Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Page 8

  After Dermot told Donal and Cucullin the tale, she left the command tent and for the first time in her life, she vomited.

  After Manwyn had rested, Donal had her brought to his tent. He gently explained he would send her back to Tolan with a strong guard. There she would be cared for. The woman spat in his face.

  "I won't go back," she said. "It's just another city, a city with walls to trap you in. I won't go!"

  "What would you wish, Lady?" Cucullin asked. She turned to him and her eyes grew a little less hard at his beauty, but only a little.

  "You have an army and you'll go and kill more of them. I want to go with you and kill more of them." Donal carefully wiped the spittle from his face and tried hard to think of how he could explain to her that she couldn't go with them. Just then the tent flap opened and the destroyer walked in.

  "My lords," he started, but he didn't have time to finish his sentence when Manwyn turned on him with a cry and tried to bash his head in with her ax head. Even Dermot hadn't been able to get the girl to let go of the pathetic weapon. The destroyer smoothly disarmed her and held her till Cucullin took the woman into his arms.

  "Hush, Lady," he said softly and under his gentle gaze her screams slowly ebbed, though she shook and would not look at the destroyer. The Stalker master looked at Donal trying to understand what it was he had done that had provoked the woman so.

  "It's your mask, I think," Donal said and the destroyer nodded his head. He turned to the woman who still would not look at him, though he did not move closer to her.

  "Lady," he said, but his voice was harsh, "I am the destroyer, priest of the Hunter. It is my power to defeat any living thing. I am the embodiment of the killer in all living things. My face is hidden that no one may know me or my weaknesses. No living creature has seen my face in twenty years." Then he slowly turned his back and lifted the mask from his face. His hair was thin and cut close to the head. Gently, Cucullin turned Manwyn so she faced the destroyer.

  "My name is Conan mac Fane," he said. Even Cucullin was surprised by the destroyer's features. He was not a young man and the wrinkles in his face were deep. His nose was once straight but had obviously been broken many times, and a scar was all that remained of his right ear. But the cheekbones were high, and the chin strong and cleft, and the Stalker master's eyes were a soft brown. Cucullin realized that Conan mac Fane was once an abnormally handsome man and his face looked to the elf to be one more of a healer's than a warrior's. Conan smiled and his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  "I had a daughter; her name was Bridget. I left her and her mother many years ago to pledge to my god." He sighed. "She was a sweet girl and laughed a lot, I remember. I left the day after her sixteenth birthday." He took a step toward Cucullin, and the girl Manwyn just stared at him.

  "The god is hard, young Manwyn," he said, "but I had the sight and my ancestors spoke to me. I knew something was coming and I was needed." He shrugged. "I had no idea, no one did, what was waiting for the land, but men have their role to play too and we all must sacrifice." He held out his hand.

  "Come with me, Manwyn O'Shea, and I will take you as one of my monks. I will teach you to kill not in revenge, little one, but in necessity. We are like the rats now and we are cornered and we must fight or die." And Manwyn reached for his hand.

  "Who is this?" a voice said. And all turned to see Margawt standing at the entrance. None had heard him enter. No one knew how long he had stood there. He felt Cucullin's and Donal's anger at him and the destroyer's hand went to his sword, for the Morigu was not meant to see the face of Conan mac Fane. Margawt felt all that, but one thing more, the thing that had drawn him here. It had come as a surprise to him, for he had just returned from the hunt, but he saw his prey was not all captured.

  For while the others saw the girl's pain and pitied her, Margawt alone saw her soul. She had been, even at her age, heading down the path of corruption, though that was mainly the fault of her drunken father. But what she had endured was beyond anything sanity could bear; it had not so much broken her as bent her. And Margawt knew one other thing, the thing that Manwyn had hidden even from Dermot, for the young girl had drunk the blood of the dead goblin as he floated there, bumping against her knees in the foul water of the sewers of Cienster.

