiled again, his child's smile. "They're really too busy getting the carriage horses settled." Mathwei looked uncomprehendingly at him. "Sit down, boy. Magic has many uses and I am not yet ready to leave this cold hall."

  "You mean," Mathwei asked, "you bewitched the horses?" Dammuth laughed. This time the hall rang with his voice.

  "Oh yes, yes. Sometimes it's a handy thing to be a mage."

  "Surely not the ones pulling the hearse?" Mathwei asked.

  Dammuth laughed louder. "No, no, boy. Just an odd one here and there." He sat back down next to the warrior, shaking his head at his joke. "Now, I have a friend," he said confidentially, "he would have wanted me to tip the bloody casket over. Probably would have insisted on it."

  "My Lord," Mathwei could not hide his nervousness.

  "Well," Dammuth answered, "he's a dwarf. They laugh at anything, you know." He turned to Mathwei.

  "You must understand, boy," he began, "I am old. Tired. Death and I have become too intertwined. It is hard to face. Another war---death--death everywhere. When humans fought one another during the liberation, much evil was done. It is an ugly thing for a creature to fight its brother, but still there were the saving moments, the ones who said no to the blood. The little acts of mercy.

  "But the enemy, the enemy knows nothing of mercy! Nothing of kindness." He ran his hands through this thick hair. "I hate them for what they've done, for what they will do, but it's not enough. I need more than hate, I don't know --anger, revulsion. . . I just don't know." He waved at the hall in front of them.

  "I've heard all the reports, seen the refugees. But it's not enough. You want to help me? Then fill me with the anger and outrage of youth. That, that surety of purpose only the young know. Tell me, Mathwei." His voice became quiet, incessant. "Tell me, young warrior, what have you seen? What has it been like?"

  Mathwei sat silent, the mage's power permeating the air, pressing on him, demanding to know. To see and feel what Mathwei had experienced.

  "It is hard," he began, his eyes unfocusing as Dammuth's magic infused his memories. "I was at Glen Cam, a small village, barely 150 lived there," he coughed. "It was night time. Late, I don't really know, my corporal woke me up. I, I had been drinking all night at the fire feast. There was a rider with an urgent message. I got up. I, I thought, oh, I don't know, a raid maybe--there was no way to guess. My biggest concern was my hangover." As the spell strengthened his memories, his voice became a monotone. "I walked outside, and the night. . . it was light. The fires, from the border forts, lit it up." Dammuth's voice underscored the other's tale with a slow chant, his hands moving in complicated patterns. In front of the two a miniature tableau slowly formed. The dark shapes of cottages and huts outlined by the fires ten miles away. The scurrying of the people, confused. Their voices raised in fear as they pointed to the south. The rider, dirty, exhausted. Blood sliding down the young, pale face.

  "He shouted at me," Mathwei continued. "'There were thousands,' he cried, 'so many--couldn't stop them. The others must be dead, have to be dead.' I thought he was exaggerating, he was shaking so much.... I sent him to the infirmary, had the captain woken up and called my squad together. God knows where the officer of the watch was, probably still celebrating." He ground his teeth together, his jaw muscles standing out in high relief. "We were saddled and riding in twenty minutes. Bits and pieces of what armor we could grab thrown on." The illusion wavered as the warrior took a shaking breath.

  "We were riding a half hour maybe," he said, "fast as we could. We were all half asleep. But excited about the thought of some action. What fools! We didn't know..." He turned pleading eyes to the wizard. "We wanted a fight, but, gods, we didn't know." He felt the pressure of Dammuth's magic and turned back to the wavering image in front of him.

  Eight horsemen reigning their horses to a halt on top of a small hill. Shouting incoherently at the sight before them. The land in front was level, the great road a straight arm thrusting into the night. And everywhere, covering the road, covering the land, the dark figures of the enemy army. They were backlighted by the fires behind them. The numbers were uncountable. And they were less than a mile away and moving fast.

  "It was like," Mathwei's voice shook, "an incredible animal, black and dark. I don't know how to. . . It was terrifying! There were so many. And they were coming, coming for us! Even so far away we could hear their mad cries. And, and cries, screams of another sort. . . We knew there could be no survivors. And only us between them and the village."

  The hall rang with the drums of the goblins, and one voice screaming in fear. One of Mathwei's soldiers, crying, "Mama, oh, Mama." Finally, a warrior knocked him off his horse. Mathwei turned away again.

  "I had to shut him up, he wouldn't shut up." The wizard said nothing. "I had to shut him up," Mathwei insisted.

