Morigu: Book 02 - The Dead Read online

  "I felt your decision," Cormac said, "and I had promised to be here." Niall just nodded and moved to the side, so Cormac could enter the room. As the elf passed, Niall felt a slight tingling that raised the hair on his arms and he realized that Cormac had cast a spell about the room.

  Niall's chamber was not large, Cormac noted, but comfortable. In one corner lay the bed covered with furs. Above it lay the heraldic device of the Clan Ruegal, while the wall on the side was covered with a tapestry of some battle between human knights. The opposite wall was empty, save for a small glazed window. Across from the door was a large fireplace, where a roaring fire heated the room. Cormac smiled to see the two upholstered chairs angled to face the flames. On the mantel of the fireplace was a single portrait of a pretty human woman. Cormac walked over to it and studied the portrait for a moment. The likeness was certainly there, more in Niall than in his brother.

  "Your mother?" Cormac asked.

  "Aye." Niall moved next to the elf. Both were nearly the same height, though Cormac was a little taller. "It was my father's favorite painting of her." Niall didn't mention that before the painting had always hung in his father's room, but for several months now Mannon refused to allow any likenesses of his dead wife in the castle. For that reason he also refused to enter his son's room.

  "The artist was very good," Cormac said as Niall moved to the chair on the left and sat down, not looking at the painting. The artist had been good and lately the incredible likeness had begun to unsettle Niall, for he had few real memories of his mother. But Cormac saw in that painting the strength of the woman; it was in her eyes, in the set of her chin. A strength he saw in both the sons, but not the father.

  "Lonnlarcan always claimed that humans have the harshest burden of all the earth's children," the elf said to no one in particular as he sat in the other chair.

  For a moment the two sat in companionable silence, staring at the flames.

  "There is such a fascination for humans in the fire," Cormac continued, his eyes brighter than the flames. "I have always wondered at that."

  "Aye, that's true enough," Niall answered, "though I did nae know the elves dinna share it." He shifted in his chair, feeling the weight of the ring in his palm. At that moment the fire spat a spark and Niall grinned. "It is a marvelous thing: fire. It warms us, it molds our metals, allows us to make many a bonnie thing, and," he added in a lower voice, remembering the fires of Tolath, "it burns our homes, ravages our crops, kills us...,"

  "It's not the same to us," Cormac said. "We don't feel the cold as you do, though we sometimes use fire to cook. We make our weapons from the flames of magic, though we work the forge for other things. But it seems you humans are divided inside. You are like the flame: You can temper yourselves like a good sword, or you can burn all you care for." It was a harsh observation, Niall thought, but a true one. He thought that for Cormac the burden of his father's treachery must be truly great, for the traitors in the history of the elven kind could be counted on a single hand, unlike human history. Which made, he realized, the betrayal of Arianrood even more of a blow.

  "Some of the clans," Niall said to the fire, "have magic in their blood, like the people of Tinnafar."

  "They are close to our borders," Cormac answered. "Donal isn't the first of the half-elvens, though the only one I know living, and perhaps the greatest. The people of Tinnafar have some of the blood of the elven kind and are closer to the spirits of the world than other men." With a thought Cormac turned the flames blue. "Dammuth was from the northern clans." If Niall noticed the fire's changed color he did not comment on it.

  "The clan of Scaga now, they're known to have the Sight," Niall continued, "and all the knights of the Green Branch are taught some knowledge of magic. The priests of Fealoth were once great healers and they came from all parts of the land. The Duchess of Conlai has the Seasight as do many of her people." Niall turned to Cormac, the blue flame casting odd shadows on his face.

  "And?" Cormac asked.

  "And," Niall repeated, "and I dinna know of a single enchanter that ever had the blood of the clan of Ruegal."

  "The ring frightens you."

  "Nae, not the ring." Niall bit his lip, still searching Cormac's face with his gray eyes. "But the magic. That makes no bloody sense." Niall slumped back in the chair. "What I mean is, well, today in the council I saw things, things that were not there."

  "Like what?"

  "Cobwebs, cobwebs in the corners, and strange shadows, and it seemed that my father's throne was nae red, but white, white like a corpse's skin."