  Margawt's sword flashed out.

  "She is wrong, she must die," he said. And only Donal caught the hesitancy in the voice. But Cucullin was nearly as fast as the Morigu and he leapt in front of the woman and Conan mac Fane drew his longsword in one hand and his shortsword in the other. And then he attacked.

  Cucullin pulled the girl to the corner while the Morigunamachamain and the destroyer danced among their flashing blades. Donal lifted his own weapon, but he was unsure what to do with it. Meanwhile, the two warriors' weapons sparked from the force of their blows.

  Margawt quickly realized that Conan was the best swordsman he had ever faced, and though the goddess had given the Morigu the knowledge of all the ways of the sword, and though he was faster than all living things and the strength of the earth herself was his, he was afraid it would not be enough. The Stalker master was fighting with all the skill any man had ever had and his strength and speed were nothing less than inspired. Margawt knew he would probably have to kill the man to get to the girl, but he could not do that.

  There were many things in the destroyer that Margawt's magic could taste and not all were good. There was the smell of blood there, and the knowledge of a thousand ways to bring death. There was a little madness and a throb of guilt. There was fierce pride and a terrible anger. But it was not enough. It was close, but not enough, and Margawt could not kill something that was not wrong. He could not.

  He leapt back from the flashing blades and sheathed his own. Nearly did Conan make the final thrust, but at the last second he pulled back. He stood still, but he did not sheath his blades.

  "Margawt!" Donal shouted.

  "I'll kill you if you try to hurt her," Conan hissed.

  "She is wrong," he answered the two of them.

  "Morigunamachamain," Cucullin said and the power behind his voice was like a whip, and Margawt nearly ducked his head at the sound of that name. "Whatever you see in this girl, whatever your senses tell you, you will leave her in peace." And Cucullin's form shimmered. He was High Prince of the Elves of Cather-na-nog and in that moment he reminded all there of it.

  "It would be murder, Morigu, murder, and it would do more harm to the world." And that was the hardest blow. Margawt searched the prince's face, but Cucullin wasn't looking at him. His gray eyes turned to the destroyer, and Margawt understood. The Stalker master wasn't evil, though he was further bent than Cainhill had been. But Margawt realized there was no point in telling the others that. If Margawt killed the girl, he would have to kill Conan first, and probably Cucullin and Donal too. And if he waited to do it another time, then the Stalker master would come looking for Margawt.

  "Murder?" he said.

  "She has no chance against you, Morigu," the prince answered. And Margawt bent his head at that, for how many had he hunted that had a chance against him? And his hunts always ended in one thing: death.

  He turned and ran from the tent, leaving the others far behind as he raced through the camp howling like a wounded animal. It tore and tore, for how could he say all that needed to be said? How could he explain that which words had never been meant to shape?

  "Murder?" he cried in a great voice. But there was none to answer him. But it seemed to the Morigu that he heard something on the wind, a recognition of his pain, if not an answer. It was faint and not really in this world at all. But it sounded very much like laughter. Cold, hard, maniacal laughter.

  C H A P T E R

  Seven

  Even as the army of Ruegal slaughtered the destroyers of Cienster, the leaders of the southern army of Tolath met in the great hall of Ruegal Keep. Mannon, Archduke of Ruegal, Warlord of the East, sat on his red-marbled throne. On the steps of the dais stood his elde
st son, Shiel, warlord of the clan of Ruegal. Ringed about the front of the throne were the other leaders of the army, each sitting in a hand-carved oaken chair. In the middle sat Ceallac, cousin of the Ard Riegh Lonnlarcan and chosen warlord of the whole southern army. Next to him was Cormac, son of Cainhill; Bran, Earl of Althon; and Niall, son of Mannon; the generals of the army. Mearead, King of the dwarves of the Crystal Falls, sat a little apart from the others as he was first in rank of all there. Only Anlon the unicorn was missing, for he hunted the mountains of Tivulic seeking to track down the lair of the great dragon Cuir re Duriche.