  The wizard's spell gathered strength. The illusion grew until it encompassed the whole hall. Dammuth stared at the oncoming army, now seeming to march in miniature in front of him. Mathwei was unaware of his memories being played out on the marble floor. He saw it all in his mind's eye.

  "There was just no end to them," he continued. "It was like looking down the mouth of some great ravenous beast. Devouring everything in front of it. All life, all the land, the light itself."

  Dammuth ended
his spell with a harsh Word of power. His consciousness drifted from him, merging with Mathwei, melding with the warrior's memories. The two now became one, living the past as the present.

  They rode together the fear-maddened horse, tearing through the night to the village. Time moved faster, images flashed by. . . a rushed report to the captain . . . the cries of desperation from the civilians. . . the conflicting orders being shouted. . . trying to get everyone up and out, away from the village before the enemy reached them.

  A kaleidoscope of quick moments in time. A child crying for its parents. A woman's face, terrified, trying to pack an old mule with boxes and boxes of things. A horse running wild through the streets, knocking people down. A lantern kicked over, starting a small fire. An old woman begging them if they had seen her son, a guard at one of the border forts. And beneath it all the building sounds of the approaching army. The thud of drums, the wails of horns, and louder and louder the tramp of thousands of clawed feet shaking the very earth beneath them.

  Events speeded up. A line of cavalry, twenty maybe, forming on the road. Sword flash and a quick charge into the enemy running wildly toward them. Loud clashes of metal! Nightmare faces! The "thuk" noise of his spear impaling a goblin. A quick retreat, not five left to race into the village. People everywhere, still trying to pack things, many running now. The first goblins through the gates. A few soldiers holding the short wall, then gone, covered in a wave of dark, shouting forms.

  It was a nightmare, no, worse, no nightmare could encompass such horror. He shouted himself hoarse, having no idea what he cried. The goblins poured through the street. He and a few others fought a running battle against the invaders. The noise was deafening as the goblins began to destroy the village. Every creature they came across, man, woman, child, or beast, they slaughtered out of hand.

  One man came flying out of his shop to run smack into a group of the enemy. In desperation he swung at a goblin's face. It just tore its fangs into the fist, severing the hand, and contentedly settled down to its feast as its companions tore the man limb from limb.

  Down the dusty street the goblins came charging straight at the warrior. Unable to help the shopkeeper, he jerked his horse around and fled the main street.

  On a narrow side way a goblin leaped from the roof of a building, unhorsing Mathwei. A desperate struggle as the horse ran off. Kicks and punches ended when he buried his knife in the goblin's throat. The pink-green blood of his enemy sprayed him. The smell overwhelmed him so much that as he came to his feet he vomited all over himself.

  He heard a screeching cry behind him. Turning, he saw a young woman running toward him, followed by a mass of the invaders. Her right arm hung limp, the shoulder bleeding from a deep wound. Her eyes, insane, rolling to the top of her head, pleading with the warrior even as the leading goblin pulled her down. The others soon surrounded her, their laughter drowning out her screams.

  "Noooo!!!!" he cried, but he didn't run to her rescue, even as he saw through the flash of fangs and limbs, her dress being torn off. There were too many, too many. He wanted to live!! Fealoth save him. . . he wanted to live.

  He ran away as fast as he could, dropping his sword in his haste to get away. Run! his mind cried. Run--fast, away--anywhere, just run!!!

  The images were stronger, the smell of blood everywhere. Dammuth could no longer define his being and the warrior--they were Mathwei, running. Running away.

  The fires were spreading fast, he ran by struggling groups of fighters. He couldn't stop even if he wanted to. As he sped for the gate, he saw the captain, still holding some of the troops together, go down with two arrows in his face. Right at the gate he saw a single goblin impale a small dog with its spear, then bend down and tear the animal's throat out with tusklike fangs. The goblin turned to watch Mathwei run through the gates, its eyes gleaming wickedly in the firelight.

  All he could see as he tore down the road was that goblin's face. The dog's blood dripping down its chin. The sharp teeth, yellowed and large, opening wider. . . wider, to swallow him. . . to drink his blood. . . eat his flesh. But worst of all was the evil in its nightmare face, the total lack of anything vaguely human in its features. He felt its dark soul reach out to him, laughing at him for running. It told him--forced him--to realize its contempt and its silent message, your time will come, I'll let you go, but your time will come!

  Now the spell raced faster, too fast to hold any moment long enough to dwell on it.

  The town burned at his back as he ran, running past people pleading with him to stop, or yelling at him to fight. But he kept going.

  The days sped by. The organization of the army. . . new men to lead. . . the first real battle to be fought. . . the slow chilling of the spirit. . . the inner cry for something much more powerful than revenge, more terrible than hate.