  "And this you saw with the ring?"

  "Na, na, that's just it, I have the bloody thing in my pocket." Niall shrugged. "I dinna believe it was the ring, though I cannot say why."

  "You stood in the presence of the goddess," Cormac said. "You are mortal, such a manifestation was meant to change you."

  "Aye, there you have it, Cormac, there you have it." Niall stretched his legs out as if he was taking his ease, but his, muscles were tight. "Change, that's the real problem now, isn't it?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Well, it's like this. The goddess, bless Her name, told me the ring holds the power to unlock the secrets in your own soul and speed your progress to your ultimate destiny." He sighed. "Now, the truth is that that could mean a lot of things. But I think the lady meant that I could learn more, grasp more than I was meant to in this life."

  "If that is so, then it seems to me that it is a great gift for a mortal man."

  "Is it now?" Niall's hand closed about the ring. "The ring could make me more than I was meant to be. Oh aye, on the face of it, that seems a grand thing: more strength perhaps, more power, a weapon to use against our enemies. But"--Niall slid farther down his seat--"does it nae strike you as a blasphemy? A trick to fool fate, to upset the balance? A gain for my soul, that I have nae earned?"

  "That is all magic is," Cormac said, "or so it seems to me."

  "Na, na, magic is like a good blade, no good to anybody unless you learn the use of it, learn it through sweat and practice." He held the ring up, watching the odd flame reflect off the silver band. "But this--ah, this little jewel promises instant power. It's like a child being given a magic sword. He canna use it; only in a fairy tale would he be able to. More likely he'll chop his wee hand off with the thing." Cormac did not answer, for the man was confusing him. Magic was such a natural part of his environment that he could not follow such an argument. It was like discussing the dangers of breathing; it made no sense.

  "Don't you see, Cormac?" Niall whispered. "A magic sword, now that I could use and know how to. But a ring? A ring that will give you knowledge you're not meant by nature to have. Power, Cormac, power you aren't supposed to wield!" With a jerky motion Niall leapt up from the chair. He moved to the fire, the ring held gingerly in his thumb and finger and away from his body as if it held some evil influence he daren't get near. He held the ring out in front of Cormac's face.

  "Don't you see, Cormac? Isn't she doing to me what she did to that poor, loony Margawt?" Cormac's purple gaze focused on the ring. The blue light of the fire seemed to beat against the metal. He could see the rays hit the ring and bounce off, not deflected as they should be, for the light did not bend away but returned straight to the source. .It was the oddest thing he had ever seen in his life. And what Niall had said of the Morigu frightened the elf, for his sister was one of the Shee back in Cather-na-nog, and despite the fact that the goddess had said no more Morigunamachamain would be chosen, She was a willful goddess at times, and elves had no faith in the words of gods.

  "It is dangerous to deal with the Lords of the Bright World," Cormac answered, "for their hearts are hidden and their minds unfathomable, even, I think, to themselves. The goddess is mother to us all, but She is hard and She is cruel, and I do not trust Her." Niall opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it with a snap. He drew himself up straight and tall and squared his shoulders.

  "You, my unworldly fr
iend, are no bloody help at all." Cormac just shrugged and said no more.

  "Aye, I see. It's my choice and no other's." Niall took a deep breath. "Right, well, I suppose there is nae point in beating my head against the wall all night, is there? I'll do what I must. But before I put the damn thing on and perhaps lose my soul and sanity, there's one thing I've been meaning to tell someone for a long time." Niall turned his back to the elf and grabbed the mantel with his left hand. He held on tight, the warm stone hard beneath his grasp.

  "I'm tired, Cormac, tired so my bones ache and my muscles are like stones to me." Niall's head hung low and he rested his brow against the mantel. "I'm sick and tired of the bloody banners, and the noble speeches, and the bonnie war horns shaking the air in grand defiance. The empire is up to its neck in shit and blood, and a thousand corpses float in the black waste. Each day we become harder and dirtier and meaner. More than once I've had to stop my men from torturing some damned goblin. And I killed one of my own men, for he raped a lass--one bonnie bright day after battle. The shiny armor and flashing swords are all red with blood and notched from war, and we die by the thousands no matter how brave we are.