  As had become the case in this war the lower-echelon officers of the army were not allowed in strategy meetings, for treachery was a real threat that had to be averted at all costs. So, too, was it the habit of all the leaders of the alliance that whenever they met, they were encased in magic, so that the enemy might hear no word of what was spoken in council.

  It was Mannon who, as lord of this citadel, was the chairman of the group and it was he who opened up the session.

  "My lords," he said, his voice weary and harsh, "before we decide specifics of what our next actions shall be, I have news from Lord Donal." The archduke reached for his goblet of wine with a shaky hand and Niall turned from that sight, for his father had once been a man of strength and determination. But it was apparent to the young general that over the last month his father had deteriorated physically, if not mentally.

  "First, the army of Ruegal has retaken the woods of Ettorro and left a small force there to harry the enemy. " Mannon recited the directive word for word in a monotone that gave no hint of his brogue. "Second, the army will move into the swamps of the Desolation in two days' time. And third"--the archduke took a small sip of wine then put down his goblet, heedless of a small red drop of wine meandering down his chin--"all the people of the empire--man, woman, or child-- who can, shall be given weapons and trained in their use. A militia of at least twenty percent of the population of each village, town, or city will be immediately formed and trained by regular units of the army. Said militia and any who can bear arms in case of attack are to fight the enemy to the best of their ability. If victory cannot be attained and retreat is impossible then any beleaguered force is to fight to the death, and under no circumstances are they to surrender. Furthermore, any and all refugees will be repatriated to a new location where the people will make their home. They are not to leave these places, unless ordered by military authority." Mannon took deep breath. "In other words, my lords, Donal Longsword has ordered the full mobilization of the population of the empire, and henceforth all decisions shall be made by the military government."

  To the elves this seemed another confusing human law that meant little to them. For in wartime all elves fight willingly for their lord. Mearead, too, could not see the significance of the order; dwarves were born half artist, half warrior. But to the humans it came as something of a shock.

  That it was necessary none doubted, not as more reports from the south filtered in. It was a war of genocide and all must fight. Still, the empire of Tolath was not a true empire, nor a real feudalistic society. There were two classes, true: the title nobility, which held hereditary power, and the rest of the population. But there were no serfs or peasants in Tolath. The empire was rich in resources and there were no real poor. Rules of the provinces was the right and duty of the nobility, but there were severe restraints on their power. All were subject to the courts of the land, where magic made the need of lawyers and jurist obsolete, for the truth spell was simple and easily learned. Where there was no real material want, there was little crime. Where all had access to fair justice, there was little abuse. And above all stood the emperor, who was the final arbitrator in most disputes, and the least of the society had access to him. Also there were the knights of the Green Branch who owned no land and defended all in need of protection.

  But the emperor was dead, as were most who could do the least of magics, save for the monks of the Hunter god. The priesthood of Fealoth was disbanded and little spiritual direction and solace remained. The knights of the Green Branch had been sorely decimated in the first attacks and the survivors were off to war. Though there was no real threat of famine, many hoarded. Fear was a part of the fabric of the realm now, and people left their farms and villages and flocked to the north, in hopes of escaping the ravages of war. And small groups of bandits appeared, made up from the deserters of the army. They had become the scourge and shame of the empire.

  Some clans tried to withhold their warriors to protect their own, and more times than any liked to remember, force had to be threatened. Niall himself had hung a small clan lord, who would not meet his obligations. Plus the rifts in the armies had begun to appear: Nearly half the warriors owed allegiance to a lord, before the empire. And not all these lords were easy individuals to deal with. Under the pressures of the war, the benign rule of the few over the many had begun to splinter, and badly.

  The warlords had realized long ago that that was the enemy's intention; to break apart the empire into tiny kingdoms, and swallow them one by one. Donal's decree was an attempt to stop this, to hold the empire together. And it was for one more reason. None at the council in Ruegal had seen the devastation at Cienster, but Donal Longsword had and he had finally accepted what many had refused to. All must fight, because otherwise all would die. It was as simple as that.