  Their desperate attempt to ambush the enemy's vanguard as it crossed the river. . . the terrible magics throwing the attack back. . . the Crash! of weapons. . . the Whisper of blood. . . the cries of the wounded. . . the faces of the dead . . . the army routed, devastated. . . another terrible retreat . . . but no fear this time, just the soul's cry of outrage.

  Days a blur. . . cold nights. . . short rations. . . wounded everywhere. . . and always the people running, clogging the roads, trying to stay ahead of the enemy's advance, their faces white, tear-stained, empty.

  Less than a week later another battle. . . two sides facing each other. . . night falling. . . cry of the horns. . . Crash! . . . and the screams begin. . . another defeat, this time an orderly withdrawal, with half the army left behind.

  Then half a week of useless ambushes, the enemy always knowing where they are, how many. Another army formed two days away from Dulatia. The battle lasted a day and a night. Vengeance always denied; by the magic. The undead appeared but the warriors become immune to any new horror.

  The images stop, focusing on an elongated picture of a priest of Fealoth trying to cast the undead down. The priest screams, more surprise than pain, as the zombies tear his flesh off him. . . eating him alive. . . staining his white robes with his own blood.

  Another lost. . . another retreat. . . the warriors getting shabbier, but always more determined. They all began to share the soul bond inside of Mathwei ap Niall. Revenge was not enough, death not enough, only the annihilation of the scum will soothe their shrinking spirits.

  Then a sharp stab in the side as a lance presses through mail and skin. . . but the defiance welling up will not die! His sword crashing through the goblin's helmet, splitting the skull beneath, the blue-purple brains showering through the air a sight of ecstasy even as the blackness takes hold.

  Time slows down. The cart ride to Comar. The hard ride --the wound aching--to be at the site for the great emperor's funeral. The quick reunion with his parents. Unable to tell them the horror. . . unable to answer the question in their eyes, the ones they dare not voice. . . unable to tell anyone.

  "Until you made me," he said aloud to the wizard. Dammuth reached his hand out to the other's sweating brow.

  "Peace," he said quietly, "peace, you sad, sad boy." He held the other in his arms, his voice soothing and gentle.

  He kept the warrior in his power for a moment.

  "I can't wipe away the memory, Mathwei," he said. "It is your right to remember. Your tragedy to learn to live with it." He placed his fingers on the other's temple. "But I can take away the self-hate. I can take away the lash your mind whips your soul with. That, boy, I can do."

  Dammuth gently rocked the youth back and forth as his power reached into the young warrior. He felt the fear and hate like deep pools churning inside Mathwei, the acid of corruption and bitterness rotting away the many good things of the soul within. These he sucked into himself, these he eased and emptied, leaving the spaces to be filled by Mathwei's own needs.

  The forces took physical form and two streams of putrid green corruption slid down the youth's face. From the wizard's eyes two beams of bright light shot into
the other's eyes, making his countenance shine as once his god Fealoth's had. The liquid darkness hissed and disappeared, black steam rising from either side of Mathwei's face.

  Dammuth let go of him and smiled at the warrior. Mathwei's eyes flew open.

  "My lord?" He smiled back happy and free. He could not remember anything of what the spell had done. He felt curiously elated, content almost.

  "I said," Dammuth stood up, "you can do something for me."

  The other leaped to his feet.

  "Anything, my lord." 'Dammuth,' he thought, 'wants my help!'

  "Stand by me at the funeral," the wizard continued, putting his arm around the warrior, "and when things get particularly dull, I shall tell you some dirty elf jokes a friend of mine has forced me to memorize." Mathwei felt safe with that thin arm around him.

  "My lord," he enunciated the words slowly, "can we win without the emperor?"

  "I honestly don't know," Dammuth answered. "But we shall do what he would wish and try our damnedest." At last the two felt the stirrings of what they had both been seeking, not revenge, not hate, but hope....

  "You know," Dammuth's voice reverberated around the hall as they left, "you remind me of another young warrior." 'And,' he thought, 'I wish I could do for him what I have done for you.'

  Mathwei hurried to open the thick wooden door for the wizard. As Dammuth started to walk through, Mathwei cleared his throat.

  "My lord," Dammuth raised an eyebrow, "I was wondering, I mean, the men have been talking." Dammuth said nothing. "Well, what I want to ask is, well, what about our allies?" The wizard looked into the young warrior's eyes, clearer now, he thought, a spark there again. He liked this boy a lot, but lying was never the path he chose.

  "A good question, son." He shrugged. "What about our allies?" With that he left to face the crowds at the procession, the young warrior stumbling after him.

  C H A P T E R