  "The horror is always there, Cormac mac Cainhill. The evil stalks us at night, with dreams and visions, with plagues and pestilence. The dead come back and they try to eat you, by the gods! The women abort their babies rather than offer one more life to the enemy's talons. The old hang themselves, because they are too slow to run." His hand closed on the stone convulsively. "I fear, oh, I fear, not the death, not the enemy, but us. I fear we become like them and if it doesn't end soon, neither man nor goblin will be naught but the same nasty beast in different clothing, and all the bright heroes a memory to be scorned." Niall turned around, his teeth clenched so tight the muscles of his jaw danced. His eyes were dry, for Niall, son of Mannon, had no tears to give.

  "I'll do what I must, Cormac, because I must, because if I don't someone else will have to and I never wanted to be a man that turned away." He bared his teeth as if in challenge to some enemy. "But before I do this thing, I want you to hear the oath of Niall Trollsbane!

  "Should I die or should I live, should I fall or should I fail, with all my power, all my strength, all my heart and all my desire I curse the murderers and the rapists, the destroyers and the power mad. I curse the sellers of souls and the annihilators of dreams. I curse those who have been and who will be followers of the black path. And I pledge by all that I am and might be and should be that I will hound them, hound their black and dirty souls from now unto eternity." He did not shout the words, he said them quietly, but with an authority in his voice that Cormac had never heard in mortal man. Slowly and deliberately, Niall went back to his chair and sat down. Then he placed the ring on his finger.

  To Niall nothing changed and he felt a bit foolish. But to Cormac it was otherwise. He heard a great metal door grate open, and the room filled with a wind that moved nothing, but whipped nonetheless about, chilling the elf and causing him to shiver. And it seemed to him that a gray hand rested on Niall's shoulder and on his own, though its touch was lighter on the elf than on the man. It was the same hand, the right hand of he who is not seen. It was the hand of Lord Death.

  "It is not my world," Death whispered to man and elf, "any more than it is any others, but I am bound to it as you are not. There are limits on all things in all places, but all must strive to break their bounds. It is the way of life, and it is the way of death."

  Niall could not see the hand, though he heard Death's words. But he felt a weight on his shoulder and that weight moved to his neck then to the back of his head and it forced him, though he fought it, to look above the fire, at the portrait; the portrait of Guenivive, his mother.

  Her eyelids were closed, and from the corners tears of blood ran. Her lips moved, but it seemed to Niall that she stood beside him and whispered in his ear.

  "Trapped," she moaned, "trapped for so long. Free me, my son, free me." He could not tear his gaze from the portrait, though her flesh rotted on her face and decayed before his eyes. "They killed us, so many of us. The others escaped, but I am held." Now there was only a skull, though the eyelids remained and they stayed closed. "You are betrayed, my son, betrayed."

  "Betrayed," he managed to gasp out.

  "Betrayed!!!" she shouted, and then her eyes opened. And Niall Trollsbane for the first time in his life screamed in fear. And he screamed and screamed and screamed....

  C H A P T E R

  Eight

  He sat upon a black throne carved from the heights of a mountain larger than the world. He was nothing more than a shadow, a shadow that encompassed all that lived, all that must one day feel his touch, all that will die. His right hand stretched forth, into all the worlds that he held sway, and they are legion.

  He is called the Scavenger Lord, the Master of Destiny, the Final Face, and a hundred other names. He is feared, hated, despised, longed for, and by some--loved. He is as no other. More than a god, he is everywhere, while unseen, his presence is always felt. He has always been and will be to the bitter end.

  He is Death.

  He felt called to the land, for there the core of creation began. His hand rests heavy there, for the war has overshadowed all that preceded it, in its cruelty, in its sheer magnitude, in its dead.

  And once more the war horns call him to his duty. Once more a battle has begun.

  The army of southern Tolath lay spread out in a great semicircle before the town of Tonlith. In front of the town and behind its battered walls the dark host of the enemy waits. The two antagonists stand in silent ranks as their leaders ride back and forth extolling their warriors to their duty, to their destiny. All prepare for the rising of the sun.