  "Och, it had to come," Niall said, and Bran nodded in agreement. Mannon waited to see if there was any other comment, but no one said anything. He wondered if any there realized what this truly meant for the empire. If any but he could see that the old ways were dying a hard death. Then he looked into the gray eyes of his youngest son and sighed.

  "One more bit of news, my lords," Mannon said. "The duchess of Conlai has sent an expeditionary force that has recaptured the southern coastal city of Wyth. She will transport her army there and attack the enemy's supply lines."

  "And what of the enemy?" Bran asked, though he, too, was quietly wondering what would be left of the empire when and if this war was over.

  "They are in some disarray." Surprisingly, it was Ceallac who spoke. The elven prince was getting somewhat annoyed with the humans. Ceallac could not ignore the emotional turmoil each of the men felt, though Mearead, as always, was unreadable to him. The prince had no patience to deal with the intricacies of human politics and fears.

  "They have moved much of their southern strength to Scaga," he continued, "in preparation, I think, to retake Ettorro. Our ruse there has seemingly worked; though I thought it wouldn't." The elf looked at Mannon and the archduke picked up his cue and continued.

  "Much of the enemy's forces around the Dudny river have been withdrawn and it seems the enemy is rebuilding its forces in the southeast, perhaps to counter the duchess." He shifted from the burden of Ceallac's eyes. "It seems, my lords, the devils are doing precisely as we wish for no reinforcements have been sent to the mountains. Now it is that they have only one army this side of the mountains: a strong force of nearly thirty thousand camped in what is left of the town of Tonith. It lies right against the mountains some three days' march from here. Though, in truth, they are fortifying the passes through the mountains."

  "We couldn't take the passes anyway," Bran said. "The rains will start soon, and snow will cover the passes in a month."

  "Aye." Shiel spoke for the first time. His voice was deeper than his brother's, and though Niall was taller, Shiel was the brawnier of the two. His long brown hair was worn in a braid, with two long sidelocks. His good looks were marred by a broken nose and an angry scar on his forehead. "A winter campaign will do no good in these bonnie mountains."

  "It doesn't matter," Ceallac answered. "We don't need the passes; we need the caves beneath them." At that everyone turned to Mearead. The dwarf gave a crooked smile in answer.

  "Well, well," he said, "we know they're there, because young Niall here has seen them and I found the entrance that he and his heroes escaped through."
Mearead did not add that it was the dragon Cuir re Duriche that had led Niall and his men through the caves, though Cuir re Duriche used a simulacrum of magic that hosted his soul and was made to appear as a somewhat dim-witted magician. "But it's been blocked up. However, this army you're talking about isn't near any of the major passes and since the enemy is obviously planning to winter there, they must be using the old dwarven caves to bring in supplies. Beat that army and I promise you'll find the entrance to the mountains of Tivulic."

  "We have no time for delay. We must move quickly," Ceallac said, "unless the enemy retreats to the caves."

  "Aye, and that's just the point, isn't it?" Niall asked. "Why have they nae done it before now? They have to be aware of our troops mobilizing here. They haven't the strength to siege Ruegal, so why sit there, I ask you that?"

  "A trap," Bran muttered.

  "It doesn't matter." And Ceallac's voice was firm. "We have no choice. We can't leave that army there. We must take them and we must do it now." So it was decided. The army would move that night and in three days' time they would attack the enemy at Tonith.

  The watch was crying midnight when the soft tap came at Niall's chamber doors. He opened the door and was surprised to sec Cormac standing there.

  "How, by the blessed Moriarty, did you know?" he asked. In answer Cormac pointed at Niall's closed right fist. Slowly, the general opened his scarred hand to reveal the Ring of Mannon mac Lir lying there.