  To Lord Death they look to be naught but thousands of metal toys, placed carefully by some child lost in a dream world of his own desires. He marks the leaders of the allied army. Mighty Ceallac, cousin of the Ard Riegh, who sits upon his elven warhorse at the center of the army he leads. Beside him carrying his banner of black and silver, Cormac mac Cainhill, his purple eyes alight with the promise of the blood to come.

  Mearead, the king of the Crystal Falls, leads the left flank, and Shiel, son of the archduke, the right. Mighty heroes with a mighty army. And a hard fate.

  Death walks among them, though they do not acknowledge his presence. This moment, this moment is when they truly fear him. Before the cry of the charge, before the rumble of hoofbeats and lowering of lances, before the crash of arms and armor. Now in this time they struggle to turn their thoughts from him, for they have not come here to greet him, but to present him to their enemies. Their hated enemies.

  Death turns his attention to the dark host; their thoughts are not so different. Perhaps the hatred is more intense, more personal, as the fear of him is. They hold their ranks with pride, and their weapons and armor are well kept. But their leaders are no match to their adversary's and they haven't the strength to match the elves' magic. There are few powers among them, none to match the allies. The only true power that walks their lines is he. Waiting, waiting, as he most always does.

  But not all is as it once was, for Lord Death has done in this war what he has done in no other, he has chosen sides...

  So as he walks next to the warriors of the dark, he whispers things, whispers into the ears of goblin and troll. He whispers of a promise, a promise it is his duty to fulfill, that all mortals are given at birth. He promises them death.

  There is a thrill of fear in their ranks when the sun rises to the east and the elven and human war horns seem to shake the very mountains as they greet the morning light. Ceallac's sword flashes once in that light and the main weight of cavalry follows him as he rides straight for the center of the enemies' line.

  Death rides at the elf's side as he does the dwarf king's. For nothing the enemy has can resist these two. Lord Death laughs to see the goblin lines cave in to the cavalry. It take less than a half hour for the dark ones to sound the retreat and ra
ce for the crumbled walls of Tonlith. Their right flank is cut off by Mearead supported by a charge led by Bran, Earl of Alton. Shiel cracks the left flank and races for the south of the city. It is a battle foreordained.

  Again Death thinks of a child's game, for it is rare in warfare for an attack to work with such precision, for defenders to be in such straits, for a battle to be decided in one charge.

  Perhaps there is some odd nobility in the courage of the enemy, as they struggle to hold ranks. Though the rear guard cannot hold their shield wall against the elvish horse, still they contest every foot of the battlefield. Mearead slowly encircles the right flank, closing his warriors about the enemy, a noose tightening about the murderer's neck. Less than half of the dark ones make it to the city's walls. But they fight, fiercely and with determination. Perhaps there is something to admire in that, but not for Death.

  He cuts the cord of each with glee. He severs their black souls from their bodies and gifts them a hard grin as their essence shriek in horror at what awaits them. It is not an unknown pleasure for him to do his duty, but this day it is truly a dark pleasure. And with each death, He chants to himself, a litany of names, another promise, a prayer to himself that He must fulfill, the list of those He longs to grasp in his cold hands.

  "Remon." And a goblin falls with an elvish lance in its chest.

  "Cuir re Duriche." A troll's skull is shattered by Mearead's red ax.

  "Shadowlord." And a burst of magic from Ceallac implodes ten who stand against him.

  "Arianrood," he howls as he reaches forth.

  "Apkieran." And the earth turns to mud from the blood.

  "Brother, oh brother," he cries, "black beast of hell with your dark princes, do you see this, do you feel my wrath?" And a hundred more die.

  A mighty army dies beneath him. An army that had always known victory, but this day meets only him. Only Death.

  The walls of Tonlith are shattered by the power of Anlon, the unicorn. He races from the mountains of Tivulic, his horselike form lost in the fire aura that covers him. He is a demigod. Son of the Hunter, child of the goddess. He is a demigod and his coming is the last herald of the Dark Ones' doom.